Ten Tiny Breaths (30 page)

“This is as much for Trent’s healing as it is
for yours, Kacey. You are going to sit, and you are going to listen
to what he has to say. After this, you won’t see him again. He’s
leaving after today to go back home. He’s doing well but treating
him effectively when he knows you’re in this building has been
impossible. I can’t risk the two of you running in to each other.
Do you understand?”

An unintelligible grunt is my only
answer.

Dr. Stayner leans over to flip a switch
beside a speaker. I could bolt right now. I could. I’d probably get
away. But I don’t. I just sit and stare at this guy who I know so
well, and not at all, and I wonder what he could possibly have to
say. And as much as part of me wants to, I can’t force myself to
look away.

“He can’t see you. He wanted it that way.
There’s a red light to tell him his microphone is now on,” Dr.
Stayner explains and I hear a soft click behind me. Glancing back,
I see that he’s stepped out of the room, leaving me to face the guy
who destroyed me twice.

I wait with balled fists, and a clenched
stomach as Trent shifts in his chair, pulling it forward until his
knees touch the glass. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his
knees, dropping his focus to his fingers, fidgeting. Those fingers,
those hands, they were my salvation not long ago, bringing me
remarkable joy. How could things change so quickly?

With slow almost pained movements, Trent
looks up, and he’s level with me, boring into my eyes, those light
blue irises flecked with turquoise landing on me with such force
that I’m sure he can see me. I panic, shifting to the left and
right. His pupils don’t follow.
Okay, so maybe Stayner isn’t
lying.

“Hey Kacey,” Trent says softly.

Hi
, I mouth back before I can stop
myself, the sound of his voice wrenching at my guts.

Trent clears his voice. “This is a bit weird,
talking to myself in a mirror, but it’s the only way I knew I could
get through saying all that I needed to say so … I’m happy that
you’re here, with Dr. Stayner. He’s a great doctor, Kacey. Trust
him. I wish I had trusted him fully. Then maybe I wouldn’t have put
you through all this.” He presses his lips together and looks away.
I’m sure his eyes turn glassy, but they’re normal when he turns
back to face me again. “I thought …” he swallows, his voice husky,
“I thought that making you fall in love with me would fix
everything else I had done to you. I thought I could make you
happy, Kacey. Happy enough that if you ever did find out, you’d be
okay with it.” He dips his head into his hands, holding his face
for a moment before he lifts it again. A sad smirk touches his
lips. “How fucked up is that?”

There’s a long pause, a chance for me to
study him, to remember all those days and nights of laughter and
happiness. I can’t believe it was real. It feels like a lifetime
ago.

“What happened that night four years ago was
the worse decision I’ve ever made, and one that I will live to
regret for the rest of my life. If I could turn back time, and save
your family, save my family, save Sasha and Derek, I would. I’d do
it. I’d do anything to change it.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and
down as he swallows. “Sasha—” he dips his head again. I close my
eyes at the sound of that name. It still hurts, hearing it, but not
as much anymore, I find. Not since Dr. Stayner’s lesson on empathy.
When I open my eyes, Trent faces me again, unmistakable tears of
hurt and loss spilling down his cheek.

That’s all it takes. My body constricts, the
sight of him so upset slashing through any defenses I had left. My
hands fly to cover my mouth, tears springing to my eyes before I
can stop them. I madly brush them away, but they just keep coming.
After everything, seeing Trent in pain still burns me deeply.

And it’s because I don’t hate him. I can’t. I
loved him. If I’m honest with myself, I may still love him. I don’t
even care that he basically stalked me. I don’t know why I don’t
but I know that I don’t.

There, Dr. Stayner. I admit it. Damn
you!

“Sasha was a good guy, Kacey. You won’t
believe me, but you would have liked him. I grew up with him.”
Trent smiles sadly now, reminiscing. “He was like a brother to me.
He didn’t deserve what happened to him but, in a strange way, it’s
better this way. He wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes with that kind
of guilt. He—” Trent’s voice cracks as he runs his thumb across his
cheeks to wipe away his tears. “He was a good guy.”

