Barely Breathing (7 page)

"Yes," I agreed with a smile. "I'd like that."

"So, would you be okay with calling me Rachel then?" she asked cautiously. "
Mom
feels a little weird to be honest."

I let out an uncomfortable laugh, slightly surprised by the request. "I can try."

She smiled softly and released her nervousness with a quick breath. "Great. Now, what do you eat for lunch?"

I continued behind her, pushing the grocery cart around as she held up items and waited for me to nod or shake my head before placing them in the cart or putting them back. By the time we were done, there was more food in the cart than two people could eat in a month. Thankfully, a good portion of it was frozen.

"Do you want to learn how to cook?" my mother asked as she set the items on the belt. "I could teach you."

I smiled warmly at her offer. "Uh, sure," I replied, not having the heart to tell her that Evan had already made several attempts to teach me, and each had ended disastrously. She seemed eager to be able to do something with me―I would at least
try
.

"So, how long have you and Evan been together?" she asked after we had loaded the groceries in the car and were driving home.

"Officially," I calculated, "about ten months."

"What does
officially
mean?"

"Well," I fumbled, not sure how to explain how we felt for each other from pretty much day one, and how due to misunderstandings and hurt feelings, it had taken forever before we finally ended up together. "I guess I don't know how to answer that. Let's just say we started dating last March."

"Okay," she accepted with a confused nod. "He seems really nice."

"Yes," I agreed. My face glowed. "He is."

"I'm still looking," she said with a sigh. "I'll never find anyone like Derek again."

My heart faltered. I knew we had agreed to be
friends
, but she was still my mother. And having her talk so casually about finding the next best thing to my dead father knocked me back a bit.

"Do you want to help me with dinner tonight?"

"Huh?" I stumbled, still trying to get over her comment.

"Want to start your cooking lessons?" she clarified.

"Can I take a pass on tonight?" I begged. "I think I want to wait a bit before revealing how terrible I am.”

She laughed. "You can't be
that
bad."

"You have no idea," I grumbled, making her laugh again.

"Okay. Maybe another night."

I sat in the kitchen with her while she explained what she was doing as she filled the pork chops with stuffing. I just nodded like I was paying attention, knowing it was useless. I could figure out the most complex math equations, or understand the internal workings of the nervous system, but to ask me to baste or julienne anything caused anxiety beyond explanation.

My mother set the plates down on the table I’d set for two, the one thing I
could
do.

"Thank you," I said, sitting down with a glass of water.

"Sure," she responded, sitting across from me.

When I looked up from my plate to praise her for the meal, I found her watching me. It was like she was examining every inch of my face, so intently that it made me want to sink under the table.

"I forgot how much you look like him." Her eyes were glassy and distant―she was looking at me but
not
at the same time. I bowed my head to escape her sorrowful gaze.

"So, Sara seems like she's an amazing friend," my mother said, her voice suddenly back to normal. I glanced up as she pierced the cut pork chop with her fork.

"Uh, yeah," I responded, shaking off the haunted look in her eye. "She's my best friend."

"I have one of those," my mother smiled. "Sharon." She let out a laugh just thinking about her. "We've done
everything
together. She usually gets me into trouble, but I have the best stories because of her."

I nodded, trying to remember this woman that seemed to be such a huge part of her life―but came up blank. I realized there wasn't much about my mother that I knew, even from the twelve years she was technically in my life.

It wasn't the howling of the wind or the boards groaning that drew me from my bed that night. Yes, they were the reasons I was still awake, but I was brought to my feet by the clatter of metal crashing outside my door. I found my mother kneeling on the floor with her back to me, trying to stack the framed photographs that were scattered across the hallway.

As I got closer, I could hear her mumbling to herself, clumsily setting one frame on top of the other. When I bent down to help her pick them up, I realized that she was crying.

"Are you okay?" I asked tentatively.

"Huh?" her head shot up. “Oh, Emily, I'm sorry." She sniffled and wiped her red cheeks with her sleeve. "I woke you up."

