Only a Breath Apart

by Katie McGarry

  We reach the old, rusting metal swing set my grandmother bought for me when I was five. Back then, I thought she gave me heaven. I pause by the seesaw that looks like it would crack in two if touched. Scarlett and I had spent hours on this thing. Going up and then down. A fantastic metaphor for our lives. Scarlett, though, must not feel sentimental. She keeps walking. I guess she’s not saying goodbye.

  “Scarlett,” I call out, and I’m shocked when she stops. Her back’s still toward me, but at least she’s not running. “I told you what I want. I’m curious what you want.”

  She glances over her shoulder at me. “Why?”

  “Maybe Glory’s right. Maybe we can find a way to help each other.”

  Scarlett scans the yard, and I wonder what she sees. With her here, I see our ghosts as children—hear our laughter, taste the honeysuckle we ate as we talked for hours and the way she’d place her hand in mine when we’d walk across this field.

  “Even though you obviously did me a favor, why did you stop talking to me?” she asks. “After all those years of seeing each other day in and day out, why did you stop being my friend?” She pauses, and I lower my head because each and every word is a paper cut on my heart. “What did I do wrong?”

  I shake my head because I got nothing. Nothing that will make sense to her. What’s worse, I don’t have anything that makes sense to me. At least not anymore.

  When it’s clear I’m not going to give her the Disney ending she was hoping for, she digs into her purse and pulls out a key. She’s going to leave, and I’m losing my shot. I should have listened better in health during the sex education talk. Maybe Coach had some great pearls of wisdom on how to talk to girls, and I missed it in order to take a nap.

  “Can you get me a job?” she asks.

  “What do you need a job for?” Her father is loaded.

  “I want to go to UK.”

  My eyes narrow as I try to figure out where this is headed. “The University of Kentucky?”

  “Yes. I want to become a speech therapist, and they have a great program. So I need a job. Can you make that happen for me?”

  She’s met with more stone cold silence from me.

  “I didn’t think so.” Scarlett walks across the road and back to her pristine life.

  SCARLETT

  I close the front door and place my house key on the hook. My mother calls from the kitchen, “Scarlett? Is that you?”

  “No, Mom, it’s a burglar.”

  Like always, she laughs. It’s a good laugh, a soft laugh, and it makes me smile. I walk down the long, wide hallway made of dark hardwood and enter our bright kitchen. At the table is Mom and my sister.

  In her typical seat and in footed pajamas like it’s December instead of August, my sister’s legs swing. Her toes barely skim the floor. Isabelle’s long black hair, complete with bed-head knots, falls wildly over her shoulders. I’m betting this means nightmares. Again.

  I force a smile and choose the seat next to my sister. “Why are you awake, squirt?”

  With her fingers curled around a cup of tea, my sister gives me a beaming smile. There’s a new empty slot in her mouth, which means she must have lost another tooth. I have never appreciated how many teeth are in a human’s mouth until my sister began losing hers at a horrifying rate. She’s six, and I’m concerned she’s going to be nothing but gums by seven.

  “Sometimes we need a cup of tea,” Mom answers for her, then squishes her nose in a cute way at my sister. “Don’t we, Isabelle?”

  Isabelle overenthusiastically nods and takes a sip of her tea for effect. On the seat next to her is the American Girl doll my father bought her during their Chicago trip. The doll is dressed in matching footed pajamas, and I understand the heat-inducing nightwear. I lift Isabelle’s doll, and my stomach twists. Band-Aids cover her doll’s right eye and forehead, and a sock is tied like a tourniquet on her doll’s right wrist.

  I shoot Mom a ticked-off look, and Mom lowers her gaze to her own cup of tea. “Would you like some tea, Scarlett? It’s chamomile, and I’m sure the water’s still hot.”

  No, I want my sister to not be a textbook psychology case. I turn the doll so Mom can read my thoughts. Mom merely slips out of her seat and heads to the stove.

