I Breathe You Page 2

  He cupped my face with his rough hands, fingers calloused from years of guitar playing, and the passion in his eyes snapped and crackled between us. He shook his head, as though trying to clear his thoughts before he spoke again. His voice was deep, thick with emotion, “Ray, you’ll always have a little piece of my heart,” he said, suddenly serious. “Don’t ever leave me babe. Without your voice, my music is nothing.” He pressed his lips lightly against mine and breathed a feather soft sigh across my skin.

  “That’s just crazy talk right there,” I told him. “Everyone knows we’re a team, you and me. If this team ever broke up, it will be because you leave me. Probably for some bleached blonde bimbo with huge tits, if I know you.”

  “Well, now that we’re going to be making some serious cash, maybe you can fix part of that equation,” he teased as his eyes dropped to my non-existent chest. “But, Ray, don’t ever fuck with the hair.” His fingers slipped around my neck, trailing down the middle of my back until he found the elastic holding the braid I always wore in my hair.

  I rolled my eyes, “No boob job for me, thank you very much.”

  The twins blasted the van’s horn as they pulled into the parking spot next to us and the blaring echo effectively dissolved the tender moment between Dalton and me.

  The van’s driver’s door creaked open and Ronnie’s spider-thin legs planted on the concrete near Dalton’s small car. He bent at the waist and peered into the passenger side window cautiously at me. I scowled and mouthed what? He reached for the door handle while I unfastened the seatbelt and swung my legs out of the cramped car. At five-ten, without heels, I still had to look up to meet Ronnie’s eyes. With heels, when we stood toe-to-toe, my eyes were nearly level with his. I planted my hands on my hips and asked, “What are you gawking at?”

  He shrugged sheepishly and grinned, “Since you two were still in the car, I didn’t know whether you were fighting or fucking.”

  I shoved at his scrawny shoulders playfully, “Stop! Please. You act like that’s all Dalton and I do.”

  By that time, Donnie and Dalton had joined us between the cars. Donnie piped up, “You have to admit, Rhane, he’s got a point.”

  I huffed. “That is so not true.” It was kind of true. The sexual tension between us was so strong that if we weren’t having sex, we often wound up fighting. It took a lot to get him mad, but once the fuse was lit, it wasn’t pretty. My temper was much quicker to rear its ugly head and was usually driven by my insecurities. Jealousy often caused the rages I’d been known to fly into.

  “I call group hug,” Ronnie held out his arms and the three of them wrapped their arms around me, cocooning me inside with their warmth and affection. “Aww, now see, that’s what I’m talking about. Love, sweet love.”

  Dalton groaned and ducked out from under Ronnie’s arms, “Let’s get to the party before Ronnie breaks into ‘Kumbaya’ with all this sentimental crap.”

  “Dude, you wish you were as in touch with your sensitive nature as I am mine,” Ronnie protested with a laugh. “Chicks dig that shit.”

  At the party, we hovered somewhere above the floor, walking on cloud nine. The alcohol flowed freely along with various other, less-legal substances. About an hour after we arrived, the partying began to get a little more boisterous, more in line with the legendary parties Rock Steady was noted for. I started to become agitated, irrationally jealous of the curvy nymph obviously trying to attach herself to Dalton.

  The fact that he seemed to be enjoying himself and was egging me on, made my fists clench at my sides from bottled up anger. In some ways, Dalton believed that by making me a little jealous it made me a wildcat in bed, producing some pretty intense makeup sex.

  Dalton swore he’d never been unfaithful to me. It was my own stupid lack of self-confidence that kept me suspicious and on edge. With girls throwing themselves at him all the time, I worried he might decide he wanted one of them more than he did me. The more I drank, the more I saw red.

  Ronnie and Donnie often played referee between us. Tonight, they were so fucked up they couldn’t have hit their asses with both hands. I watched as they stumbled off with several sleazy groupies to get laid or whatever.

  Finally, when I could stomach no more of Dalton’s blatant flirting, I knotted my hand in his thin t-shirt and angrily dragged him away from some spiky-haired, multi-pierced ho and out of the penthouse suite. He chuckled and protested feebly, swearing innocence, but I wasn’t having any of it.

