A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,12

forth. Is the only way forward, the only way out of this limbo, to look back? But for what purpose?

I sit and think. Analyze. So far, the memories have been chronological, and each came to me in the present while watching the person at the center of that experience. If the memories continued that way, maybe I just need to keep probing, keep pushing until all of them spill out in order. Like a tether to the truth that I could follow. Maybe once I know, I can move on.

I hear a sound and realize it is you. Momma, your whimpers are choked and smothered by a pillow. August was held by his mother when he cried, but there is no one here to hold you.

I remember smothering my tears with a pillow too. I go to you. I see the tangles in your hair and I want to brush my fingers through them. I want to clean up your grief because it makes me uncomfortable, it makes me feel worse. I want to scrub you clean. Head to toe. I want to shove all your tears into a corner and lock them up so I can look at you without my chest aching.

But then I think of how you looked like someone who didn’t quite fit in the small space of her kitchen, in the cramped sliver of her life, and I wonder if I was one of the people who pushed you there. I sit back on my heels.

No.

No, Father chipped your crown away. Your chocolate-brown eyes open and I will myself to look deeply into them. Tell me, I whisper. This time without accusation. This time just to see.

To see you and how you changed from the woman I recognized in the rearview mirror, bright smiles and laughter, to the woman who no longer fit into her life. Maybe that will help me understand why I could no longer fit in my own.

And as if I pushed on a door, it opens and I see a thread of memories that tells me not enough and too much at the same time.

* * *

You hadn’t always worked at the grocery store. Before the Dixie’s red apron and uniform, I remember you having clothes that made you look smart and fancy. I think you worked in an office. You even had a briefcase with papers inside. You’d pick me up from school in your minivan and squish me in a big mommy hug and then we’d hold hands when we got home and march up our driveway. Your heels click-click-clicked on the floor. My light-up-sole tennis shoes sort of squished instead of clicked.

“How was your day, love?” you’d ask.

And I yammered on about August and his drawings or my kindergarten teacher’s bug collection or our classroom’s pet rabbit or learning how the letters of words fit together. You’d listen and make excited faces on cue. As I talked, you’d kick off your heels and rub your feet and set me up at the kitchen table to color or do homework, and then you’d start cooking.

When Father first moved in, our routine didn’t change. He’d just come home from work and somehow slide into the flow of it. A baritone addition to our kitchen. He’d lean against the countertop and ask you what you were cooking. He’d kiss your neck. He’d toss a “Good job, kid” in my direction when I displayed my coloring masterpiece. He fit. He took up space but didn’t dominate it.

You didn’t smile much at first. You’d watch him carefully, studying him as if you weren’t sure you could see him quite right. But as the seasons changed and our flow continued, you started to laugh when he joked, or smile when he wrapped his arms around you in the kitchen. You stopped stiffening every time he’d sit with me.

Father was a head taller than you. You fit just under his chin when he hugged you, and just like he seemed to fit right in our kitchen and lives, you seemed to fit there with him. His shoulders were broader, his arms longer, and he wrapped you up and you’d close your eyes and breathe him in.

One day, as you were frying chicken and the oil popped and crackled, Father came in with his booming voice and said, “How are my girls doin’?” Arms outstretched in the kitchen doorway. I lunged out of my chair and got to him first. It was a race to see