A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,54

during the memorial service. It appears you haven’t chosen a date or a casket yet and I wanted to let you know that it is important to make this choice today as the … well, her body, um … please call me so we can make proper arrangements to honor her.”

You let a dish clang in the sink. I jerk my head toward you, thinking you must’ve dropped the pot in, but then another clang comes as you throw another pot into the sink. You are shaking.

The message beeps off and you exhale as you put some water in one of the pots. You bring it to our stove and set it down on one of the two electric burners that still work and stare into the water.

What are you thinking? Your eyes slowly travel to the pile of mail. You always stood over the trash can when you opened the mail because such a huge amount of it was either advertisements or collection letters. You assume the position and one by one you throw them in the trash until your hand freezes. I look over your shoulder.

You are holding a photograph in your hands.

Your fingers tremble as you smooth it out. It is crumpled, but it is me. The one that was tacked up on August’s wall. Just like August’s, your finger brushes the photo as if you can brush my hair behind my ear. You kiss the photograph. “Oh, Ellie. I haven’t seen that smile in so long. I wish—” You break off in a hiccupping breath.

You flip it over and I see August’s handwriting.

The girl I love.

The girl who left.

The girl we will remember.

She once told me that you have freckles just like her.…

I hope the world gets to see them.

You inhale slowly and press the photograph to your heart. You wipe the tears from your eyes. Sniff and steady your breathing. You are looking around the room and then back to the photograph. You nod once, kiss the photo, and reach for the phone. Slowly, you dial each number with your index finger. Swallowing hard, you lean against the doorjamb. I hear when the receiver on the other end picks up.

“Yes, hello,” you say into the phone. “I—I have figured out the arrangements for my daughter.”

I kiss your forehead the way you used to do to me when I was little. You keep your words steady, and when I look into your eyes, I think I see it. The light that should have been there is back. It might not look like hope, but it does look like strength.

You run upstairs and start scrubbing your face clean. You scrub until your skin is splotchy and red, but you don’t stop until there is nothing left to disguise you. No doll face. You tear through your room, pick up clothes, and shove them into your bag along with money. Money you hid away over the years, in shoes, in small boxes, in every nook and cranny. Our house was a box of secrets—if only you’d had someone to tell them to.

I watch as you brace yourself in front of my door, looking in.

The horror of it hits me. The moment you unlocked the door and opened it, the seconds that passed when you saw your daughter dead, stealing all your breath and hopes along with her. The daughter that you had lunged to save from belt beatings and whose door you would quietly lock from the inside; who you drove to the mountains and who you dreamed of flying away with like the two small birds you hid under her mattress.

I fall to my knees beside you in the hallway. What have I done?

You step over the threshold. One foot, then the other. Your hands lightly brush over every piece of furniture in the room before you stand in the spot where you found me. You touch everything tenderly and hold it to your chest. Plucking through my things with such care, nothing like the way you hurled your belongings into your bag.

Your glassy eyes are so vibrant and suddenly I understand.

Ms. Hooper had her books as her talisman.

Mr. Jameson had his science.

August had his art.

I had Columbia.

You had me.

Tears claw at my throat. It burns and aches. You put my notebooks, my broken teddy bear, my small pillow, and my inked-up shoes in your bag.

You walk toward the door. Back straight and eyes shining. You don’t look behind you.

56

Momma,

The roar of the engine growls in the