Barely Breathing

"She told me she loved me," Jonathan's voice broke through the stillness. I turned toward him. "She told me she loved me, and I told her I was leaving."

I sunk onto the bottom step, absorbing what he'd just said. He walked over and sat next to me. I continued to stare at the floor.

"She was upset at first. She wanted to know how long I'd kept if from her, if I was just using her. She started drinking... a lot. Then she started to cry." He paused. "When she calmed down, we talked and decided that we still wanted to see each other, and would try it until I had to leave."

I turned toward him. "Why did you do that?" My voice was sharp and angry.

"What do you mean?" His face twisted in confusion.

"You're only making it worse by leading her on," I accused harshly.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are," I countered in agitation. "Can't you see how messed up she is? You can't give her something and then tell her she can't really have it."

"That's not what's going on," he defended, his voice growing stronger.

I shook my head, then dropped it to my chest.

"I'm sorry, Emma," Jonathan offered softly.

I was too angry to hear him. I stood up and climbed the stairs to my room without looking back. I turned on the light, and my stomach clenched at the sight of my green sweater lying on my bed, cut up and mangled into shreds.

21. Drama

Jonathan wasn’t around in the morning. Neither was my mother. I was still too upset to face either of them.

My mother returned around noon with a shopping bag in her hand.

"I'm really sorry," she said unable to meet my eyes as she set the shopping bag on the couch next to me. She hesitated a moment, fidgeting with her hands and shifting uncomfortably. Without saying anything more, she turned and went up to her room.

I watched after her until she disappeared, then opened the bag and pulled out a green sweater. It wasn't the same one. But that wasn't the point.

"Thanks," I said from the entrance of her bedroom as she folded clothes from the laundry basket and stuffed them into her drawers.

"Are you mad at me?" She sounded small and fragile.

"No," I returned with a small smile.

"Can I still go to the game tonight?" Her blue eyes were big and sorrowful; her lower lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout.

"Yes," I laughed lightly at her comical expression―reminiscent of a child getting caught for coloring on the walls.

“Great! What are you doing after the game tonight?” My mother asked, her voice suddenly peppy and excited.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” I fumbled, still not used to the quick flip of her moods. “Jill and Casey were talking about going to a party; Sarah’s at Cornell again visiting Jared. But Evan and I haven’t made any commitments.”

I leaned against the door frame.

“You can come in,” my mother encouraged, hanging up her clothes in the closet.

I hadn’t really seen my mother’s room before. It was always dark when I'd entered to help her to bed. It was simply decorated with white curtains hanging on the windows. The leaf patterned comforter splayed across her bed was still rumpled, as if she'd made it by pulling the comforter over the distressed sheets.

A dresser with a mirror sat across from the bed with necklaces dangling from the mirror’s edges. Perfume bottles and rings were scattered on its scratched surface. A framed picture caught my eye.

“I’m not sure what to wear tonight,” she sighed.

“It’s just a basketball game, so jeans work,” I advised, picking up the frame to examine it more closely. It wasn’t a picture at all, but a drawing done in pencil. The shading and detailing were phenomenal. I brought it closer to inspect the strokes of the artist’s work.

“Yeah, but I'm hoping―” She stopped to watch me. I quickly set the portrait down, afraid that I’d upset her by touching her things.

“You can look at it,” she encouraged.

I picked up the frame again and looked from the drawing to her, realizing it was my mother captured in a laugh, done before the stress around her eyes and lines around her mouth had formed. Her happiness was evident. I couldn’t help but smile looking at it.

“You don’t remember that drawing, do you?” she asked, studying me. My eyes twitched, puzzled by her question. “Your father drew that, back before you were born. You used to stare at that picture all the time when you were little.”

“I did?”

“Derek drew pictures for you too. You’d sit at the kitchen table and he’d ask what your favorite part of the day was, and then he’d draw it for you. You had his drawings plastered all over your room. Don’t you remember?”

I scanned the floor, searching my memory, wanting to recall the moments she spoke of. I could hear laughter, and catch a glimpse of his face, but the memories refused to form. I shook my head, knitting my brows together in frustration.

“Do you remember anything?” my mother inquired, her tone was careful. She examined my confused face like she was just as confounded. "You mean you don't... remember... What I went through when... Why you had to go..."

I was unable to follow her cryptic sentences. She shook her head slowly and stared into the distance, or perhaps the past. She closed her eyes and swallowed, then composed herself easily, not a trace of distress left upon her face.

“Want to go out to dinner before the game? It’s at seven, right?”

