A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,16

nuzzle your neck. He’d make promises that he’d never keep and you sniffled and still let him make them just so he would stroke your hair a little longer.

It is easy to give yourself away. You do it little by little until you are left with nothing but your bones in your hands and you wonder how so much was taken without you noticing. You painted on a face to pretend. You painted on a face so you didn’t have to see the lies looking back at you.

“Momma, why can’t we leave?” I asked one night from under my covers. You had been stroking my hair.

You paused your stroking and took in a deep breath. “We will, one day. I promise.” Your voice was a whisper and when you saw the look on my face, you kept speaking in hushed tones. “When I first met your father, I fell in love with him. I never thought he would hurt me. But then, when I got pregnant with you … he changed. He was violent. He was … controlling. He scared me and I ran away. But I didn’t know he’d chase me. Chase us. Wherever we went, he was always just a few steps behind. And when he finally found us here, he seemed to have changed. I was wrong. So wrong. But when we leave, we have to be ready. We have to be able to go far, far away. I am afraid of what he might do if he finds us the next time.”

* * *

I am knocked back. The thread of memories tangles up around my heart and tugs so tight I feel like it leaves cuts. I can’t feel your cheek now, but I remember falling asleep as you stroked mine that same night. The night of the promise in the dark.

It was just a lullaby to soothe me, but as you fall asleep now, hiccupping little breaths, there is no one here to soothe you. I hear my bedroom door creak and Father is there. I want to rush him, beat my hands against his chest, but he just walks over to my bed and scoops you up into his arms and carries you back down the hall to your bedroom.

You either don’t wake up or pretend to still be asleep.

Pain had followed us like a shadow.

And now I am following my life like one too.

10

Words,

I remember now when I first believed that I could change our lives—it was because of you.

You didn’t always fit easily in my mouth. When I was younger, I would fumble with your letters and mispronounce your syllables. I slammed a book shut in second grade because of my white-hot frustration when I tried to read you. I had been in the school library for mandatory reading time. It was the worst hour of the school day and I resented feeling stupid and lacking.

The librarian saw my aggression toward one of her beloved books and came over and sat next to me. I thought she would scold me. She had a pinched face and a severe jawline that was perfectly made for reprimands. I braced myself.

Instead she tapped the book and whispered, “When I was little, it was hard for me to read.”

“It was?” I hadn’t expected that confession. I peered up at her. Her gaze was soft and open, her harsh features transformed into something almost lovely. She nodded.

“I always forgot the sounds the letters made when smooshed together and I hated books.”

I blinked at her. “But—but you are a librarian.”

“Yes, I am.” She smiled. “Do you know why?”

I shook my head.

“Because I found out the secret about words.”

“What’s the secret?” I leaned in, waiting. Expectant.

She smiled, almost conspiratorially, and leaned in closer. “They are magic.”

11

August,

The next day, I walk to your house, and as I stand outside, I know you are there. There is music drifting down from your open bedroom window. It is so much softer than anything I ever listened to. It feels like falling, like musical notes that could cry and break you down along with them.

I want to fall into your arms, August. I want all the memories that I can’t grasp to hold me close and closer still. Just so I can understand. Because if I’ve been left behind with nothing but this slow trickle of memories to lead me forward, I know that our memories will give me solid ground to stand on.

I close my eyes and listen to the music, hearing