I Breathe You Page 7

  I aim the beam of the flashlight around the workbenches inside Grandpa’s old shop looking for something to hold a couple scoops of kibble for Mama Dog. An old coffee can catches my attention and I dump the few nuts and bolts out onto the bench.

  Back across the driveway, I kneel down and cautiously peek under the porch. A soft, warning grumble lets me know that I’m less than welcome, so I leave the dog food as close as I dare and sit back on my heels in silent observation. I wish I could tell her it’s going to be alright, but I don’t think she’d believe me any more than I believe the numerous people who have tried to tell me the same damn thing.

  Blowing out a noisy breath, I push to my feet and wearily make my way back inside and up to my room. On my bed, there’s the box of blue hair coloring I’d asked Gwen to pick up. A lazy grin plays at the corners of my mouth. Tomorrow, I shall paint my hair blue, I decide.

  Chapter 17

  I bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, and claw at the t-shirt around my neck, which suddenly feels as though it’s three sizes too small. A tiny voice inside my head reminds me to just breathe. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. Repeat. Within a few minutes, my breathing returns to normal and I’m able to rein in my sense of lost control.

  In the darkened room, I grope the bedside table for my journal and throw the remaining covers the rest of the way off of my sweat-drenched body. The need to get out of this room now, the feeling that the walls are about to swallow me whole, is overwhelming. At the foot of the bed, my fuzzy robe is draped over the bedpost and I clutch my journal under my chin as I struggle to thread my arms through the sleeves.

  The only light in the room comes from the soft green glow of the alarm clock next to the bed. It reads four thirty-seven. I make a mental note to have Gwen pick up some nightlights as I shuffle cautiously toward the stairs. My shaking hand grasps the handrail and I ease down the steps in total darkness.

  I stuff my bare feet into the boots and cinch the robe more tightly around my waist. I unlock the deadbolt on the kitchen door and slip silently out onto the porch. Sitting on the swing, I fold my bare legs beside me and tuck the thick robe around them to help ward off the crisp predawn air.

  The hospital therapist had suggested that whenever I have a bad dream, I should write it down as soon after I wake as I can while the images are still fresh in my mind. I flip open the brand new journal in my lap and stare numbly at the blank pages. In the short time it’s taken me to wander out here, only bits and pieces of the nightmare remain. I struggle to remember what it was that jolted me awake.

  She told me if I wasn’t able to recall the entire dream, to just start writing about how it made me feel. So, I write whatever thoughts pop into my head.

  Pissed off. Confused. Scared.

  A flashback from the nightmare suddenly zips into my consciousness and my hand begins to fly across the paper. I write as fast as I can, trying to catch every detail. My fingers cramp as I scribble the fleeting thoughts. I write quickly, afraid if I don’t hurry to capture them, the memory will be lost forever.

  I close my eyes tightly and grasp at the elusive fragments.

  I’m back in the hospital room and I don’t know if it’s a memory from something that really happened or if my mind is playing tricks on me. It’s like watching events unfold on a movie screen inside my brain where I’m only a casual observer.

  There’s a police officer in the room and T stares out the window next to my bed. I can’t hear what’s being said, but sense that it’s upsetting me.

  T addresses the officer and his words are as clear and cold as ice. “That’s enough. She’s already told you she doesn’t remember. I will not have you come in here harassing my niece this way. If you need to question her further, I’ll make sure to have my lawyer present. Do I make myself understood?”

  The memory screen fades to dark and I stop writing. I fling the journal across the porch and it lands with a thud against the wooden floor. Tears I have no control over slide down my cheeks. I have no choice but to let them. At the moment, my only comfort comes from wrapping my arms around myself and gently rocking back and forth on the swing.

  Sometime later, inside the cobweb infested recesses of my mind, I realize someone is repeating my name. In full defense mode, I wake up, arms flailing. My fist connects with something solid and I hear a loud “oof.” Two strong hands grip around my arms keeping me from inflicting anymore damage. My eyes flutter open and land on Gwen’s horror-stricken face. Her lip is bleeding, and T has me locked in a vice grip-like hold.