  My body was strong from my hours spent kickboxing; it was my pent-up frustration relief valve of choice. My arms became well-defined, muscle-bound pistons of fury, and I punched his shoulder, hard. Usually I was too pissed to worry about what would happen if he ever chose to retaliate and match me punch for punch. Not that he would.

  Dalton never fought back. Instead he just laughed at me, and made light of my unfounded insecurities and the stupid accusations I hurled at him as readily as I did my fists. Sometimes after he grew exasperated with me spouting insults and pounding on him, he’d wrap himself around me from behind, locking my arms motionless until I calmed down.

  The more he laughed, the more my temper flared. As we got closer to Dalton’s rust bucket on wheels, people had begun to stop and gape at the crazy brunette so boldly beating on her boyfriend. He put up with a lot from me, but Dalton hated causing a scene.

  He clenched his teeth and spun to face me. Before I could react, his hand darted out and he snared both of my wrists. His other arm snaked around my waist and he crushed me hard against his rock-hard chest. I struggled against him and spouted every obscenity I could think of into his shoulder. Through gritted teeth he quietly urged, “Rhane, calm the fuck down, okay?”

  I knew it was futile to continue struggling against the unrelenting hold he had on me. My shoulders sagged in a temporary truce and I nodded. “Okay,” I mumbled. He dropped my wrists and put both hands on my shoulders. I was still furious with him, but since we’d drawn quite a few stares, I knew better than to spur him on, causing any more of a scene than I already had. But no way was this argument over. Not by a long shot.

  Chapter 4

  October

  I tug my sweatshirt closer around my shoulders against the hospital room chill. There’s a fountain in the courtyard below; it reminds me of a giant dandelion. I watch the fountain for hours at a time when I am unable to sleep. While the rest of the world sleeps unaware, it flows peacefully, lit up like a full moon. In daylight, the fountain loses some of its magic, yet never ceases its performance. The water dances and leaps. Sometimes the wind gusts between the buildings, dissipating the fountain’s water and scattering it about like seeds from a dandelion.

  I stare out the window, lost in thought, waiting for my Uncle Thomas, T, as he insists I call him, to arrive. He’ll be here soon to take me to my new home four or so hours on the other side of the state.

  Six months ago I was on top of the world, living the dream. I was the lead singer for Fate’s Crazy. Living, breathing, being with Dalton. My soul mate. What I’ve become now is a broken twenty-three-year old, barely able to speak above a whisper. An out of work woman mourning the death of the only man I’ve ever loved.

  The car accident had fractured my windpipe and voice box. Dalton was killed instantly. They said that the lap portion of my seatbelt had been securely fastened but the shoulder harness wasn’t in place. On impact, I flew forward, hitting the dashboard of the car. My windpipe was crushed, my vocal cords were demolished.

  Sometimes, my thoughts get all jumbled up and I’m only able to remember threads and snippets from my life as Rhane Evans the rock star. I don’t know how the car accident happened or what caused Dalton to crash.

  There is my life before the crash. There is my life now. Sometimes, I feel there are two personalities at war inside my brain competing for top billing. It’s like trying to put together a thousand-piece puzzle where five hundred or so of the pieces have mysteriously vanished.

  Awhile back, my the
rapist suggested T bring in some of my personal belongings, such as any journals I may have kept, photos, anything at all, in an attempt to try and help me revive the slumbering portion of my brain. I didn’t have to read my journals to know that Dalton Morgan had been the love of my life. The hollow, empty ache he left behind is a constant reminder.

  The details of the accident have locked themselves in a steel vault inside my muddled mind and I wish I could wipe the slate clean and start over. There are times I think I’d rather have no memories at all.