I couldn't answer for a moment. Completely confused by what I'd just witnessed. “Yes it is. And sure, why not.” I tried to smile but faltered, still disturbed by the sheen in her eyes that she was trying to smile away. I decided not to ask what I should be remembering. Not today.

“I should get some homework done since Evan and I are going hiking tomorrow. Let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

“Okay,” she replied, going back to her closet.

I closed my door and sat on my bed, replaying the stunned look on her face when she realized I couldn't remember anything. I'd never been aware of how little I could recall from my childhood. I was always so determined to focus on my future and getting out of Weslyn. I'd held on to the feelings of being safe and happy for so long. That had always been enough for me. But now, I wanted to remember. Somehow it was important that I figure out what happened in the blank spaces of my life.

I opened my closet and reached for the stack of pictures under my sweatshirts on the shelf. I laid them on my bed and returned to my door to slide the lock in place, concerned how my mother would react if she saw I'd kept the pictures she’d smashed at the bottom of the stairs.

I sat on my bed and slowly flipped through the images. There was a photo of my father holding me right after I was born; another of me on his lap while sitting on the rocking chair, holding a book. I ran my finger along his cheering face, as we kicked a soccer ball back and forth. He looked so happy. We looked so happy. My mother wasn’t in a single picture. I could only assume she was the one taking them.

There were others of the two of them, laughing and obviously in love. I expected to see a wedding picture, but there wasn't one. I figured she'd kept those safe somewhere, or I hoped anyway.

After examining every detail of each photo, I lay back on my bed and shut my eyes. I tried to conjure up an image, begging for the vault to open. But nothing came―not a single moment. I sighed in frustration and slid the photos back under the sweatshirts.

I went downstairs and turned on the television, but my focus kept drifting toward the rocking chair. I did remember the chair―that was something. I thought of the picture of my father reading to me in it, and tried to picture the actual moment. Nothing.

“Ready?”

I jumped, suddenly pulled out of my head. My mother slid her arms in her coat, studying me oddly.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, trying to read my face.

“Nothing.” I shook my head. Maybe it was better not to remember.

I noted my mother’s choice of a tight denim mini skirt with leggings. She did take my advice to wear jeans, but not quite in the way I’d hoped. Considering her daring attire, I hoped I could convince her to sit in the parents’ section, although that wasn’t exactly a gossip-free zone either.

For dinner, we ended up at a small crowded pub, where college basketball games on the screens incited spontaneous hollers from the patrons.

"I don't know if Jonathan's coming tonight," she told me after ordering a beer from the overly-friendly server. Her face was drawn as she stared at the menu. "I was so awful last night."

"He told me about going to USC in the fall," I consoled. "I'm sure that was hard for you. I know how much you like him."

"I thought I fell for him," she admitted, setting down her menu with a sigh. "I don't know. I'm so confused. A part of me wants to end it and move on since it's going to end anyway. But the other part knows how much I'll miss him, and if I can still be with him for five more months, then why not?" She looked to me in expectation. "What do you think I should do?"

I hesitated, not sure what to say. "Whatever will make you happiest," I finally offered.

"That sounds easier than it is," she sighed. "It's going to hurt either way. I hope he comes tonight. I apologized to him like a million times today. He said he'd try, but he has a project due at work, so he wasn't sure if he could make it.

"And I'm sorry about accusing you of... you know."

I took a sip of my water, hoping we were going to avoid that part of last night.

“It’s just that I know you two get along. I hear you talking and laughing in the middle of the night. Sometimes I think he waits to hear you get up before he goes downstairs―like he doesn't even try to sleep. I know that sounds paranoid and crazy. I mean, you're my daughter, and...”

“He wouldn't do that,” I consoled, freaked by her jealous thoughts. "Besides, we really don't talk about anything interesting, I swear. Maybe you should ask him... you know, about his nightmare."

"I've tried." She paused to let the server set our burgers in front of us. "Does he tell you what it's about?"

I shook my head.

“He’s been distant lately. I think I screwed up and he's not going to want to be with me, not even for the short time before he leaves. I mean, we haven’t had sex in over a week.”

I about choked up the bite of cheeseburger I’d just swallowed.

"Sorry," she grimaced. "That was probably too much information."

"A little," I admitted with a cough.

When we arrived at the school Jonathan wasn’t there, as my mother had anticipated. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her to sit away from the students’ section after watching her face drop when she received Jonathan’s text.

“He’s running late,” she muttered, dropping her phone into her purse. “I know he's not coming.”

“Maybe he didn’t get what he needed done for work yet,” I offered, trying to cheer her up. My words bounced right off as if they were never said.