  “Calm down, baby girl,” he urges between clenched teeth.

  All the fight leaves my body with a whoosh once I realize where I am. Apparently I had drifted asleep on the porch swing. My gaze travels from T to Gwen. She shakes her head; something unreadable crosses her face. I’m not sure if it’s anger, pity, or disgust. “I better go put some ice on this,” she says. Before she goes inside, she exchanges a knowing, but silent glance with T.

  “I’m sorry.” My eyes fill and I try to focus blearily on T. “Why are you here?”

  A false smile crinkles his eyes, “Breakfast.”

  I see my discarded journal lying open across his lap, I blink up at him. “How much do you remember?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Nothing really.”

  He draws a deep breath before speaking again. “I know you don’t want to see Dr. Stephens,” he starts. I jerk away from him. He holds up his hand, “Just hear me out, okay?”

  I give a half-hearted shrug and bob my head once.

  “We think he might be able to get to the bottom of your nightmares through therapy. Perhaps even hypnosis,” he tells me.

  I roll my eyes and picture myself duck walking around the room or clucking like a chicken. I tuck my fingers into my armpits and flap my arms like wings. He shakes his head and bites his lip to keep from smiling. “It isn’t like that, Rhane. Won’t you at least hear what he has to say?”

  We sit in silence while I contemplate things. Finally, I take a deep breath and slowly nod my head again. “Okay.”

  T’s face loses some of the pinched look he’s been wearing for the past several minutes. “Good. I’ll have Gwen set up the appointment.” He pushes up off the swing and reaches for my hand. “Come on. Let’s go eat.”

  I slip my hand inside of his and follow him into the warm kitchen where my senses are abruptly assaulted by warmth and the pleasing aroma of fresh baked biscuits and gravy. My mouth instantly begins to water and my stomach rumbles.

  “The security company will be here today for sure to install the alarm,” T says as he sits down at the table. He flips open the morning paper and continues, “The plumber says as soon as he’s finished upstairs he’ll get to work on installing the plumbing for that new laundry room you ladies requested.”

  Gwen beams, fat lip and all. “That’s good news. Isn’t that good news, Rhane?”

  I nod. Somehow, I find it hard to feel her enthusiasm when all I see when I glance in her direction is a lip twice its normal size — thanks to me.

  “Why is it so important to have an alarm installed anyway?” I wonder out loud.

  T pushes the newspaper aside, peering at me. “It’s more than an alarm. It’s a Life Alert system.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s for old people,” I complain.

  “It is not just for ‘old people,’” he sighs. “What would happen if you were to have a breathing problem and Gwen wasn’t around?”

  “I don’t know? Die?” I whisper.

  “Precisely,” he huffs. Way to make me feel all warm and fuzzy, T. “With Life Alert, help is just a press of a button away.”

  “You sound like a commercial,” I tell him.

  He snaps the newspaper up in front of his face and changes the subject. “Rhane’s agreed to see Dr. Stephens,” he says. “Haven’t you, Rhane?”

  My eyebrows draw together, irritated. But a deal’s a deal, and I nod my consent.
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  Gwen pats my hand, “I’ll call his office later this morning.” My eyes drift to her swollen lip. “You have a mean right hook, by the way,” she teases.

  My throat begins to ache and I retrieve the whiteboard from the counter so that I can continue the conversation. I want your contractor to convert Grandpa’s shop into a workout room. I write, and hold my breath waiting for T’s reaction.

  He glances over the newspaper at the whiteboard. After a few seconds he says, “I suppose kickboxing and using a punching bag to release some of your, um, energy, would be preferable to giving Gwen a bloody lip or black eye.”

  I gasp and flick his newspaper.

  He chuckles. “I’ll speak to Callahan about it. You can start by cleaning out some of the decade-old layers of dirt and crap. Deal?” he asks.

  I nod my head enthusiastically. Thanks, T.