She blinked heavily, and I sank to the floor with the realization... she was drunk. I spotted the bottle of vodka resting next to the top step and swallowed hard against the disappointment that rose in my throat.

"I was... I was just remembering," she stuttered. She was crouching, trying to balance the stack of frames, when she clumsily plopped down to sit.

"Fuck," she muttered, blowing a stray hair from her eye, her arm still wrapped around the frames as she reached for the bottle. It was just out of her reach, so she scooted over to grab it and repositioned herself so her feet rested on the top steps. She took a swig and ran her arm across her forehead, frustrated with the floating hairs that kept falling in her face. She looked like she'd just traveled through a tunnel of blankets.

I held the remaining frames that she couldn't quite manage and settled next to her. That's when I realized what they were―pictures of my father.

My mother shuffled through the stack that teetered on her lap and sent one slipping and sliding down the stairs. "Fuck."

Big, wet tears streamed down her face as she held a photo up. It was of her and my father sitting on a sailboat.

"I know you were looking for these," she blubbered, swiping the back of her hand across her nose. "I had to dig them out of the back of the closet. But I can't..."

She couldn't continue. Her eyes were smeared with mascara, bloodshot and half-open. Behind her inebriation was a sadness that was consuming her, and my heart ached at the sight of it.

"You remind me of him."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not knowing how to comfort her.

"I forgot how much I missed him," she slurred, slouching against the banister. Another frame slid from her lap and crashed down the stairs.

"Fuck!" she screamed. In one sudden motion, she picked up her pile and threw the pictures down the stairs. I jumped at her outburst. Glass splintered along the staircase as the frames collided with each step.

"Why? Why? Why?" she bellowed in agony, crumbling to the floor. I remained paralyzed beside her, my back tense. I took in the destruction at the bottom of the stairs, and then the woman who was disintegrating before my eyes.

"It's okay," I whispered, my heart beating frantically. I doubted she could hear me.

She pushed herself up to sit and reached for the bottle to take another swig. She flopped back against the post, barely able to keep her eyes open. The bottle tilted in her hand as she attempted to rest it on the floor. I grabbed for it, setting it down next to me before it joined the carnage at the bottom of the stairs.

"Let me help you to bed," I offered softly. Releasing the stack of frames that I still gripped tightly and setting them on the floor, I slid closer to her so I could put her arm around my shoulder.

"Huh?" my mother groaned, unable to hold her head up.

"There you go," I encouraged, slowly getting her to her feet. "Easy." She wobbled under my support. I focused on the bedroom door and hoped we'd make it inside before she toppled over. I had a good five inches on her, but if she fell, we'd both go down.

I guided her to her bed, and she collapsed face first. She drew in heavy breaths with a slight snore as I pulled the blanket over her. Leaving her in her induced peace, I shut the door behind me.

I stood on the top step and surveyed the mess below, exhaling deeply and shaking my head. Picking up the bottle that had instigated this disaster, my jaw tightened. I blinked away the tears, not wanting to feel anything. With a weight in my chest, I drudged down the stairs and dumped the bottle’s contents down the kitchen sink. I blew out an exhausted sigh before slowly picking up the shattered pieces.

I wasn't exactly waiting for it, but I knew. I wasn't convinced after seeing her sober one night a year ago in front of my school that sobriety was going to take. She may not have had a drink
that night
, but it didn't mean she didn't every night after. I knew. I knew this was coming... I just hoped it wouldn't.

I picked up the picture of her and my father on the sailboat, and the lump tightened in the back of my throat. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to suppress the storm that was brewing in my chest. I breathed out once more before opening them.

After stacking the photos on the stairs, I filled the trash bag with the broken glass and busted frames and swept up the remnants. When I returned from taking the bag to barrel outside, I brought the memories back to my room, where I tucked them under the sweatshirts on my shelf in the closet. I wasn’t ready to face them either.

I slipped back under the covers and lay staring at the ceiling. The tears silently slid along my temples and were absorbed into my hair. I let them flow, but I kept the lump lodged in my throat, pushing away the pain and sorrow I’d seen in my mother's eyes.

