A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,24

sent lilies for her service. They are lovely and we just need to…” You never say my name. You speak as if my momma isn’t replaying your message on the other end, shaking. You speak, unhearing, as Momma tears through the cabinets and finds the chipped glass vase and throws it against the wall. You speak as Momma falls to her knees and grasps the glass in her hands just to let them bleed.

And when you say goodbye, Momma is crying.

I wonder if she is thinking about blue skies and wildflowers.

I lie down beside her and stare at the cracked ceiling as she weeps.

20

Momma,

The memories slip and slide and I feel unsteady.

You and Father are at the dining table.

I sit where I usually do at the end of the table. Watching. Just watching.

Your face is still painted like a clown with too much color. You sit at the table and I can tell something is missing, though I’m not sure what it is. I study the makeup, the heavy mascara and eyeliner, the plumpness of your red lips, the way that your hair is curled perfectly to frame your face. Not a strand out of place.

So what is it? What is the “it” that is missing? You eat your food quietly, one hand on the spoon, one in your lap. You look smaller somehow. You were always taller than me, but now it looks like the chair could swallow you up. You aren’t slumped over or crying anymore. You are there like any other Thursday, eating your dinner and itching to leave.

That is when I see it: a tear in the vinyl plastic tablecloth covered with baskets of oranges by the hundreds, the one from the downtown Dollar City faded to a deteriorating yellow. I hated that tablecloth. It’s old and ugly and I remember trying to count all the baskets at breakfast just so I didn’t have to look up. But that rip … I’ve never seen it before. I stare at it. It’s a small slit about an inch wide that cuts straight through a basket. It isn’t far from where I used to sit, where I sit now; it’s nearly at the halfway point between where you and I sat, so why didn’t I see it?

I clench my eyes shut. Something used to be there; something covered it up. A plate? A glass. My eyes open wider, remembering.

No. A hand.

Your hand. It was always there, delicately placed on top of the cut, your fingers relaxed and slightly spread out, your arm extended just a little too much for comfort.

A hand. For me.

I was the one who was supposed to see it. The way your hand was like an offering, reaching. I’m here, your hand had said.

I stare at the spot now. The spot without your hand to cover it. Hadn’t I seen the way you snuck glances at me? I thought they were silent pleas to behave, to not say a word. I thought they were a silent chastisement. But they weren’t, were they? Your eyes were pleading. Not for me to behave. Not for me to be quiet. But for me to see you reaching. Your eyes never lingered long. For fear that Father would catch you? Or because I never looked back?

I remember holding your hand as a child. Your hands had been so big and warm and soft. I remember knowing, right down to my bones, that your hands would keep me safe. I hadn’t felt that way in a long time, but then again, I hadn’t held your hand in a long time.

I remember that hand that had seemed so innocently placed; I remember catching glimpses and seeing how there were tiny spiderwebs of lines, wrinkles, and pink knuckles; pale skin, calluses, and a cut; ragged cuticles, bit fingernails, and chipping nail polishes. You didn’t care what your hands looked like. You didn’t cover them up because the bruises weren’t there. But I saw the ruined part of you that told tales in something as inconsequential as the skin on your bare hands. And those real, naked, ruined hands had been there reaching for me.

And I never reached back.

Now, you sit unreaching because you think there isn’t anything to reach for. I stare at you and I see it. That “it” that is missing. Your eyes are counting the baskets, far-off and resigned. Nothing glimmers or shines in your eyes and I feel like it is a punch to my gut that I