Barely Breathing (32 page)

"Thanks, Rachel," Jonathan replied, placing his bet.

"No, you should bet more than
that
," she garbled, pushing a few more chips in. "We're winning this hand." She stuck her tongue out at Sara and the other guy who hadn't folded. Sara laughed at her, taking a sip of her margarita.

"Sara, I like you," she spontaneously confessed, the affects of the tequila surfacing.

"Thanks, Rachel," Sara replied with a smile. "Happy birthday." She raised her glass for my mother to clumsily tap.

"Come dance with me," my mother insisted, popping up from Jonathan's lap and grabbing Sara's hand.

"But I'm still playing," Sara argued feebly. My mother grabbed her hand and pulled her from her chair, making Sara abandon her cards on the table.

My mother twirled herself under Sara's arm as she held her hand above her head.

I watched from the other table as Jared shuffled the deck.

"You don't say much, huh?" the woman with bleach blond hair noted. I thought her name was Sally, but maybe it was Ally.

"Not really," I replied, keeping my eyes on the cards as Jared placed them on the table in front of me.

"Don't drink either, huh?" she slurred, holding her head up on her hand.

"No, I don't," I answered.

"You used to make us drinks when you were little," she shared, making me pause before picking up my cards. "You were so cute, getting us beers. Rachel always had the best parties."

I studied my cards intently, knowing Evan and Jared were watching me.

"I'll take two cards," I requested, pretending not to be fazed by the glimpse of my previous life living with my mother.

In truth, it was appearing to be not too much different than it was now―except I didn't take sips from the beer cans anymore. Our life was full of emotional waves, even more so when I was young―laughing one minute, crying and screaming the next. There was always music playing, and there seemed to be a constant flow of people in the house. But despite the bodies, I was very much on my own. That's when my focus became school and sports. Despite my mother's lack of interest in my academics, she always made certain I had soccer and basketball―even if she was incapable of driving me to the practices and games herself.

My mother and Sara's laughter drew our attention. My mother bumped into the side table, knocking over a few pictures. Sharon joined them from her post on the porch, trailing the cigarette fumes in with her.

"What do you do, Ally?" Evan intervened, taking a sip from his beer bottle.

"I'm a bartender," she offered, directing her attention toward Evan and lingering a little too long. "Can't believe you're still in high school. And wait..." She looked from me to Evan. "You two are dating, right?"

Evan nodded, before requesting two cards from Jared.

"I miss high school," she sighed, taking a gulp from her glass.

"No you don't," my mother countered, plopping down in the vacant seat next to Ally. "You hated high school."

Ally started laughing. "That's true. But we sure did get away with a lot of shit."

"Definitely," my mother recollected with giggle.

"Do you remember when you convinced Mr. Hall to let you skip that test because you told him you had wicked bad cramps, and then we went into the woods to get high?"

My mother laughed hard in remembrance, causing her eyes to water.

In between hysterics, Ally added, "And the time you gave Emily that Crown and Coke and then we videoed her bumping into the wall for like an hour."

My mother held her stomach as she rolled in laughter. The guy next to Ally chuckled, "I remember that. You were hysterical."

I forced a chuckle, like I remembered it fondly, then folded and made an excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. But when I opened the bathroom door to leave, my mother was waiting to get in.

"Emily!" she declared happily. "Are you having fun?"

"Yeah, it's great," I told her, trying to smile. "Are you having fun?"

"I'm trying," she said passing me to go into the bathroom. "It would be better if he would stop staring at you." And with that, she shut the bathroom door, leaving me outside, stunned. Who was she talking about?

I turned toward the stairs as Jonathan was reaching the top.

"Hey," he greeted. "Are you in line?"

"No," I replied heading toward the stairs, still shocked by what my mother had said before shutting the door.

"What's going on?"

"Uh," I shrugged, completely mystified.

"What?" The door opened behind us and my mother emerged. We both whipped around.

