A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,13

who got the first hug. He knelt down to squeeze me and then he let me go and I ran back to the table to try to draw a copy of a picture that August had given me: a cheetah in the jungle.

My drawings never looked like August’s. Eventually, I stopped trying to redraw them and instead I’d make up stories that I’d tell him the next day. But that day, I was still trying to retrace his steps and perfect spots that looked more like globs on my too-short, too-squished cheetah. Father looked at you and cocked his head. “Hmmm…” he said. It was a sound he’d make when something smelled good in the kitchen or when he pulled you into his chest for a kiss.

You smiled. Your hair was pulled into a messy bun with a pen. You were turning the chicken in the pan and looked over at him when he didn’t move. “What?”

My gaze went back to my page. I was coloring and searching for a different orange. I knew the shade. Sunset. Just like our street name.

“I never noticed how short your work skirts are.”

“My … skirts?” You chuckled. “They practically touch my knees. They aren’t short at all.”

There was teasing in his voice. “Those knees must make the men wild.” I wasn’t looking, but I knew that Father was wrapping his arms around you. His voice was closer. Sort of muffled as he kissed the back of your head. It’s funny how we can hear so much. A movement. A gesture. A feeling in a voice, a sound.

Like I knew that you threw your head back when you laughed even though I didn’t see it, because the laugh was so sudden and loud. That’s what you used to do when a laugh took you by surprise. “Oh, stop it.”

That night, he did.

We went on with our flow. Our routine. But little things started to change. Subtle things.

You’d ask if I had seen a skirt. You’d search for a pair of heels. Father would drink in the scent of you when he got home and then ask why you smelled of cologne, which made you blink in response. You’d sniff yourself and say, “I don’t know what you are talking about, babe.” And you’d offer your wrist for inspection. I thought you smelled of strawberries.

He’d ask why you were smiling for seemingly no reason and that made you laugh. Not in a head-thrown-back way, but in a tight way, like you had to stuff it between you as a buffer. He started talking about how late dinner was and how hungry he was and how his momma had dinner ready when his poppa walked in the door. All of this was tucked into hugs, and kisses, and surprise flowers, and our nightly flow.

I barely noticed how you started to go straight into the kitchen to cook rather than swing my hand as we talked about my day. Or how you started checking the clock. Or how I knew I shouldn’t talk so much once he sat at the table because he just wanted some quiet. Little things. He’d fit into our flow, but just like a boulder can shift the waters around it, Father did too. At first, we didn’t see how our current was disrupted.

One day, your car didn’t start. It was an old car. It wasn’t surprising. I was in the back seat and you hit the steering wheel in frustration. You sighed. “Well, love, looks like we are going to walk to school today.”

“Let’s go!” I gathered my book bag and slid off my booster seat. We walked to school, swinging hands.

“Aren’t you going to be late to work?”

“Yeah, I’ll be late. But it should be okay. I’ll just bring some work home with me to finish up. And your father used to work in a mechanic shop, so he should know what’s wrong with the car. I’ll call him when I get home and then call a taxi to take me to work.”

We didn’t walk home from school at the end of that day. You picked me up and waved to me from the back of Mr. Grayson’s bright green sedan. “Look, Ellie! We got a ride.”

We didn’t have taxis in our town. It was too small for that. But Mr. Grayson was retired and had a new shiny car and was only a phone call away if anyone needed a ride. He had four Black Ice car freshener trees hanging