Just Breathe Trilogy Box Set (87 page)

I wake to the memory of Joe’s lips against mine last night until my brain shut down from exhaustion. My nose takes in the smell of him which relaxes some of the tension in my body. Maybe, I can do this. Maybe, I’ll be able to face this day better with help.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Joe hums into my ear.

“Morning,” I reply.

Sadie tramples over us, eager to start the day. We pet her for a few minutes and surprisingly, Joe gets up to feed her. He texts Taylor that she’s ready to go out and Taylor graciously accepts the job of dog walker for the second time. I make a mental note to do something nice for him and the rest of the team when we get back for putting up with my antics.

Ordering room service, we have breakfast in bed. After a long, hot shower, we get dressed and I start to get myself in the right mindset for the day. As the hours tick by, I’m unable to leave the hotel room to make the journey. Joe patiently waits with me, hanging out and just being present and waiting for my cue. Jared and Maggie text to check in on me and I just tell them that everything is fine.

When dinner time rolls around, I’m too anxious to stay in the room, but still reluctant to do what I need to do. Joe, Sadie and I, along with our bodyguards, take to the streets of New York City. With the sun already down, it’s easy to not be noticed by the people walking past us. At some point, we grab a cab because it’s too cold outside. I text Taylor the location where we’re going after our driver takes to the road with Caesar riding shotgun.

We arrive just after five-thirty to a special restaurant for dinner. As we walk in, I scan the room and notice that everything looks the same in an odd, eerie sense which sends unpleasant shivers down my spine. The hostess takes us to the table I had requested when I had scheduled my reservation a month ago after booking the train tickets.

“What made you choose this place?” Joe asks.

“Sentimental reasons,” I reply nervously.

Joe nods, but doesn’t pry further.

We don’t say much as we study the menu. Seeing the options, I know easily what to choose. Joe orders fired zucchini and parmigiana portobello mushrooms to start followed by chicken contadina. I order the same meal I had the last time I was in this restaurant — a mixed green salad and a rigatoni and broccoli pasta dish.

Our conversations are light as we wait for our food and dine.

“You’re not usually one for pasta at dinner,” Joe comments.

I offer a fake smile, not wanting to reveal my contention and inability to eat.

“Do you want something else?” Joe searches, taking his forth bite of his entree.

“No,” I mumble.

Not wanting him to notice my behavior anymore, I pick up my fork and take a few small bites in silence. It takes some time, but I do manage to eat most of my dish. We order dessert as well — Joe gets a chocolate cannoli which doesn’t surprise me and I order the strawberry cheesecake.

Joe moans satisfaction on his first bite of the cannoli and I can’t help but giggle a little.

“What?” he says on his second mouthful.

I shake my head with a smile.

“You can’t get a cannoli like this on the West Coast,” he states.

“I know,” I agree.

Joe offers me a bite and I accept it willingly. It tastes exactly the same as the one my father had this night nine years ago. The memory brings a smile to my face and a little warmth to my heart before my stomach turns from the heartache.

“It’s not going to eat itself,” Joe laughs.

“I know,” I confirm, starting at my dessert.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I reply after singing happy birthday to myself and blow out the imaginary candle in my head. My hand shakes a little as I pick up the fork and scoop up the first amount. Before I’m able to swallow the entire helping, tears begin to threaten. “Excuse me for a second,” I request.

Joe quickly puts down his cannoli, wipes his hands and stands before I’m out of my chair. “You okay, beautiful?”

“Yeah,” I return. “I just need to use the ladies room.”

Fifteen minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom a little more controlled than before. Joe rises and ushers in my chair, then promptly returns to his seat.

“Thank you,” he says, catching me off guard.

“For what?” I inquire, taking another taste of my cake.

“For making this the best birthday for me,” he discloses nervously.

“I haven’t been much company,” I counter. “You would have had a better time with . . . .”

“I’m having a great time,” he admits freely.

I shake my head in opposition.

“I’m getting to spend it with you,” he reveals.

My heart flutters at his words as moisture collects in my eyes. “Please,” I beg, on the verge of crying.

“I’m sorry,” Joe says, noticing the change in me. “Don’t cry. I meant for it to make you smile.”

The left corner of my mouth curls up for a second. “Thank you.” It takes me a second, but I wish, “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks,” Joe saw with a sweet smile.

Once we finish our meal, I take care of the tab with Joe not insisting for the first time since we’ve had a meal together. He does comment that he thought about it, but knew not to press the issue. This gets a little chuckle from me.

“What’s next?” he asks inquisitively as we make it to the sidewalk.

“I got tickets for a show on Broadway,” I share. “I had gotten three tickets, knowing that Taylor would want to have two of them in the theater with me. We can see if we can get another ticket or if he’s willing to give up one of the seats for you.”

