Breathe (9 page)

Maggie sighed and shoved the last of our clothes into the suitcase. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. I told you, I’m leaving.”

“Snow’s coming down pretty hard out there and you’ve been drinking.” I heard Becca’s say from behind me just as I felt her hands squeeze my shoulders gently. I wondered how long she’d been standing there. How much she’d heard.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Uncle Jim insisted, throwing the suitcase open and returning our clothes to the drawers.

“I wasn’t suggesting she should,” Becca replied but Uncle Jim couldn’t hear her above his own rambling muttering.

“We’re gonna have a nice goddamned family vacation if it kills us,” he swore.

Maggie rushed through the door into the hall, scooping me up on her way and carrying me back into the living room. I could hear my uncle still banging around in the bedroom and Becca attempting to calm him down while Maggie collected her purse and car keys.

We were in the Toyota and backing down the driveway before he’d realized we were gone. I turned in my seat and watched him run from the house. He’d chased us out onto the main road in his bare feet. Maggie didn’t stop. She didn’t even slow down and I had to watch as my uncle faded away into a whirl of snow flurries.

Shivering, I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped arms around them. It was cold and I was barefoot, wearing only my pajamas, and the heat in the Toyota had always been inadequate at best. “I wanna go back,” I whined.

“Yeah, well, we all want lots of things,” Maggie responded as she reached over and punched the knob in the dash for the cigarette lighter. “But simply wanting’s never gonna get you nowhere. You really want something to happen, you gotta make it happen, sugarplum.”

Taking her words to heart, I reached up through the space between the front seats and yanked on the steering wheel. I was attempting to turn us around. To make something I wanted, happen. Just like she suggested.

Maggie never saw it coming and didn’t have time to react. The car slipped on the icy blacktop. We spun around and landed with our tail end and half the car jammed into a four-foot high snow bank on the side of the road.

To my surprise Maggie laughed. She laughed in the full-bodied, whole-hearted way she used to when I was younger as if whatever I’d done or said was the funniest thing she’d ever seen or heard. It was the times when she laughed that I most enjoyed my mother.

The cigarette lighter popped and Maggie lit a cigarette, balancing it between her lips as she rummaged through her purse with both hands. “Shit,” she swore under her breath and tossed the purse into the passenger seat. “No phone. I must have left it back at the cabin.”

Maggie laughed again and attempted to start the car. It chugged and idled before quickly stalling out. After a few more unsuccessful attempts, Maggie leaned back in her seat and puffed her cigarette into a stump before rolling down the window and tossing it out. I watched the snow drift in through the open window and felt the sting of cold air on my cheeks. We were going to freeze to death if we didn’t get out of there. I wrapped myself up again and buried my face in my knees until she closed the window. I tried to pretend I wasn’t cold. Tried even harder to pretend I wasn’t scared.

Maggie was the first to climb out of the car through the passenger side window. She slid down the slope of snow then the hood, and stood there calling me to her. I didn’t want to go. I could feel the ice in the air, the frozen water. But I was too young then to resist her. Back then, I always wanted to be near her, like opposite sides of two magnets, she drew me to her.

The snow soaked through my pajamas almost instantly. The cold seeped through my skin, into my bones. My skin pricked at first from the biting wind—tiny stabs of pain to remind me I was still alive and in danger of losing feeling. The burn set in later as we traveled further away from the vehicle.

I couldn’t feel my legs at all by the time Maggie laid down upon the snow in a clearing by the road. She wanted to make snow angels. Giggled and pulled me down against the soft white bed with her. We laid there, our eyelashes glistening with frost, our lips turning blue, our breaths—once powerful puffs of smoke—growing shallower. Darkness crept in along the edges of my vision and we laid there so long I thought we might fall apart. Into tiny icy flakes, become a part of the snow beneath us. I’d whined to Maggie that I was tired and she whispered for me to close my eyes. “Go ahead and rest, baby. When you wake up, we’ll be somewhere better. Somewhere warmer.”

The headlights cut through the darkness first, illuminating the field where we laid. Then the smaller wavering beam of a flashlight. Uncle Jim said nothing as he carried me to the truck then drove us back to Little Bend. Just turned on the radio, turned up the heat, and tried to rub me back to life. While I was grateful to have my senses returned—to feel alive once more—there was something to be said for the quiet. The numbness that followed the cold. The relief that came when the feeling stopped and I no longer had to live with the pain.

Chapter Eight

Abby

No one waited at the corner of the block for me on Monday. No black pickup. No smile. No Garrett. I walked to school, arriving late—well after the football players had taken the field. Garrett’s pickup truck wasn’t in the parking lot at the school either. Apparently, he hadn’t been kidding when he told me he hated swimming.

A light was on in Coach Scott’s office and I could see his shiny, round head leaning over a file that was open on his desk. A swimmer splashed in the water below me. I could tell from his sloppy technique and his bright orange cap that it was Jeff Walker. Normally Jeff only practiced in the afternoon when the entire team trained. The fact that he was there now meant that he was Garrett’s replacement. It all seemed so final. Weighed on my heart. Felt like it might crush it.

