The Last Exhale (20 page)

We both get up to follow the doctor back.

He stops me, says, “Only Mrs. Carter can see him right now.”

“This is Andrew's brother,” says Mel.

He nods my clearance.

•  •  •

My brother looks how I feel. A broken, battered man whose life has been broken into a million pieces.

“It's not as bad as it looks,” he manages to say without looking at me.

Mel stands by his side, her hand on top of his bandaged hand.

My hand throbs.

The doctor speaks, “His leg got pretty tangled. We'll get him prepped for surgery to make sure there's no extensive damage. Other than that, a few stitches here and there, but nowhere near what it could've been. He'll be ready to go home in a couple of days.”

“I was so scared when I got the call,” my sister-in-law shares with my brother.

“You're a lucky guy,” the doctor tells Andrew on his way out.

I reach my hand out to shake his. “Thanks for all you've done, Doctor.”

He nods and leaves us to sort out the details.

Mel looks over at me, then back at her husband. “Drew, there's a lot being said outside these doors. Please clear the air. Are you having an affair?”

Drew makes eye contact with mine this time. Stares me dead in the face like a deer staring into an approaching car's headlights. “No.”

“Then why were those men confronting you at your job?”

“They thought I was him.” His eyes still on me.

My sister-in-law nods. “Just wanted to hear you say it.”

An identical version of me says, “I told you what you were doing was wrong. But just like when we were kids, you failed to think about what effect your actions would have on me.”

I let my emotions get the best of me. Again. My emotions are what made me miss the real reason my wife was pushing me away, they're what led me to get involved with that cop's wife.

Our parents always said I was the more emotional one out the duo. Came out of the womb crying. Was the first to cry in the morning, the last to cry at night. I was told my mother was well into her sixth month when they found out one baby was two. Technology wasn't as advanced back then and they couldn't see me hiding behind my brother. We started out so in sync our heartbeats beat as one. Every time Mom's expanding belly got rubbed, they thought it was just one baby. My brother got six more months of loving than I did. Maybe that's why I turned out this way.

“Get out,” Andrew tells me.

I look over at his wife for support. “He's right, you need to go.”

E
ric is barely recognizable. Gauze wrapped around his head down to his chin. His face is swollen, looks like he was beaten with a sock full of rocks. All kinds of machines hooked up to him, wires hanging from him like he's some kind of medical experiment.

“He's slipped into a coma,” the doctor tells me. “The next twenty-four hours are critical.”

Eric's head hit the passenger window so hard it shattered. Knocked him out cold. Not sure when he'll wake up. Meanwhile, Michael walked out of here with nothing more than a few bandages. Why does the passenger always end up worse off than the driver?

Michael.

The reason my husband has lost all consciousness of reality. He instigated this. I know he did, and he had the nerve to threaten me.

After the doctor walks out of the room, I flop in the chair positioned next to Eric's bed. Tears clog my throat, temporarily prevent me from being able to breathe. I want to scream, want to run, want to be anywhere but here. That always seems to be the case with me when it comes to my husband. And for that very reason, he's lying here in this bed, not able to say or do anything to make life any different for the either of us.

Rivers flow from my eyes, saturate the fabric of my shirt. Stains the fabric of my life.

“Sydney,” a familiar voice beckons.

I turn to my left to see my mother standing by the door. She points behind her. I get up from the chair with urgency, run out of the room and pick EJ up, hold him tight. Use my other arm to pull Kennedy close to my hip. Hold both of them like I've never held them before. Had things gone another way, they would've been in the car and things would be a lot different.

My mom called in the midst of me trying to find out my husband's status. The school notified her when they weren't able to get a hold of me. Kennedy went to the principal's office crying after her dad left her on the curb. She had been abandoned by a man on a mission to find out what was happening to his family. Mom went to the rescue to console her grandchild and pick up her other one from daycare; brought them straight here.