6. Lifestyles

By the time I stumbled out of bed the next morning, tired and bleary eyed, my mother had already left for work. There was a text waiting for me.
So sorry about last night. You shouldn't have seen that. Dinner tonight?

I responded with,
See you tonight
.

But when I arrived home after practice, I found her rushing around, slipping earrings into her ears. She wore a short skirt and a flowy blouse, and her dark hair was flipped and curled in an abundance of volume.

“Hi,” she offered, out of breath, hopping into one of her heels and almost falling over. "Um, I hope you don't mind, but I forgot I had plans tonight. I made them a while ago, you know, before I knew that you'd be here." She stopped, awaiting my reaction with her face scrunched in apology. "But I could cancel them. I mean... I could stay."

"No, go," I encouraged. "I'll be okay, really."

"Are you sure?" she asked again, battling with her decision.

"Yeah, I have a ton of homework to do," I exaggerated, trying to make her feel better. "Have a good time."

"Okay," she replied, staggering on one foot to pull up the strap of her heel as she grabbed for her purse. "Well, help yourself to the freezer, I guess.” She took out a mini Altoids tin and opened it, popping a small white pill down her throat with a toss of her head.

“Don’t wait up,” she advised, removing her jacket from the hall closet next to the stairs. "I'll probably be pretty late." Before I could even unzip my jacket, she was out the front door. I shook my head in befuddlement and took in the vacant house with a heavy breath.

The door flew open behind me. I turned with a start. “Uh... can you move your car?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” I followed her back out the door.

“Sorry that I’m running off so fast,” she attempted to explain as we walked down the driveway. “I’m so late and my friends hate waiting on me.”

“It’s okay,” I replied to… no one. She was already in her car, anxiously waiting for me to back up. I watched her speed away before pulling back into the driveway.

I put my things in my room and went down to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. I pulled out a frozen lasagna and followed the instructions to heat it in the microwave.

As I sat in the silent house, watching television and eating the lasagna, I realized I'd never been alone like this before. As much as I’d felt alone most of my life, emotionally isolating myself from… well, everyone, I’d never really been by myself. Before I lived with Sara, I wasn’t allowed to be home alone. But I was usually involved in something at school that kept me occupied anyway. And now that I was alone, I didn’t like the stillness. It made the thoughts in my head too loud.

I ventured upstairs a couple hours later, leaving the table lamp turned on at the bottom of the stairs, along with the light on the porch. After getting ready for bed, I pre-occupied myself with homework as best I could. But with every creak, my head jerked to attention and my heartbeat faltered. When the wind picked up outside, rattling the windows in their peeling wooden frames, I opted to drown out the creepiness with music.

Eventually, I crawled into bed, keeping the music playing so I wouldn’t be kept awake by every groaning board in the house. I took a deep breath and stared at the black door across from me, hesitating before shutting off the light. The door and the entire wall disappeared with the click of the lamp.

I shot up in the bed, gasping and covered in sweat, flipping on the light to disperse the figure at my door. The black door remained closed, mocking me.

My eyes twitched, listening for any movement. I wasn’t sure if I’d screamed out loud since my mother hadn’t rushed into the room. That’s when I heard the deadbolt click open at the bottom of the stairs followed by laughter and a deep voice. It was after two in the morning. I blinked at the clock, wondering where she could’ve been and who she was with now.

I shut off my light, so she wouldn’t think I was waiting up for her, and pulled the covers over me. The wind screeched against the windows, rustling the black curtains with each frigid gust. The old house couldn’t keep out the cold that seeped in through its bowed boards. I pulled the comforter up to my nose, waiting for sleep.

~~~~~

“That was quite the storm last night, wasn’t it Mary?” the radio personality chuckled, his voice forcing its way into my ears. I rolled over and hit snooze, fighting the urge to pull the covers up over my head and go back to sleep. I lay on my back and stared up at the ceiling, dreading the chill that awaited me once I flipped back the blankets.