  I tip Isabelle’s doll in her direction and move it as if it’s the one talking. “Why don’t you go upstairs, dig out some books and I’ll come up and read to you?”

  My sister’s eyes twinkle in agreement, and she snatches the doll from me as she runs out of the kitchen. Her feet make a cute click-clap padding sound as she makes her way up the stairs while Mom busies herself with putting away dishes from the drying rack.

  After being in Glory’s cramped house with three other people, my house feels ostentatious. Especially with the two stoves, hardwood flooring and marble countertops.

  At Glory’s, when sitting next to me, Jesse couldn’t fit his long legs anywhere without touching me. A tingling in my chest at the memory of Jesse’s knee gliding against my thigh and how he caught me in the woods.

  Heat creeps up my neck, and I touch my warm cheeks. I’ve never dated anyone. Dad told me I’m not allowed, but I also haven’t felt comfortable enough to even consider accepting an invitation. The thought of permitting someone to touch me makes me sick, but then Jesse touched me and, oddly enough, it sparked something new within me. Something foreign, something that feels alive.

  “Who’s Stewart Mitchell?” Mom asks.

  “Some guy at school.” I glance at her over my shoulder. “Why do you ask?”

  “Your father noticed he’s been liking your posts on social media and that he posted a picture of you this evening. You know how your father feels about dating, and he’s not happy you didn’t tell him of all your plans.”

  For some people, social media is fun. For me, it’s my father’s way to track my every movement. “I’m not dating Stewart, and Camila and I ran into him at the food trucks. I’m not psychic and can’t tell Dad about things I don’t know about until they happen.”

  “Still,” Mom says, as if that’s a real response and that I should be psychic. “You’re home early.”

  “Camila forgot some paperwork at the fair. If I went with her, I’d be late for curfew.”

  Mom carefully pours steaming water from the pot into a teacup, sets the pot back on the stove then brings the cup over to me. Out of habit, I swirl the bag of tea in the water one way and then another. Mom reclaims her seat across from me, and I love and hate how she is my best friend. Was my best friend. I scowl. I don’t know anything anymore.

  “We were at Glory’s,” I say, because if she’s still my best friend, I should do what I used to do: tell her everything. “When I was at the fair, Glory offered to give us a free reading if we came to her house, and I accepted. When Camila had to leave, I walked home.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Mom whispers, and her gaze swings toward Dad’s study, as if she can see through the walls and possibly spot my father’s reaction to my words. “If your father finds out, he’ll be unhappy.”

  Dad’s always unhappy, but before I can respond, Mom says, “How were you able to navigate the Lachlin property at night?”

  “Jesse walked with me.”

  Mom circles her new gold bracelet. She’s thinking. In theory, she’s done a lot of that lately, but she’s proof that thinking things through doesn’t always yield good results. “We should keep this to ourselves, but please try to make better choices next time.”

  I wonder if I’ll be lying every day for the rest of my life. I hope not. That sounds exhausting.

  “Your father likes knowing you’re safe, and if you do something outside of the expected plan, then that stresses him out,” Mom says. “He worries.”

  Yes, we all worry, but somehow Dad can’t figure how to suck up worry like the rest of us. “Did you talk to Dad about letting me get my driver’s permit?”

  “I’m waiting for a good time to discuss it with him.”

&nb
sp; She’ll be waiting forever, and I’m tired of being in purgatory. “When you do talk to him, can you tell him I don’t want to go to a business college? I want to become a speech therapist.”

  Her blue eyes meet mine. There are so many emotions swirling in them, I can’t tell which one she feels the most. Fear? Regret? Sadness? “Can we please not talk about this?”

  “We need to talk about this. These decisions affect the rest of my life.”

  “Yes, they do, and think of the opportunities your father is giving you. You’ll receive a fantastic education, and you should hear how excited he is about you interning with his company while you’re in college.”

  Am I speaking English? “I don’t want to work for him, and I don’t want to go to a business college.”