“Let’s see what we can do when we get there,” Joe suggests.

We walk a block east and several streets north up to the theater district. We’re able to get an extra ticket for Joe since it’s a Thursday and we’re ushered right in. The theater lobby looks the same as I remember when we enter and it takes me a few minutes to collect myself after being seated. When my parents brought me the night of the accident, it was my fifth broadway show — Cats. While looking for tickets online, I was gravely disappointed to find out that the show had been cancelled. Wanting to visit the same theater building, the show option is An American in Paris.

During intermission, Joe, Sadie and I hide in a side hallway, wanting to minimize being recognized and to have a little privacy. A few cast members and stagehands pass by us and are eager to pet Sadie. We take turns using the bathroom before heading in for the second set.

Joe and I arrive back at the hotel late in the evening after our eight o’clock Broadway entertainment. The play was very well done and not what I had expected. I cried a few times and Joe was sweet enough to hold my hand and offer me his handkerchief.

Once we’re in for the night and under the covers, Joe asks, “Did you want to try to go tomorrow since we didn’t make it today?”

“Yeah,” I confirm.

“I’ll have Hunter ready with a car for whenever you’re ready to go,” he shares.

“Okay,” I agree. “Joe.”

“Yes, beautiful?”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Of course,” he replies.

“Joe,” I call again.

“Yes,” he returns with a chuckle.

“Happy Birthday,” I offer, following it with a kiss.

Joe returns his lips to mine for another long embrace. “Goodnight, beautiful.”

“Goodnight, Joe.”

I wake groggy from a restless night. The nightmare occurred again, which was to be expected, but Joe and Sadie helped changed my mood pretty quickly. We take our time getting out of bed as Taylor assists with Sadie again. Room service delivers breakfast and I find myself dragging out every activity; unconsciously procrastinating.

By ten in the morning, Joe, Sadie and I are greeted by Hunter who holds open a limo door for us. My leg shakes ferociously the entire time despite Joe holding my hand and offering comforting kisses. The ride out of New York and into New Jersey is pretty smooth at this time of day since most people are driving into the city verses leaving. A trip that can take anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours only takes us forty minutes, causing me to be there sooner than I would have preferred.

Staring out the tinted window, my mind races as I study the house that I once lived in. I’m able to control myself enough to not allow tears, but I know they can break through at any moment. After a few deep breaths, I nod to Joe and he opens the door, exiting first. He holds his hand out for me, offering assistance and support. My legs tremble from both the cold weather and the anxiety streaming through me.

“Which one?” he asks, standing close behind me.

“Huh?” I mumble, keeping my attention on the house.

“Which one did you live in?”

“The one on the left,” I share.

I take a few tentative strides toward the house, peering up the wide steps that lead up to the stone porch. A creepy feeling surges through me when the furniture on the porch and the curtains hanging in the window look exactly the same. It feels as if my parents have never left.

“Emma?” a strange voice calls out to me.

I turn my head to the right to find an older woman exiting a car with the help of her husband.

“Emma?” she repeats. “Is that you, my dear?”

Water trickles down my checks, a knot forms in my stomach and my lungs suck in oxygen as I don’t believe who’s standing right in front of me. “Mrs. Nelson?”

“It is you,” she shouts, shuffling to get to me through the little bit of snow that covers the ground. “Oh, my heavens. You’re alive!” She wraps her arms around me with such force she almost takes us both to the ground.

We sob into each other, not willing to let go for fear that this is all just an illusion.

“Beatrice, dear,” Mr. Nelson calls. “We should move inside before any of us catch a cold.”

She reluctantly lets go of me and I’m suddenly met with the comforting embrace of Mr. Nelson. “We never thought we’d see you again, child. It’s good to see you.”

“Come, come,” Mrs. Nelson sings. “Let’s have some tea or cocoa to warm up while I make us lunch.”

“Yes,” agrees Mr. Nelson. He lets go of me and turns to Joe. “I’m Benjamin Nelson and this is my wife Beatrice.”

“Joe, sir,” he greets. “Joe Covelli.”

“Pleasure to meet you, my boy,” Mr. Nelson expresses leading us up the stairs and into the house.

My legs shake uncontrollably as I move up the stairs, stopping when I hit each one. Joe holds onto my arm, patiently waiting for me. As my feet follow Mr. and Mrs. Nelson, my eyes stay fixed on the front of my parents’ home — the furniture
is
exactly the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Nelson’s house smells exactly the way I remember from the winters — burnt embers from the fireplace, the smell of Mrs. Nelson’s vinegar and lemon homemade cleaning agent and baked goods — Mrs. Nelson bakes every couple of days during the cold season.