“Why are you crying, Mommy?” EJ questions. He always seems to catch me at my breaking point.

I look to my mom, search her eyes to see if she's told them anything. She shakes her head. Mouths, “They don't know anything.”

Kennedy draws away, stands against the wall with her arms folded. “It's Daddy, isn't it?”

I put EJ down, look to my daughter.

She points a shaky finger to the ICU entrance. “In there. He's in there, isn't he?”

I nod. If I say anything my tears will choke me to death. How do you tell a daddy's girl her Numero Uno is lingering somewhere between life and death?

“Good.” She shocks me and runs down the hall in the opposite direction.

Life hasn't been normal in the Holmes' household for weeks now. Today's accident magnified things to another level.

It took hours to get my children to calm down enough to allow sleep to do its job. I can't blame them. Doubt I'll be able to get my nerves to settle this lifetime.

“Wanna talk about it?” Mom says when I drag myself into the kitchen.

I plop down hard in the cushionless chair. “What's there to talk about? I messed up.”

She shakes her head. “We were just talking—”

“I can do without the I-told-you-so right now.” I ditch the chair, walk to the fridge. Don't find what I'm looking for because I have no idea what I'm looking for. I slam the door shut, trot off to the living room. Can't sit still, feel antsy. Need to lace up my sneakers and run this off.

As if my thoughts have a voice, my mom comes into the room behind me and tells me, “You can't run from this.”

“Watch me,” I say, and out the door I go.

Hands on the steering wheel, foot on the accelerator, I give them control to take me where my will won't lead me. Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in the doorway to my husband's hospital room.

There's been no change. He's still unconscious to reality.

My legs carry me to the chair positioned next to his bed. Slowly I sit, my eyes focused on his bandaged face, ears focused on the beating of his damaged heart.

According to Katrina, from what she was told by Rachel, when Eric got off duty, he noticed he had a flat tire. He was pressed for time, needed to pick Kennedy up from school. Michael offered to give him a ride to get her, then they'd come back and switch to the spare. Michael recognized a familiar face standing next to Kennedy
at the school. Seeing them together, he realized it was the man he had caught me with at the park and in my car with a bleeding hand. He had been putting off sharing this info with Eric, but when he saw the man with my child, he knew it was time to break the news. Eric wanted to talk; Kennedy's teacher didn't. Said he actually laughed at the accusation. That set things off.

The police report tells a different story. Said Michael was the aggressor, while Eric was the bystander. Said Michael attacked Mr. Carter. Eric tried to stop him, but Michael wouldn't let up. Mr. Carter ran off, ran to his car and sped off. Michael jumped back in his car with Eric hopping in the passenger seat; sped off after him.

Now we're here.

Rachel's not answering my calls, won't settle this feeling in my stomach that this had nothing to do with my infidelity, but more so Michael trying to score revenge on a man who had nothing to do with the one he caught his woman with years ago. His past came back to get under his skin at a time when it had nothing to do with him. Not only has his inability to control his emotions messed up life for my family and me, he's also screwed up an innocent man's life. Even if he had the right twin, he still had no right to get involved.

I can't think about that right now, though.

My husband isn't able to tell me his side of the story. Only God knows when he will, if he ever will.

The last words we shared were filled with regret. My heart feels like it's being sucked deep into the ocean on a sinking ship. I let my thoughts drift to our honeymoon.

That night, after we'd finished making love as husband and wife, I had locked myself in the suite's bathroom, climbed in the
tub and cried. He was sleeping so peacefully in the bed, skin stained with sweat from making love to his wife. He was satisfied, knowing he made the right decision. His life was working out the way he'd planned in his mind. Meanwhile, I had died inside. I made the wrong decision. I sat in the tub and cried so hard it felt like blood was pouring from my eyes. I cried because there was no turning back. I was his wife. Neither divorce nor death would ever be able to erase the fact that I vowed to love him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I made that choice. And I had to live with it. Never thought it would lead us here.