  “I thought you wanted a job. You’ve been begging us to allow you to work.”

  “I do want a job, but a job I pick.” My father isn’t a fan of me working while in high school. His excuse is that he makes enough money and that I should focus on my studies.

  But here’s the thing: he has never allowed my mother to have her own bank account or a job. Not even to sell makeup or Tupperware or cooking utensils like half the moms I know at school. Not even when I know my mom has been interested in doing something a little more with her life. Dad always told her that he wanted her attention solely on raising me and Isabelle. I never thought much about Mom’s desires and Dad’s excuses until I did start to think about them, and now I want a job. “I want to be a speech therapist.”

  “Don’t you understand? Your father is grooming you to be a part of his business. He’s giving you the entire world. All you have to do is accept.”

  “But this isn’t what I want.”

  “Give yourself some time to wrap your head around what your father is offering. You’ll come to see how amazing this opportunity is. You are so blessed to have him as your father.”

  Blessed? I whip my head up so fast that the kitchen spins. “Dad hit you.”

  I freeze and so does Mom.

  Crap.

  I didn’t mean to say the words out loud. It was a terrible slip. If he heard me, he’ll be mad, but as I strain to listen for his footsteps, for his loud angry breathing, I hear nothing. Hope sparks in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I can talk to my mom. Really talk to her … about how we both need change.

  Mom’s pale and rigid, and the sight reminds me of what happened last month. Of how Dad yelled at her—no, not yelled. It was beyond shouting. It was something dark, something evil, something barbaric, like a possession. He was out of control, and she wore the same expression then that she does now—a woman knowing that she is about to be destroyed.

  A quick sweep of the room, as if searching for the boogeyman, because talking to Mom—talking to Mom about Dad—it’s forbidden and it’s dangerous.

  “He hit you again,” I whisper.

  “I know. Last month. We’ve had this conversation and—”

  “Mom…” She doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say. “I know he slapped you last night.”

  Mom’s eyes widen. She thought it was her secret. As if the walls in this house are impenetrable. “That didn’t happen.”

  It did. I know it, she knows it, yet she’s lying … to me. Since her mom died, the only person she has been close to honest with is me and now she’s not.

  Last month, Dad did more than slap her. He devastated her. My gut twists with the memory of me screaming, of Isabelle crying and of my mother begging him to stop. A cut on her forehead bleeding into her eye, one side of her face swollen, the bruises across her back.

  My mother was shattered, and I shattered. I’ve never cried so much in my life. Even for days after. My mother was so concerned about me, even though she was the one who wore the bruises. She laid with me in bed begging me to stop, but I couldn’t stop.

  I was broken.

  From across the table, Mom says nothing and my brain wavers toward crazy. “You promised me if he hit you again that you’d make him leave.”

  To get me to stop crying, Dad swore if he ever hit her again that he’d leave.

  “He hit you again,” I say, “and everyone is acting like nothing happened.”

  “I told you he didn’t slap me.”

  I blink repeatedly because she can’t be for real. “I heard it. A hand across the face is a pretty distinctive sound.”

  “I don’t know what you think you heard, but that isn’t what happened.”

  “He did. But let’s say he didn’t; what happened to you last month was bad enough, and I don’t understand why he’s still living here.”

  “Because he’s changing, and I promise, this time, the change is real.”

  “He always changes!” I snap then lower my voice. Dad gets angry. I don’t. That’s his job. Not mine. “Yet we end up in the same place. Sitting at this table with the same cup of tea having the same tired and pathetic conversation.”

  Mom’s face twists with concern—for me—as if my emotions and reactions are off base. “I don’t understand why you’re upset. He didn’t hurt you. He’s never hurt you. He doesn’t even mean it when he hurts me.”

  Has she lost her mind? “Dad hurts me every time he lays a hand on you.”

  “He gets stressed, and the stress makes him angry. It was a mistake, and it’s a mistake I’ve forgiven.” Mom wrings her hands then circles the bracelet again. “To be blunt, this was never your problem to forgive so you need to get past this.”