We settle easily in their kitchen at the table as we always did when Mrs. Nelson would cook. They greet Sadie warmly and offer her a bowl of warm water as the four of us sip our tea. Mrs. Nelson stands in her usual place at the stove, heating up some of her delicious homemade chili. Mr. Nelson sits at his seat which is at the head of the table with his back facing the wall that joins our homes. I sit to Mr. Nelson’s right as I’ve always had and Joe sits to my right — where my mother sat.

“Where have you been?” Mr. Nelson starts off.

“Benjamin,” Mrs. Nelson scolds politely.

“What? We’ll get around to it at some point,” he states. “Might as well get it over with.”

“I’ve been living in California,” I answer.

“How did you get out there? Did the State transfer you to a family out there after what happened with the first one? What happened?” Mrs. Nelson rambles.

“I left on my own,” I offer.

“What happened with the first family?” Joe searches, obviously clueless to many details.

“You know they wouldn’t even let us see you in the hospital,” Mrs. Nelson reveals. “We showed proof that you’re parents had given us a letter in case of emergencies, but they wouldn’t let us in. We immediately filed for custody, but they ignored us because we were too old, they said.”

“You did?” my mouth utters, touched by their gesture.

“Of course, sweetie,” Mr. Nelson confirms. “You and your parents were family to us.”

I lower my head, fighting tears.

“Don’t cry,” Mr. Nelson soothes, taking my hand.

Joe takes my other hand, resting it on my lap.

“Why did you make her cry?” Mrs. Nelson questions.

“I didn’t mean to, sweetheart,” he confesses.

“It’s okay,” I offer. “It’s just a lot for me right now.”

“You don’t have to share, sweetie,” Mrs. Nelson consoles. “We’ve got plenty of time for that.”

Smiling, I say, “I’m good. Let’s just lay it all out. I think I’ll feel better if I do.”

The three of them nod, coaxing for me to talk with their eyes while consoling me at the same time.

“I woke three days later in the hospital,” I begin. “They had to sedate and strap me down . . . .”

“What? Why?” Mrs. Nelson interrupts.

“I woke up screaming and yanked out the intravenous line several times. Each time I slept, I had visions of the accident, but wasn’t sure if they were real or not. Once reality set in, my heart broke and I laid there like a vegetable not talking. It took me a while to talk — not until I was out in California.”

A cold shiver travels down my spine, causing me to temporarily lose focus. My gaze travels up and my brain slowly registers where I am. It takes several more seconds before I continue.

“Four days after that, they put me with a foster family in Hoboken. There were two little girls, sisters, with them already and we shared a room. The foster people drank and lived off of the government money. I took care of the girls, Brittany and Leslie, while Dean and Amber drank and watched television all day.

“They made me go to public school, despite already have my diploma, but at least it got me out of the house from Dean’s and Amber’s drunken fits.”

My eyes glaze over as I stare at the coffee mug on the table in front of me, seeing every image unfold in front of me vividly.

“You mother was a wonderful teacher,” Mrs. Nelson praises.

I smile and nod before continuing. “The girls and I made our own routine and soon made friends with a family who owned a restaurant around the block and a few streets down from the house. They were kind and nice, inviting us in to stay warm, giving us food. They even bought the girls and me some Christmas presents.

“At the end of January, Dean saw us in the restaurant and accused me of stealing his money to buy the food. He was drunk and forceful, but Martin, the owner, intervened. The cops picked Dean up and tossed him in jail for the night.

“Most of the evening, I was home alone with the girls. The sound of a car door slamming woke me and I checked to see who it was. At first, I only thought it was Amber . . . until I heard his feet storming up the steps. Before I knew it, his hands were around my neck and he had me pinned against the bookshelf as Leslie and Brittany screamed. He reeked of alcohol. Scared, I clipped Dean in the groin, forcing him to the ground. I tried to help Brittany up from being knocked down when she tried to help, but Dean made me trip and almost fall on her.

“He came after me again, so I shoved my foot into his face. I got past Amber who was a statue in the doorway and went downstairs to call nine-one-one. Just as I hit the send button, Dean pushed Amber down the stairs and was already coming for me. He knocked me to the ground and towered over me. He . . .” my voice trembles at the memory.

Joe squeezes my hand firmly. “Did he . . . hurt you?” he asks, gritting his teeth.

“No,” I continue. “He tried. He was able to pin me down, but my arm broke free when he was trying to undo his belt. The second I was free I jab my finger into his eye and kicked him in the groin a second time.”

“Good,” Joe replies, not loosening his grip.

I look at Mr. and Mrs. Nelson and they stare at me in wonder, amazement and shock.

“Please, continue,” Mr. Nelson chokes down, clearly affected as well by my story.

“Brittany pointed to the closet and I remembered the baseball bat that was in there. As I rushed to get the girls out of the house, Dean was trying to come after us. I motioned for the girls to leave and I turned, planning on slamming the bat into the side of Dean’s head. When I realized that the girls didn’t leave, and not wanting them to witness what I planned to do, I shoved my foot into his face.”