I stepped out of my clothes and shoes, donned a cap and goggles, then dived into the pool. I swam for a few minutes until I heard the sound of garbled and raised voices coming from above. I stopped and pushed my goggles back so I could see what was happening.

“You’re not welcome here no more,” Coach Scott was telling Garrett.

Garrett folded his arms across his chest. “I just want to talk to Abby. Then I’ll go.”

“She’s training. Something you’re apparently too good for. She doesn’t need you distracting her.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

“You already fucked up your own life, boy. You think I’m going to let you screw hers up too?” Coach Scott signaled for the other coaches standing nearby—drawn to the sound of raised voices and the promise of a good show—and together they escorted Garrett from the building.

I started climbing the ladder to get out of the pool but a hand on my wrist stopped me. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Jeff told me. “You’ll just make it worse.”

I didn’t see Garrett for the rest of the day—we had no classes together and I ran during lunch to make up the half hour I’d missed that morning—but he was waiting for me when I emerged from swim practice that afternoon with Jeff Walker by my side telling me something about the homecoming dance.

He was parked in his usual spot and sat on the rear bumper. I almost wanted to run to him, throw my arms around him, but I didn’t know where we stood. Saturday night we’d fought and yesterday he’d ignored me. So I walked calmly over to him and he stood as I approached. I could see Jeff stalling by his car, waiting to see what would happen.

“I called you,” I said.

“My phone privileges have been revoked.”

“Because you quit swimming?”

He gave a short laugh. “So you did notice?”

“Of course I noticed. We’ve been swimming together every day for five years. You think I wouldn’t notice when you fail to show?” He looked down at his feet, kicked a rock with the toe of his boot. “What’s gotten in to you?” I asked. “Huh? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking you better get used to swimming without me. You won’t have me with you next year and I can’t keep doing something I hate just to make you happy.”

I wanted him to stop. To stop telling me that I’d be alone next year. To stop telling me that he’d hated the last five years he’d spent with me. It was too much. Like I rushing downhill with no brakes. I couldn’t stop it and I was bound to crash.

“I never asked you to,” I snapped.

“I never said you did,” he replied, finally raising his head to look into my eyes.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Coach Scott’s voice boomed from behind me and I turned to see him speeding in our direction. When he reached the spot where we stood, he yanked me by the arm away from Garrett and planted himself between us.

“I’m a student. I’m welcome on school grounds.”

“But you’re not welcome near my swimmers,” Coach Scott shot back then to me he said, “Abby, Jeff will give you a ride home. Won’t you, Walker?”

“I can drive you home, Ab,” Garrett assured me, keeping his eyes locked on this father. “You can get in the truck.”

“Not if she wants to swim for me, she can’t,” Coach Scott replied.

And there it was: The choice I’d been avoiding. Swimming or Garrett. Penn State or Little Bend. Having a life or having a reason to live.

“Get in the truck, Abby,” Garrett said again, ignoring the ultimatum his father had just issued. Or maybe he knew what it meant. Maybe he knew that if I got in the truck, I’d finally picked him over swimming.

My heart felt like it was being torn in two. One part longing to stay in the water, while the other longed to go with Garrett. I wanted to pick Garrett. To prove to him that he was the most important thing in the world to me, but I couldn’t. If I chose Garrett, if I stayed, could I be sure I wouldn’t turn out like Maggie? Bitter and angry with Garrett for making me give up my dream? I didn’t want to lose Garrett but I didn’t want to resent him either.

“Garrett…I can’t,” I choked out. And before I could make him listen. Before I could explain, he was gone. Coach Scott nodded at me in approval. As if I cared. I hated Coach Scott more than I hated Maggie at that moment. I wished for lightning to strike him or a strong wind to carry him off. Even after he got in his car and drove away, I stood there hating him. Jeff placed a hand on my shoulder and I hated him too.

“Come on, I’ll take you home,” he told me but I brushed his hand away.

“I’ll walk.”

The wind had picked up and the sky was beginning to turn an ominous shade of gray but I didn’t mind. I needed to clear my head and I had the river by my side. For a while, it was silent with only the sound of the river and the rustling of the wind through the trees to keep me company. It was the crunching of gravel that alerted me to the car approaching from behind. I prayed it wasn’t Nolan again and then I wished it had been when I saw the emblem painted on the passenger side door.

The cruiser slowed to match my pace and the passenger side window rolled down. “Get in the car, Abby,” Sheriff Wilson ordered politely.

Deciding to pretend it was a good-natured invitation, I continued walking. “I’m good, thanks,” I replied.

“It’s sweet you think it was a suggestion.”

Damn. He stopped the car and I climbed into the passenger seat, keeping my eyes locked on the dashboard while he asked me where I was heading. I could feel his gaze on the side of my face, boring a hole in my skin. Trying to crawl underneath and sneak a peek at the thoughts running around inside my head.

