A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,25

never saw it before. You had plans, didn’t you? I can see it … the way your eyes had always been here, but not really. Something was ticking and gears were turning, and I just didn’t see.

Now you don’t have any plans. Nothing is clicking, turning, or cranking. Your eyes are dead.

Just like mine.

But you aren’t dead.

Not yet.

And I wish your hand was propped up over that broken basket …

And I wish, and wish, and wish that your eyes still shone, because they were beautiful and secret.

I miss your beautiful secret eyes.

21

Momma,

Father is snoring in your bedroom. You had stayed quiet all evening, but once he fell asleep, you went into my room. You must’ve scoured through it while I was at August’s house. You found my stash of Ms. Hooper’s papers beneath a stack of my books and they are in a neat pile on the floor.

You take in a deep breath and walk toward my bed. You kneel next to my mattress as if in prayer, which strikes me as strange because you haven’t prayed in a long time. I guess pain pushes us back to our knees sometimes. Pushes us until the only place we can set our sights is up; otherwise, we break.

You put your fingers under my mattress and then lift it. I frown. It feels like an invasion. I want to slap your bandaged hand away. I run forward, but then I see the hole in the box spring. A neat square where a box is hiding.

You pull it out and open it. I kneel beside you, watching how your shoulders shake.

I gasp in a breath. Money. Pamphlets. A letter. And on top of it all …

I see them.

They have discolored with age. There are rips around the edges, but I recognize them.

My shoulders tremble right next to yours, because I remember and I am ashamed that I ever forgot.

* * *

It was a Monday. I was twelve. August wasn’t able to come by to wrestle in the woods that day because I was sick. I didn’t like being sick, not just because I didn’t like the way my head ached and my nose was snotty and everything felt heavy, but also because it meant I couldn’t go to school. You stayed home to take care of me.

“I’m old enough to stay home alone, Momma.”

“I know, dove. You are a young lady now, but it would make me feel better to make sure everything is all right. Is that okay?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

You smiled and put the thermometer in my mouth.

“I am glad not to go to work anyway. My feet are getting tired,” you said, pulling out the thermometer. Then as if forgetting, you jerked your face to me and said, “Just don’t … Just don’t tell your father that.”

I blinked, not seeing how that would be something that would matter, but nodded. You relaxed and looked at the thermometer reading. “Oh, my little bird, you have a fever.” You pressed your lips to my forehead. “I hope you feel better. You have to rest today, but is there something you want to do? Something special? Something that would make you feel better?”

The thought was unprovoked, but hit me all the same. I thought of sunlight and windshields and feet propped up on dashboards. I thought of cheering every time we saw a new town’s welcome sign. I thought of driving and having no destination and the freedom of just laughing and singing while strapped into seat belts. We were free and safe. I looked at you and you looked back, expectant and smiling. “I would like to go for a drive … like we used to.”

Your smile faltered, even though you tried to keep it in place. You sighed and I saw how your shoulders fell. The excuse was coming. I looked away from you toward the window. You were about to say something and I cut you off as I mumbled, “Never mind.”

“I—”

“Just let me rest, Momma, okay?”

I rolled away from you and buried my head in the pillow. No drives, or rolled-down windows, or treasure hunts, or climbing, or wide-open spaces where there was just road and us. Only here. Beer cans overflowing the recycling bin, and the smell of too much dust and too little air—everything stagnant and stuck and unmoving and trapped. My mattress pitched up as I felt you stand up and leave the room.

Step. Step. Step.

Always walking away. I hugged the pillow tighter, actually grateful that everything