  Then I wouldn’t have to know how much I miss Dalton’s easygoing style. How his fingers bled from practicing the guitar. His soft, gentle knuckle kisses. The way we fought like two sugar-addicted kids over a piece of candy or the delicious make-up sex we had afterwards.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” the cheerful female voice I’ve come to recognize as my doctor’s asks quietly. I turn to face her, my expression devoid of emotion. It isn’t that I’m consciously trying to hide my feelings. I honestly don’t feel anything other than numb with a side of bitter. I have become an empty, soulless shell just going through the motions of a day-to-day existence. The sooner I get out of this sterile environment, which has been my home for the past six months, the better off I’ll be.

  I shake my head trying to clear away the painful thoughts and pinch my bottom lip between my thumb and index finger, wishing I could open my mouth and tell Dr. Keller what she can do with her cheerful attitude, but somehow, telling someone off in a whisper is less effective.

  T walks in a few minutes after Dr. Keller. The doctor wants to explain my long-term health care needs before she’ll let me leave. Early this morning I boxed up all of the mementos I’d accumulated during my stay, mostly things T has brought me. That way, as soon as the two of them have their little chat about the singer without a voice — that would be me — I can get the hell out of this painfully bright hospital room with its entire pseudo-cheerfulness. I clutch the box in my lap, pulling at a loose piece of cardboard while T wheels me down to Dr. Keller’s office.

  My Uncle Thomas Heilmann is an impatient, high-strung man. For him, there are always a lot more things to do than there is time to do them. I sense that he’s as anxious as I am to get out of here. At six-foot-six, he towers over most everyone. His metabolism is a freak of nature since his favorite thing to eat is ice cream. Chocolate ice cream by the gallon. Yet there is not an ounce of fat on the man — anywhere. He never sits, rarely stands still, and smokes like a chimney.

  I’m counting on his impatient nature to keep this conversation with Dr. Keller short and sweet. She thumbs through my files lying on her desk and switches on the lighted panel mounted on the wall behind her desk to display the x-rays showing my neck and throat. She begins by explaining how the damage to my windpipe left me unable to swallow, unable to take any nourishment through my mouth right after the accident. My larynx had been fractured, one of my vocal cords was damaged and the other completely destroyed.

  “A normal larynx looks like a triangle-shaped opening in the throat. Air flows through, and when it moves over the vocal cords, sound is produced,” she explains. “Right after the accident, when we looked down Rhane’s throat, it looked like she swallowed a tennis ball.”

  I stare into the box in my hands. I’d heard all the grim details before and was quite sure I didn’t want to hear them again. I shift uncomfortably in the wheelchair, anxious, acutely aware of everything in the room while trying to tune them out. There’s a small water stain on one of the ceiling tiles vaguely resembling a three-legged sheep. The disorganized papers on Dr. Keller’s desk have my OCD tendencies screaming to reach out and tidy the edges.

  It’s futile. No matter how hard I try, I’m unable to block out their conversation. They’re discussing me as though I’m not in the room. Hello! I’m right here! I can hear! You’re lucky I can’t scream right now, you idiots, I feel like throwing something at them, but refrain.

  Dr. Keller continues, “We performed emergency surgery to repair Rhane’s windpipe and larynx, allowing her to breathe and swallow. But we couldn’t fix her voice. As you know, Rhane has been left with little more than a whisper—”

  T waves his large hands agitatedly, interrupting her, “Yes, yes, we know this, Doc. What does it mean for her going forward?”

  She clears her throat and narrows her eyes at him before continuing, “What it means going forward is that, some days, Rhane’s breathing could become difficult. Her throat may swell, causing her to have to strain to catch her breath, especially if she gets overtired.”

  Dr. Keller turns to me. “Rhane you have to make sure you get plenty of rest, don’t overexert yourself, and if you feel like your throat is starting to tighten, even a little, you need get to the hospital immediately. Eventually, more surgery may be necessary to remove any scar tissue as it builds up.”

  “More surgery?” T asks.

  “Unfortunately, yes. This will likely be a continual, life-long process — going back in to clean out the windpipe so she can breathe,” she tells him. “I’ve made the necessary arrangements to have Rhane’s files sent to a specialist of your choice, once you’ve decided on one. I’ve taken the liberty of putting together the names of some qualified specialists near the lakes.” She hands T an envelope.