“Wow,” Mrs. Nelson gasps.

“I can understand why you left,” Mr. Nelson mentions.

“How did you leave?” Joe asks. “If the police were already on the way?”

Lowering my head, I gathered the courage to continue. “Martin and his wife gave me their phone number earlier that day when they dropped the girls and me off at the house. I had Brittany call them while I decided to use Dean’s hidden liquor stash to burn the house down after I dragged Amber’s body out. When I got to the bottles, I saw a bunch of cigarette cartoons. Dean never smoked, so my curiosity got to me. I found wads of money stuffed in a full carton and a bunch of loose ones. I gave the girls a bunch and took the rest knowing I couldn’t let the state put me in another home.”

Sobs began to pour from within me. “I felt so bad . . . it hurt to leave the girls, but I knew I couldn’t take them with me.”

“You did what you had to do,” Mr. Nelson consoles.

Mrs. Nelson dishes out four bowls of the chili and joins us at the table.

“I came back here that night,” I reveal.

“What? When?” Mrs. Nelson searches.

“It was late. Early the next day,” I explain. “I used the key off the back porch and let myself in. I was surprised that the State hadn’t moved or sold anything.”

“They couldn’t,” Mr. Nelson shares. “The government takes forever to do anything, and when it came time, there was a lawyer who came from New York, saying that the State couldn’t do anything and that he had power of attorney until you returned.”

“That’s right, Benjamin,” Mrs. Nelson states. “What was his name?”

“I don’t recall, sweetheart,” Mr. Nelson answers.

“We’ve got his business card somewhere here,” Mrs. Nelson explains. “We’ll find it and give it to you when we do.”

“Thank you,” I reply.

“So, what’s going on with the house then? Since the State didn’t have the right to it?” Joe inquires.

“The lawyer hired some company to come in every week to clean and maintain the interior and exterior of the house. Nothing has moved,” Mr. Nelson offers. “He can’t do anything either without your permission. I think they looked for you for a long while. Checking in with us on occasion to see if you returned.”

“Where did you go that night after the foster family incident?” Mrs. Nelson asks.

“I took a train all the way to California, knowing I needed to get as far away as possible,” I reveal.

“That’s when you meet Jared,” Joe confirms.

“Yes,” I agree.

“Who’s Jared?” Mr. and Mrs. Nelson question.

“He’s my friend. He’s like a brother to me,” I clarify. “He became family after that.”

“I’m surprised he’s not here with you,” Mr. Nelson says with a smile. “Must have taken a lot of guts to let you come here with your boyfriend instead.”

Joe laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Mrs. Nelson searches.

“I’m not her boyfriend,” Joe discloses.

“Oh,” Mrs. Nelson answers. “I just assumed. You two look like you’re in love.”

Wanting to end the uncomfortable moment, I share, “Jared knows I’m here. I came on my own and I ran into Joe in the city. He insisted on me not being alone if . . . when I came.”

“Thank you, Joe,” Mr. Nelson commends. “You’re a good man.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joe accepts.

“I should have come alone,” I challenge.

“I told you I wasn’t going to leave you alone, Emma,” Joe reminds.

“You shouldn’t have cancelled with you family,” I point out.

“Yesterday and today aren’t about me,” he encourages.

“Well, it should be. You should be celebrating your birthday with your family rather than dealing with my baggage,” I counter, raising my voice a little. I shove my bowl away from me, unable to eat.

“Happy Birthday, Joe,” Mrs. Nelson sings.

“Thank you,” Joe replies.

“Isn’t that cute, Benjamin,” Mrs. Nelson says.

“What, sweetheart?”

“Joe’s birthday is the day after Emma’s,” Mrs. Nelson comments. “I don’t have cake, but I do have brownies. I’ll get some candles and we’ll sing after everyone is done eating.”

“My birthday isn’t today. It was yesterday,” Joe informs.

“What?!” Mr. and Mrs. Nelson gasp.

“Your birthday was yesterday?” Joe questions, looking right at me.

“You two share the same birthday?” Mrs. Nelson questions.

The four of us look back and forth to each other as I desperately avoid making eye contact with Joe.

“No candles for me, Mrs. N,” I instruct. “I don’t celebrate it anymore.”

“I know the accident happened on you birthday, Emma, but you parents would still want you to celebrate,” Mrs. Nelson remarks.

“No,” I reply. “I don’t celebrate it. It’s my fault that they’re dead.”

How do you explain to someone, anyone, that you no longer celebrate your birthday because all you associate with it is death? How can I celebrate my birthday when that’s the same day my parents died? It was a happy sweet sixteen birthday until I woke up in the hospital. Even with all the soul searching, I still blame myself for them not being alive right now.