Trent’s gaze roams the perimeter of the glass
window. “I know you must hate me, Kacey. You hated Cole. So much.
But I’m not Cole, Kacey. I’m not that guy anymore.” He pauses and
inhales deeply. When he speaks again, his voice is steady and even,
his irises brighter, his shoulders held a tiny bit higher. “I can’t
fix what I did to you. All I can say is that I’m sorry. That and
dedicate my life to letting others out there know how much this
mistake can cost. How much it can hurt.” His voice drifts off.
“That much I can do. For me and for you.”

With a slow, cautious movement, he lifts a
shaky hand and presses it against the glass. He holds it there.

And I can’t help myself.

I match my fingers perfectly to his,
imagining what it would be like to feel his skin again, to have
those fingers curl over mine, pull me into him, into his warmth.
Into his life.

We stay like that, hand against hand, tears
rolling down my cheeks, for a long moment. Then his hand drops back
to his lap and his voice turns soft.

“I wanted to tell you in person that, even
though my intentions were wrong,” now he levels the glass with a
gaze full of heat and emotion. One of his Trent stares that buckles
my knees. “What I felt for you was real, Kacey. It still is real. I
just can’t hold onto it anymore. We both need a chance to
heal.”

My heart leaps into my throat. “It
is
still real,” I confirm out loud, softly. It is real.

Fresh tears spill down my cheeks as I realize
what’s happening.

Trent is saying good-bye.

“I hope that one day you can heal from all of
this, and someone can make you laugh. You have such a beautiful
laugh, Kacey Cleary.”

“No,” I whisper suddenly, my brow furrowing.
“No!’ Both of my hands fly to the glass to pound on it. I’m not
ready for good-bye, I realize. Not like this. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

I can’t explain it. I sure as hell don’t want
to feel it. But I do.

I hold my breath as I watch Trent stand and
walk out of the room, stiff-backed. The sight of the door
closing—of Trent walking out of my life forever—unleashes a torrent
of sobs and I tumble to the ground.

I study the titles in Dr. Stayner’s library, busying
myself so I don’t have to look at the fat lip I gave him after
yesterday’s group session. It complements the black eye I gave him
in last week’s session. Since the day Trent said good-bye, I feel
emptier than ever before. There can be no doubt—Trent or Cole,
mistake or murderer—that man had a strong hold on my heart, and
he’s taken a chunk of it with him.

“So, my sons have taken to calling
Wednesday’s “Dad’s Ass Whooping Wednesdays,” Dr. Stayner
announces.

Well, now that the moose is on the table, I
can’t very well avoid it. “Sorry,” I mumble, hazarding a glance at
his face and wincing.

He smiles. “Don’t be. I know I pushed you a
bit harder than I probably should have. Normally I ease my patients
into talking about their trauma. I thought a more aggressive
approach might work for you.”

“What gave you that brilliant idea?”

“Because you’ve compartmentalized your
emotions and pain so tightly that we might need dynamite to break
through,” he jokes. “I mean, look at you. You’re a trained fighter.
You could probably set my sons straight. In fact, I might have you
over for dinner to beat the snot out of them soon.”

I roll my eyes at my unconventional quack of
a doctor. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would. You’ve taken all that tragedy and
channeled into one hell of a tough defense mechanism.” His voice
turns softer. “But all defense mechanisms can be broken. I think
you’ve already learned that.

“Trent—” His name drifts over my tongue.

He nods. “We’re not going to talk about the
accident today.” My shoulders slump with that news. That’s usually
all Dr. Stayner wants to talk about. I wait as he makes himself
comfortable in his chair. “We’re going to talk about coping. About
all the ways that a person can cope. The good, the bad, the
ugly.”

Dr. Stayner goes through a laundry list of
coping mechanisms, marking each one off on a finger, cycling
through his hands several times. “Drugs, alcohol, sex, anorexia,
violence—” I sit and listen, wondering where he’s going with it
all. “An obsession with ‘saving’ or ‘fixing’ that which is broken.”
I know who he’s talking about.

I was Trent’s coping mechanism.

“All these mechanisms seem like they help at
the time, but in the end, they leave you weak and vulnerable.
They’re not healthy. They’re not sustainable. No human can lead a
healthy fulfilling life with lines of cocaine by their bedside.
Make sense so far?”

I nod. I’m no good for Trent. That’s what Dr.
Stayner is saying. That’s why Trent said good-bye. The wound inside
is still raw from that day, but I don’t bury the pain. I’m done
burying things. There’s no point. Dr. Stayner will drag it right
back where it’s impossible to avoid, like a buffalo carcass
sprawled out on a one lane highway.