  My head moves as if she had slapped me. Mom combs her fingers through her hair then stretches her hand out to me as if she wants me to touch her. “I have been married to your father for twenty-five years, and he has only hit me five times. When he hurts me, he doesn’t mean it. He loves me, he loves you and he’s so sorry for what he’s done. More sorry than you know. He’s cried over this, and your father never cries.”

  Yet it’s okay for me to cry.

  “You act as if your father is some belligerent drunk who beats me all the time. Your father adores me and worships you and your sister. I understand you’re sad, and what happened is a shame, but if you pause for reflection, this is merely a bump in a long life. Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly think your father doesn’t love you. That he doesn’t love me. Think of the times in between those bad moments. Think of the way he has loved you.”

  I close my eyes, because I don’t want to remember those times. I don’t want to remember how, as a child, he read to me every night before I went to sleep, how he would smile with pride when I brought home a report card full of A’s or of how, in an attempt to make me laugh, he tossed a whipped-cream pie in his face after Jesse broke my heart.

  “He’s sorry,” Mom says in a soft voice, a sincere voice. “It’s killing him that you won’t forgive him. I’m begging you to please give him a chance. You’ve never held a grudge this long before and you’ve been so cold. You’ve always been able to find a way to forgive him. Why is it different this time?”

  “You promised—” My voice breaks as my throat becomes thick. “You promised if he hit you again you would throw him out and not allow him back. He promised he’d never hit you again.”

  “He didn’t slap me last night, Scarlett. We argued, but he didn’t touch me. Believe me.”

  But that’s the problem—I can’t. Not anymore.

  Mom lays her hands flat on the table, and I notice the new diamond on her right hand. Guilt gifts. It’s the new Christmas. “Your father and I are going to counseling, and it’s been very good for us. He’s trying, and I’m trying. We’re learning how to communicate and how to stop being in a toxic cycle. We’re making great progress, and our counselor thinks it would be good if we brought you to some of our sessions. He also thought it would be good if you and your father had some sessions on your own.”

  I shake my head because I don’t want to go to therapy, and I definitely don’t want to talk to Dad. I need space. Mom needs space. We all need space, and I don’t understand why th
is is tough to comprehend.

  Mom’s frown deepens. “I thought you wanted me to go to counseling. I thought you would be happy your father is getting the help he needs. The help we all need. I don’t understand why you’re so focused on the negative instead of the positives.”

  “How should I feel?”

  “Not upset. I don’t want you upset.”

  “I keep making this stupid mistake that this is somehow my life, so why don’t you walk me through how to behave as a puppet.”

  “Don’t be like that,” Mom says in reprimand. “There’s no need to make this dramatic.”

  Dramatic? Dad slapping her across the face then punching her in the stomach was the dramatic portion of this past month’s events. “I’m upset because he’s going to hurt you again.”

  “I said he didn’t slap me last night.”

  “But he will. If he doesn’t hit you, he yells. If he doesn’t yell, he breaks things. If he doesn’t break things, he hits you. He spins out of control and it’s terrifying. He will hit you again, and I don’t understand how you don’t see this!”

  “Again, he didn’t touch me last night, and as for last month … he didn’t hurt me nearly as bad as you think.”

  “Yes, he did!” I wipe at my eyes, ticked off with myself that I’m getting upset while she sits there so calm and she’s the one Dad hit. I’m not crazy. Dad did hurt her and he hurt her bad. This isn’t in my head, not at all.

  I can’t watch him hit her again, and I can’t watch her bleed. I can’t keep living in a house where every second of every day I’m wondering if this is the moment he’s going to snap. I can’t think straight, I can’t sleep and I don’t want to eat. I need to feel okay, and I don’t.

  I plead with her on the most basic level. I give her my fear. “Dad needs to leave, and you need to make him leave because I need space. If Dad leaves then maybe I’ll feel safe again because I don’t feel safe with him around.”