  Again, I concentrate on tuning out the rest of their conversation. Dr. Keller’s dark hair is threaded with strands of silver and her eyes are too large for her thin, almost gaunt face. Her teeth protrude slightly, and her hooked nose leaves ample seating room for the glasses, which, at the moment, hang unused from a chain around her neck. She is not an attractive woman by any stretch of the imagination, but she knows her stuff, medically speaking.

  She flips off the panel lights and walks around the desk. Stopping in front of me, she says, “I’m not going to lie and tell you it’s been my pleasure, Ms. Evans, but I do wish you all the best.” She extends her hand and the corner of my mouth lifts into a barely perceptible smile. I know I haven’t been the most cooperative patient. In fact, most days, I’ve been a bitch with a capital C. Because truthfully, what do I have to be happy about? I’m alive? Give me a break. But I admire Dr. Keller’s no-bullshit attitude.

  I nod, ignoring her outstretched hand. T spins the wheelchair around and aims me for the door. Being wheeled out is merely a formality since I’m still capable of walking on my own two feet. I turn to watch her over my shoulder and she smiles and waves. I blow her a kiss and she actually laughs a little.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as we get through the automated sliding front doors of the hospital, I escape the confines of the wheelchair. T reaches for a cigarette giving me a questioning glance, “Do you want me to go get the car, or can you walk it?” I shield my eyes from the sun with my hand and glare up at him. I hope my facial expression is enough to convey that I don’t care very much for his insinuation that I’m helpless. “Right, then. Walk it is,” he shrugs.

  What is it about people? You lose one of your given abilities and they all assume you’ve lost the ability to do everything. Sure, I can’t talk, and I’m not supposed to overexert myself, but dammit, I can still walk and intend to do so.

  T unlocks the passenger door of his pearly-white Lexus SUV. When he opens it for me, I notice a small package lying on the seat. I reach to move it out of the way before I climb inside. From over my shoulder, he clears his throat and tells me, “That’s a little something I got for you.” He walks around to the driver’s side as I slide into the soft leather seat.

  The package is a small, flat rectangle, and couldn’t weigh more than one of my shoes. I put it down on the floor beside my feet. My hands shake while I fasten the seatbelt, and a bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” he asks, putting the key into the ignition. I keep my eyes focused on my hands as they clench and unclench nervously in my lap. I shake my head in response. He sighs and squeezes my shoulder gently, “Okay, baby girl. Maybe later
then.”

  I use one of the breathing exercises I learned to try and dispel the abject terror I feel about riding in a car again. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. Repeat. I am not too thrilled about having to be cooped up for the three to four hours it will likely take us to get me to my new home. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, willing myself to rein in the panic attack I’m on the verge of.

  The day is cool and as overcast as my mood. T is quiet while he drives. The silence between us is companionable. Just because I am no longer able to speak doesn’t mean I need anyone else to talk twice as much.

  I’m okay with silence. People talk too much anyway. Even when they don’t have anything important to say. Especially when they don’t have anything important to say. As though reading my thoughts, T turns up the radio to help fill the void inside the car.

  We haven’t been on the interstate for very long before I notice that we’re headed east, not west. When he takes the exit for 270 South I sit up a little straighter in my seat and shoot him a questioning glance. My eyebrows draw together in a frown and I nudge his shoulder to get his attention.

  He draws in a deep breath, “I have a quick stop to make before we head down to the lakes.” He nods toward the forgotten package at my feet, “You might want to open that, so we can at least communicate beyond you giving me intimidating glares.”

  I purse my mouth and snatch the small parcel off the floor, but not before I let out an irritated huff. I have really gotten pretty good at conveying what I want to communicate by using various wordless sounds and facial expressions. I am also quite adept at giving the middle finger salute when all else fails.

  I tear through the paper and a sneaky smile slides across my face. T watches intently out of the corner of his eye, waiting to see if I approve. It’s a small, portable dry-erase board and a box of five different colored markers. I immediately grab a red marker and write out my first message. Proud of myself, I smirk and hold it up for him to see. I can still whisper you know!