  Chapter 18

  I had planned to color my hair this morning but want to get started clearing away the grunge inside Grandpa’s old workshop. Besides, the plumber is finishing up in the upstairs bathroom, and it’s in my best interest to let him do his job uninterrupted. I’m in desperate need of a shower, but there’s not much point taking one before I tackle the enormously filthy task ahead of me.

  Gwen eyes me skeptically as I pad tiredly through the kitchen. When I stop to slip on the old boots sitting next to the door, she asks, “Where did those God-awful ugly things come from anyway?”

  I frown at her and she points to my choice of footwear. I shrug. “They came with the house.”

  Before I’m able to make my escape, Gwen hands me a paper dust mask, “Here, put this on while you work. It’ll help keep you from breathing in all that dust. We don’t want your throat closing up.”

  I take the mask from her outstretched hand and pull it over my head, making sure to pinch the metal strip over my nose. This is attractive, I think.

  Gwen lets me know that she was able get me an appointment with Dr. Stephens for tomorrow afternoon. I roll my eyes in response and push through the door, letting it bang noisily behind me.

  The sound of a vehicle creeping up the long lane echoes against the trees in the still, chilly morning air. It could be anyone — someone from the security company or maybe the plumber. I release the breath I’m holding, oddly disappointed when a dusty, red Ford Taurus comes into view. For some reason, I guess maybe I’d hoped it would be Ian Callahan’s truck instead of the car from Montgomery Security.

  I don’t even like him, I chastise myself as I hurry across the gravel drive into the garage. My plans to check on Mama Dog will have to wait until later. I’m feeling a little more solitude-seeking than usual this morning.

  Standing inside the garage door, I take a quick visual scan of the empty room. Grandpa was not a hoarder and despised clutter of any kind. In spite of all the dirt, the space is surprisingly empty.

  There’s only one small, grime-covered window and it doesn’t allow for much natural light. I flip the switch on the wall and an overhead light fixture blinks a few times emitting an irritating hum. The light flickers on and off a couple of times before finally staying lit. Above the workbench is an old, metal, fluorescent light fixture which remains dark and silent. On the wall by the bench is a separate switch and when I flip it on, the garage floods with a glaring, unnatural brightness.

  At the same time the light pops on, a man’s voice blasts and crackles out of the radio on the bench, scaring the crap out of me until I realize what it is and that I’m still alone. I twist the radio dial trying to find some familiar music to listen to while I work.

  When I was a little girl, Grandpa would let me “help” him sometimes when the weather was too nasty for me to play outside. He’d hand me a huge push broom and have me sweep up the sawdust and wood shavings. I remember how he’d instructed me to take my time and push the broom slowly. He didn’t need me making more of a mess than I was trying to get rid of. Truthfully, there never was much to clean, and it wasn’t long before I’d get bored and wander down to the creek or back inside to pester Grandma.

  Soon I’ve managed to find the old broom in the storage closet where it’s been tucked away for all these years. I listen to the radio, mostly nineties grunge, while I sweep, scoop, dump, and repeat. I recognize some of the songs and want to hum along, but having seriously screwed up vocal chords won’t allow me to even hum. I never was able to whistle worth a darn, so even whistling along with the music is out of the question.

  For someone who has lived and breathed music her whole life, you can’t even imagine how badly this sucks for me right now, having no way to express the music I feel caged inside. Maybe instead of taking out my frustrations on Grandma’s old piano, I should try to make peace with it — and myself.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been out here, lost in my own little world this morning. Keeping busy gives me less time to be the guest of honor at my own private pity party. I’ve even managed to work up a sweat. Leaning on the broom, I glance around the room at the progress I’ve made. A satisfied smile crosses my face.

  “Knock, knock?” Ian says quietly, giving me a start. My shoulders tense and I spin around to face him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He grins and the tension in my shoulders fades as soon as I see him. My face turns fourteen shades of red.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.” I whisper.

  “If you want me to hear you or read your lips,” he chuckles and taps his index finger against his lips, “You’ll have to lose that thing.”

  Oh! I grab at the mask and pull it down around my neck. “Sorry, I forgot.”