“Home,” I replied.

We drove in silence for a while, each waiting for the other to speak. I exercised my right to remain silent and looked at the river through the passenger side window, worried Sheriff Wilson could hear my pulse quickening, the thrum of my rapid heart. Sheriff Wilson spoke first. “We found Tom’s Buick down in Waverly,” he told me. “Ever been inside Tom’s Buick, Abby?”

“Of course. He used to take me to some of my swim meets.”

“What about recently? Did he take you anywhere recently?”

“No,” I lied and as soon as the word was out of my mouth, I regretted it. Did hiding the truth matter now? Everything I was lying to protect was crumbling at my feet. Garrett and I were falling apart. Even swimming seemed like an uncertainty at this point.

“So you didn’t get in the car with him Monday night?”

“Wait, yes,” I pretended to remember. Truth was I couldn’t forget if I’d tried. Every second of that night was forever engraved in my memory. “He gave me a ride home from the bar.”

“After you two fought?”

“That’s right.”

“After you scraped your hands?”

I hadn’t been lying when I told Sheriff Wilson I shredded my palms on the concrete outside my uncle’s bar. “Yes,” I replied. That part was true.

“So the blood we found on the passenger side of the Buick? That’d be yours?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

“Tom Ford didn’t end up dead by accident, Abby. He was murdered. So whether or not that’s your blood in the car may be the difference between us catching his killer or not.”

“How am I supposed to know whether it’s my blood or not? Were my hands bleeding? Yeah. Sort of. Did I leave any in the Buick? I really don’t know.”

“Folks don’t get murdered in my town, Abby,” he continued. “Especially not a cop’s brother.” He pulled the cruiser into a parking spot outside the apartment building where I lived with Maggie. “This isn’t going to go away, so if you know something you oughtta tell me now.”

I slipped from the car and leaned in through the open window. “Wish I could help you Sheriff,” I said then added, “Thanks for the ride.”

“You have your uncle bring you down to the station sometime this week,” the sheriff said. “I’ll need a blood sample if we’re going to figure this out.”

I nodded before ambling up the concrete path to the front door. I waited to hear the sheriff pull away before picking up my pace. The solid wood felt cool against my back as I closed the door behind me and rested against it. I knew now that one wrong word, one minor misstep, and everything I’d worked so hard for could vanish.

“You’re home awful early,” Maggie remarked as soon as I walked through the apartment door. As if she’d ever been sober enough to notice what time I came in before.

I grabbed a soda from the fridge, counting the remaining beer bottles on the top shelf. Seven. There had been twelve that morning. I leaned against the closed refrigerator door and stared at my mother. Sitting on our small sofa, she flipped aimlessly through channels on the TV. She didn’t bother to look at me.

“Since when do you care?” I asked.

“Oh, more lip? Well at least it’s something new.” She didn’t slur her words. Must not have gotten into the hard liquor yet. “Sheriff Wilson stopped by this afternoon,” she revealed.

“Wow, you work quick,” I replied just to piss her off. It was like I was looking for a fight. Someone to take my anger and frustration out on. Someone whose feelings I didn’t care about hurting.

Maggie stopped playing with the remote and looked over at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“Just, you know, maybe that having a new guy over so soon after they fished your boyfriend from the Susquehanna isn’t such a great idea. Shouldn’t you still be in mourning?”

She stood, pulling on the hem of her shirt until it met the matching pajama pants at her belly button, then crossed the room. Coming to a stop on the opposite side of the breakfast bar, she placed her forearms on the countertop and leaned toward me. The bandages on her wrists looked fresh, as if she’d changed them throughout the day. Were they even necessary at this point? She hadn’t cut deep enough to do any real damage. I had worse scratches on my palms.

“Cody and I are friends, in case you’ve forgotten. And I’ll have you know he was here for you. Asked me what time you got home last Monday night,” she continued.

Monday night.

Tom had missed a dinner she’d planned. Maggie’d gone straight for the vodka that evening. She’d passed out before I’d even left the house for my shift at the bar. He’d showed up at the bar later that night. Argued with me. Pushed me to the ground in the alleyway behind the bar. Dragged me to the Buick by my hair. Charlie had looked on and yowled. A short while later, Tom would be dead and I would be wishing that I were too.

“I told him you were home by ten,” she said.

“And when exactly did you have time to look at a clock?” I asked and took a quick sip of my Coke. “Before or after I pulled you from the puddle of vomit on the bathroom floor?”

“Hey,” she hollered and pointed a finger in my direction. “I lied to him for you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need you to do me any favors.” Not now. Not after all these years. She wasn’t allowed to start now.  I pushed off the refrigerator and fled to the safety of my room, slamming the door in place behind me. I rested against the closed door and listened to the sounds coming from the living room. They were familiar sounds. The turning of the lock on the liquor cabinet. The clinking of glass as she fished for a bottle. There was the Maggie I knew. The Maggie that wouldn’t have lied to Sheriff Wilson on my behalf.