A loud, steady beep on one of the monitors grabs my attention. A nurse walks in, unhooks an empty bag, replaces it with a bag full of clear liquid.

“What's that?” I want to know.

“Just something to help with pain,” she says before walking back out.

“He can feel pain in a coma?”

The nurse nods, says, “He can feel and hear, just can't do anything about it.” A beep across the hall sends her on her way.

I look back at my bandaged husband. He's felt and heard a lot in this marriage, and just like now, he didn't do anything about it. Whether he could or not is up for debate on another day.

He last told me he didn't want to marry me just as much as I didn't want to marry him. Another woman broke his heart before I even had the chance to. He was already damaged. I was just a Band-Aid on his wounds. By the time he realized it, we were walking down an aisle with peach rose petals.

A warm tear rolls down my face, followed by several others.

Sleep betrays me.

I've been in bed tossing and turning for hours. Thoughts are on my husband, on our failed attempt at marriage. On the kids we created when our passion was fueled by ignorance, ignoring the reason for the existence of us. On the lives torn apart by the wrong decisions made in my need to feel fulfilled.

The indigo-blue numbers on my nightstand flash at me, tell me it's eleven minutes past three. It's an insane hour to run, but I find myself rummaging through the dresser for my sports bra, a tank top, and a pair of leggings. Stagger to the bathroom, empty a beyond full bladder. Rethink the half-bottle of wine I downed when I got in from the hospital a couple of hours ago. I toss off pajamas, throw on running gear. Slip anxious feet into ASICS. Out the door I go.

Pulling into the parking lot of Pick Your Fit, I realize this is not where I want or need to be. I want to run with a freedom the treadmill could never be able to allow. I need space, need air. Need to feel like I'm going somewhere other than here.

I drive to Riverfront. It's still dark out. Any woman with any sense wouldn't dare run or be out here alone. Any woman other than me, because I haven't done much to make sense in my life as far back as I can remember. I bend over, give my hamstrings a good
stretch as I tie my sneakers. Say a quick prayer asking God to keep me safe. My prayer makes me chuckle. It's not like someone is holding a gun against my head making me run out here in the dark. I'm out here on my own accord.

I put my feet to the pavement and do what I need to do.

As one foot lands in front of the other with a force hard enough to shatter the concrete to ashes, I release a part of the guilt I've been holding on to. I couldn't marry a man who didn't agree to the vows as well. I couldn't have had Kennedy and EJ if there wasn't another willing participant. I wasn't the only one who kept feelings hidden in the vault of truth. I didn't tell Eric to get in the car with his crazy partner and run another man off the road. I'm not responsible for my husband's coma. Yet, I cry for him.

It is my fault for not being honest, for not telling the truth to a vulnerable man, for keeping the truth from myself. I accept my part in all of this, but I won't carry the burden alone.

Thinking about Brandon moves me at a faster pace. I think about how his life has unraveled at the hands of my decisions. I could've left things alone at the gym when I mistook him for my daughter's teacher. I didn't have to take his offer to train him in running. God knows I didn't have to dance with him, hop in his car and listen to the stories of his unhappy marriage. I had no right to console him, give him my ear. I was out of line showing up at his front door with an offer to what only my husband should be privy to. But again, I wasn't acting on my own. It wasn't all on me. He played just as much a part as I did. He could have as easily backed away as I could have. Two weak people have no business playing tug-of-war against Goliath.

I cry for Brandon. Had I not been operating out of a place of negligence and regret, I would have seen his pain wasn't something
I could heal. Instead of being his ear, I should've encouraged him to go home and talk to his wife. Talking to me wasn't going to make things better at home and it wasn't going to make him feel any better about what wasn't going on at home. His wife was dying, and there I was inviting him in between my legs. He didn't need me to make matters worse.

Yes, he was a man and was able to make his own choices, but a man will go as far as a woman will let him. I had no boundaries. He was walking in open territory.