“Good. Now, Kacey, we need to find you a
coping method that works for you. Kick boxing is not it. It helps
you channel your rage, yes. But let’s find a way to permanently
extinguish that rage. I want you to brainstorm with me. What do you
think are healthy coping mechanisms?”

“If I knew, I’d be doing them, wouldn’t
I?”

I get an eye roll. An eye roll from a
professional. “Come on now, you’re a smart girl. Think back to all
the things you’ve heard. What other people have suggested. I’ll get
you started. Talking to others about the trauma is one.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes at him.

Dr. Stayner waves his hands dismissively. “I
know, I know. Believe me, you’ve made yourself clear. But talking
about your pain and sharing it with others is one of the most
powerful ways to cope. It helps you release the hurt, not bottle it
up until you explode. Other ways to cope include painting, and
reading, setting goals, journaling about your feelings.”

Hmmm. I could do journaling. It’s still a
private activity.

“Yoga’s fantastic too. It helps clear your
mind, it makes you focus on your breathing.”

Breathing. “Ten tiny breaths,” I murmur more
to myself, feeling my lips curl with the irony.

“What’s that?” Dr. Stayner leans forward,
pushing his bifocals up with one finger.

I shake my head. “No, nothing. Something my
mother used to say. Take ten tiny breaths.”

“When did she say that?”

“Whenever I was sad or upset or nervous.”

Dr. Stayner’s fingers rub his chin. “I see,
and did she say anything else? Do you remember?”

I smirk. Of course I remember. It’s firmly
emblazoned in my head. “She would say, ‘Just breathe, Kacey. Ten
tiny breaths. Seize them. Feel them. Love them.’”

There’s a long pause. “And what do you think
she meant by that?”

I frown irritably. “She was telling me to
breathe.”

“Hmmm.” He rolls a pen over the surface of
his desk as if in deep thought. “And how will tiny breaths help?
Why tiny? Why not deep breaths?”

I slap my hands on his desk. “That’s what I
always asked. Now you see.”

But he doesn’t see. By the tiny crook of his
lips, he sees something different. Something that I don’t see. “Do
you think it matters if they’re tiny or deep?”

I scowl. I don’t like these kinds of games.
“What do you think she meant by it?”

“What do you think she meant by it?”

I want to punch Dr. Stayner in the mouth
again. I
really, really
want to punch him again.

***

Just breathe, Kacey. Ten tiny breaths.
Seize them. Feel them. Love them
. I play these words over and
over in my head like I have a thousand times before to no avail, as
I lie awake in my cell that’s not actually a cell. It’s a nice
small room with a private bath and sunny yellow walls, but I feel
confined all the same.

Dr. Stayner knew what my mom meant right
away. I could tell by that snotty smirk on his face. I guess you
have to be super smart. Dr. Stayner is obviously super smart. I,
obviously, am not.

I inhale deeply, jogging my memory of the
conversation. What did he say, again? Breathing can be a coping
mechanism. And then he questioned the tiny breaths. But he set up
me. He already had the answer to it. And the answer is …

One … two… three
… I count to ten,
hoping profound wisdom will land on my head. It doesn’t.

Do you think it matters if they’re tiny or
deep?
he asked. Well, if they’re not tiny breaths and they’re
not deep breaths, then they’re just … breaths. Then you’re just
breathing for the sake of … breathing.

… Seize them. Feel them. Love them …

I bolt up straight, a weird calming sensation
flowing through my body as understanding dawns on me.

It’s so simple. God, it’s so fucking
simple.

Six weeks later. Group therapy.

One … Two … Three … Four… Five… Six … Seven
… Eight… Nine … Ten.

I try not to fidget with my fingers as they
sit folded in my lap. “My name is Kacey Cleary. Four years ago, my
car was hit by a drunk driver. My mother and father, my best
friend, and my boyfriend were all killed. I had to sit in the car,
holding my dead boyfriend’s hand, listening to my mother take her
last breath, until the paramedics could free me.” I pause to
swallow.
One … two… three
… I take deep breaths this time.
Long, deep breaths. They’re not tiny. They’re huge. They’re
monumental.