"Aahh," she said, as if she'd caught us. "And there you two are. You know I know. I mean it's so obvious. But can't you wait at least until you're in California? I mean it's my birthday. You don't have to shove it in my face."

"Rachel, what are you talking about?" Jonathan laughed uncomfortably.

"Whatever," she said, dismissing him. "I'm over it."

I continued to gawk at her. "You can't think there's anything going on between us," I insisted.

"Maybe," she shrugged and trod down the stairs, leaving us staring after her. I took a deep breath and followed her as Jonathan went into the bathroom.

The rest of the night, we didn't even look at each other. Or at least I didn't look at him. I refused to fuel my mother's drunken delusions, and I really didn't want her saying anything in front of Evan.

As the money dwindled, so did the participants. Jared and Sara were the first to leave.

"I think I got a little drunk," Sara laughed in my ear as she clumsily hugged me good-bye.

"It's okay," I told her, patting her awkwardly on the back as Jared waited to help her put her jacket on. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Not long after, the other poker table and chairs were folded up as one of the car loads decided to head out as well.

"But you can't leave," my mother begged, hugging Ally.

"Happy Birthday, Rach."

My mother walked them out to the porch to see them off.

"Who wants a shot?" she announced upon closing the door. It was a question that wasn't expected to be answered as she lined up the shot glasses on the coffee table, filled them with tequila, and began handing them to everyone, including me.

When she set the gold liquid in front of me, I cringed and glanced across the table at Jonathan.

"To being forever young," she declared, holding her shot glass in the air. "Come on, Evan, pick it up."

Evan raised his shot along with everyone else, slinging it back with a grimace. I didn't touch mine. Jonathan slid it surreptitiously across the table and took it down before sliding it back in front of me.

"Thatta girl, Emily," my mother praised, collecting the glasses.

While she was in the kitchen, Evan leaned over and asked, "Want to stay or go?"

I bit my lip in contemplation. Before I could make a decision, the bearded guy folded his hand and declared, "Well, I think I'm broke enough. Sharon, we're going."

"No," she mumbled from her slouched position on the couch.

"Yeah, you're about ready to pass out," he noted, standing from the table.

"Not you too," my mother sulked when she found him retrieving their coats from the closet.

"Your guy took all my money," he told her, "so happy birthday. Don't spend it all at once." She gave him a hug and brief peck on the lips.

With it just being the three of us, and my poker chips down to a handful, Jonathan suggested, "Cash out?"

"Sure," I answered standing from the table. Evan remained to help Jonathan put the chips back in their silver case. I headed into the kitchen to begin picking up.

My mother came in from the porch shivering. "It's just us, huh?" She observed the guys in the living room and me in the kitchen.

"I
did
have fun," she said from behind me.

"Good," I answered, dumping the half full glasses in the sink.

"I'm sorry about upstairs, you know, with Jonathan. I can be pretty stupid sometimes."

I could only nod, not knowing how to respond.

Then out of nowhere she asked, "So you don't remember, right?"

I turned around and tightened my eyes in confusion. "What? About your parties when I lived with you? I remember."

"I was just thinking," she said, ignoring my answer. She settled down on the kitchen chair―probably because she was having a hard time standing. "I've had to relive that day for all these years, and you don't remember it." Her face was smooth and emotionless as her eyes lazily flipped up at me.

I opened my mouth to ask her what she was talking about, but then I realized―she was talking about the day he died. I closed my mouth and averted my gaze.

"You always had to wear pink," she remembered, lost in the past as her eyes glazed over. "He bought you a new pink dress every year."

I was held hostage by her words, unable to tell her to stop. My heart started to beat faster.

"You were waiting for him by the window, wanting to know why he was late. You kept asking where he was every five minutes." Sorrow flooded her face. "It's not fair that you don't remember the day I can never forget. When was the last time you celebrated your birthday, Emily?" Her question sliced through me.

My chest froze, and I had to force air into my lungs. All of a sudden, I wasn't in the room anymore. I was in my pink frilly dress, staring out the window.