  His eyes shift lazily from my eyes to my mouth and back again. He shrugs and points back over his shoulder toward the house, “Gwen told me I’d be able to find you out here.”

  My eyebrows disappear under my bangs and stupidly, for a split-second, I allow myself to go all junior-high-crush on him. Smugly, I fantasize he’d asked Gwen where I was because he wanted to see me. But then reality hits me over the head as soon as I remember he’s only here because T told him about the workout room project.

  His long legs carry him across the room in about two strides, and, before I’m able to steady my breathing, he stands toe-to-toe with me, so close I’m certain he must hear the racket my heart is making inside my ribcage. The move catches me off guard and I back away from him a step, trying to regain some precious personal space.

  He reaches toward me with impossibly long arms and I stiffen. He must sense my apprehension, because instead of touching me, his arms drop to his sides. The corners of his eyes crinkle faintly with an un-smiled smile. “You’ve got raccoon eyes,” he says quietly and pulls a rag from his back pocket, handing it to me.

  Oh, I mouth and ignore his outstretched hand. I pull up the bottom of my sweatshirt and try to erase some of the grime from my face. “Better?”

  He grins, “Not much, but that’s okay.” He turns and makes his way around the perimeter of the room. “A little dirt never hurt anybody.” I’m not sure, but I sense amusement in his soft voice.

  Suddenly, he drops into a crouch in front of the workbench and I catch myself staring at the coiled muscles between his shoulder blades and the small strip of bare skin between the t-shirt and low-slung jeans he’s wearing. Holy mother of God, what is wrong with me? I swallow hard and tear my eyes away.

  He straightens and points up at the furnace suspended from the ceiling. “Do you know where the thermostat for this dinosaur is?” Those gray-green eyes hold mine and I shake my head, both in response to the question and to help dissolve the unseen, but extremely palpable, connection between us. He spins slowly in a circle, taking in the room as though it were a well-read novel. He sighs and rakes his hand through his rust-colored hair.

  All at once it becomes crystal clear to me. My fascination with Ian isn’t just because of how attractive he is or how his presence affects my breathing and heart rate. No, it’s because, in so many ways, he reminds me of Dalton. Fuck. My knees buckle as though t
hey’re made of putty, and I fold into a heap on my ass. Ian is by my side before my butt fully connects with the cement. I squeeze my eyes tight and will myself to get a grip. This is Ian kneeling in front of me right now. Ian, whose hands cup my shoulders with tender compassion. Slowly, I raise my eyes to meet his. I drink in Ian Callahan, willing myself to memorize every single inch of his face.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. His forehead creases with concern. “No offense, but you look like shit.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I shrug his hands from my shoulders and try to push to my feet. “I’m fine. I haven’t been sleeping the best. I felt lightheaded for a second, but I’m okay now.” I wobble precariously as I try to stand, and he reaches to steady me. I wave him off. All these months, my insides have been at war. An invisible, internal tug-of-war. One piece of me wants to move on, and forget about Dalton. Another part needs to remember what happened, so that I can let go.

  Now, the similarities between Ian and Dalton have blindsided me, seemingly out of nowhere.

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine,” he huffs. I shoot him a cranky glare to tell him I don’t need or want his help. I chew my bottom lip, knowing if he touches me right now I’ll shatter into a million fragile bits of nothing. He rubs the back of his neck and moves toward the lone window.

  With a calculated — but welcome — change of subject, he tells me, “I’d like to replace this window with something larger. The southern exposure will help warm the room on cold winter days. I’ll inspect the furnace to make sure it still works, adding insulation and drywall will help regulate the temperature. Plus, a few more electrical outlets.” He turns to face me. Any traces of the concern he might have felt earlier are completely absent from his expression. He’s all business. “The exercise equipment and its placement, that’s your baby.”

  Instead of waiting for any input from me, he turns and walks out the door. I stare after him. My mouth is suddenly too dry to swallow and my chest too tight to breathe. My hands rhythmically curl and uncurl into frustrated fists of emotion. I’m torn. He awakens feelings inside of me that I’d honestly thought I would never feel again.