"He would drive home early from work to hang those stupid colored lanterns in the backyard," she recalled impassively.

For a second I saw them. They were different shapes and colors, strewn in crisscrossing lines across the backyard. My stomach was swallowed in coldness, and I couldn't move.

"He'd bring home your cake, made from that ridiculously expensive bakery in the city. It always had to be chocolate with raspberry filling."

"When's daddy going to be home?" I asked, the curtains spread so I could keep watch.

"He shouldn't be long," was what I was told each time. It wasn't my mother who answered me, but another woman. I looked over my shoulder to see her pulling a pan out of the oven.

"But it's getting dark, and he never comes home in the dark," I argued, continuing to stare out the window.

"Anything yet?" she asked, concern resonating in her voice as a man entered the room with a phone in his hand.

"No," he answered. "They said he left the office hours ago." The man looked familiar, but I couldn't place him.

"Rachel!" he hollered.

"What?" she answered from upstairs.

"I think we need to make the call."

Before she could answer, the phone rang. She rushed down the stairs as the man answered. "Who is it?" she demanded before he even said hello.

The anxiety in her eyes made me nervous. I kept watching her, unable to look away from her distressed face. It changed from worry to despair when the words spilled from his mouth after he hung up the phone. "There's been an accident."

"You took him from me," she murmured, not removing her eyes from mine.

"Rachel? What did you do?" Jonathan's voice sounded like he was talking through a tunnel.

My vision blurred with tears. Her eyes widened in recognition. "Oh," she breathed, "You remember."

Pain eased through my body like venom. I opened my mouth to cry out, but nothing happened.

"What did you do?" Jonathan demanded again more urgently. "Emma, are you okay?"

"Emma what's wrong?" Evan's muted voice was etched with concern.

I looked into her eyes again, and swore I saw loathing. I winced.

I couldn't be there any longer. I needed to get out. But I couldn't. My legs refused to cooperate. I choked on the sobs that were suffocating me. My body was on fire, searing in pain. I had to get away from her.

Before I knew what I'd done, I was out the front door―the legs that had failed me moments before were now carrying me in a run down the street. I couldn't run fast enough. But no matter how hard I ran, I couldn't escape the ache that was crushing my chest. I breathed in, but I couldn't get enough air.

I ran down random street after street before collapsing on the damp, muddy ground, gripping my chest. It felt like it was about to burst open. I screamed in pain.

It all came back to me in a rush. The call. My mother yelling out in denial. I watched as if a spectator of a play. I didn't understand, but at the same time, I understood too well. He wasn't coming home. He was never coming home again.

I don't know how long I lay on the cold, wet ground, consumed in grief. I was pulled back to the surface when a warm hand brushed across my cheek. He gently propped my head on his lap as he soothed me with comforting words I couldn't quite make out.

"It's okay," he whispered.

"It hurts so bad," I gasped, my body tense. "
Please
make it stop." The tears continued down my cheeks.

Evan pulled me off the ground and carried me to the car. He gently set me down on the passenger seat, bending down to kiss my forehead. I curled up in a ball, still clutching my chest―afraid that if I let it go, I would fall apart.

I began to shiver, the cold earth having seeped into my bones. The warmth of the car did little to ease the shaking. Evan draped his jacket over me, and I burrowed my nose into the collar, breathing in his scent.

I fought for each breath, my jaw quivering. I was consumed by the pain, unable to escape it. It was crushing me.

I was trapped in my grief, barely aware of where we were when the car stopped. I think he may have tried to talk to me, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. His voice was muffled and distant. I closed my eyes and pressed my face against his chest when he lifted me from the car.

I remained still as he rested me on his bed. I felt my shoes slide off my feet and my pants glide over my legs. I couldn't focus, but my eyes were open. I could only feel, and I didn't know how to shut it off. I couldn't push it back down to the hidden depths of darkness where I'd been protected from it for so many years. I was losing him all over again.