Just Breathe

by Susan Wiggs

  “Dad?”

  “Trying to repair a cracked spar. It really needs to be replaced, but I don’t think they make them out of spruce anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s important.” She tapped her foot.

  “I thought you wanted to win the next regatta.”

  “No, you wanted to win it. You have no idea what I want,” she said with a dramatic flourish.

  “Something I can help you with?” he said, still without turning.

  “Oh, yes. I just noticed that my eyes are bleeding.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “And my hair’s on fire.”

  “I see.”

  “And I’m pregnant.”

  “Hand me that other clamp, Aurora-Dora.” He half turned and held out his hand.

  Aurora weighed her options. She could use his preoccupied mood as an excuse to get mad at him—again. Or she could spend some time with him before he went back on duty in a couple of days.

  “Please,” he said.

  She handed it over and watched him work for a few minutes.

  “How come you didn’t talk about my mother when Glynnis interviewed you?” Aurora asked, although she was pretty sure she knew the answer.

  “The topic was my job,” he said.

  “You never talk about my mother.”

  “She hasn’t really stayed in touch since she moved to Vegas,” he reminded her. “You know that. Now, pull up a stool.”

  She debated about whether or not to keep on about her mother but decided to abandon the topic. She scooted her stool next to the work area and rolled up her sleeves. Regattas were a time-honored tradition on the bay, and her dad had taught her to sail the small, sleek catboat, promising that if she learned to read the wind and water, she could win the race one day. The boat was old, though, and needed work. It was the same boat her dad had sailed when he was her age, and there was something comforting in the sense of continuity she felt. She was glad she’d decided to get along with him. He had the warm dad smell, the one that always made her feel safe and protected. She paged through the marine supply catalog, looking up spars. “How about you replace the spruce with the carbon fiber version.” She angled the page toward him.

  “How did you get so smart?”

  “I take after my dad.”

  He ruffled her hair and she pretended to mind, but she didn’t, not really. When he acted like this, Aurora loved her father so much that she wanted to cry. Which was stupid. Loving someone was supposed to make you happy. Or so people said.

  She leaned over next to him, remembering how safe and secure she had felt as a little kid when he held her. Sometimes he used to hold her sideways like a barbell and press her up and down until she screamed with laughter.

  She was too big for that now. He patted her on the head, pulled away and stood up. “All right, kiddo. I need to get some things from the lumberyard and the marine store. You want to come along?”

  This was how she’d been raised, tagging along to the lumberyard or hardware store. While her friends were shopping with their moms, Aurora’s dad was teaching her how to pitch a fastball or change the oil in the pickup truck. Sometimes he made clumsy attempts to do girl stuff, like painting her fingernails or doing her hair, but it always felt forced. She sighed and nodded her head.

  He headed for the combination mudroom and laundry room to grab his coat. His hand touched the doorknob, and he yanked it back as though it had burned him. “Jesus, Aurora,” he snapped. “How many times have I told you not to leave your stuff hanging around?”

  “Chill, Dad,” she said, snatching the purple bra from the doorknob and wadding it in her fist. “Some of my things are too delicate to go in the dryer.” She collected a few more items she’d left draped around the laundry room.

  “Yeah, well, I’m too delicate to deal with that stuff,” he said, “so hang your underwear somewhere else to dry. Like where I can’t see.”

  “Geez. I never saw someone so freaked out by clean laundry.” She lifted her chin defensively. “At least I do my own laundry.”

  He glowered at her, and his cheekbones were red. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Forget it,” she said, the mood ruined. “I’m going to stay home and fold my underwear.”

  “Don’t get all pissy with me.”

  “Why not? You’re pissy with me.” She was totally embarrassed that he’d said something instead of pretending not to notice.

  “I’m just asking you to show a little discretion, that’s all.”

  “What is your problem?” She already knew the answer, though. He couldn’t stand to connect his little girl with grown-up woman stuff.

  “I don’t have one.” He shoved his arm into the sleeve of his jacket. “So you don’t want to come to the lumberyard?”

  “No.” She tossed her head and added, “Thanks.”

  “I don’t know why the hell everything has to be a fight with you.”

  “I’m not fighting. I’m going to watch one of the DVDs we rented.”

  He looked as if he was debating saying something else. She almost wanted him to make her go. But he said, “Suit yourself. I’ll be back in a while.”

  He walked out the door, and she picked up a DVD from the coffee table—13 Going On 30. How appropriate. She stuck the disc into the player. As the opening credits rolled, his truck started with a blast of exhaust. Aurora scowled at the screen and wished she’d gone with him after all. A trip to the marine supply store or the lumberyard with your dad hardly qualified as Friday night fun, but at least it was something. She was always complaining that her dad ignored her or took her for granted, and then she proceeded to blow him off.

  She glared at the phone. Maybe she could invite a friend over to watch the movie with her. Besides Glynnis and Edie, her only other friend was Janie Cameron. But she was out. To the envy of the rest of the seventh grade girls, she had a real actual boyfriend. They went to the movies together and held hands in the school yard, and they always looked as though they had a secret.

  Aurora’s dad had decreed that she was not allowed to have a boyfriend until she was sixteen. She acted outraged about the rule, but was secretly relieved. She wouldn’t know how to act with a boyfriend.

  Not even Zane Parker, she thought, picturing the cutest boy in Glenmuir.

  In the meantime, she wished she knew what it was that made some girls so appealing. Mandy Jacobson, the most popular girl in the school, was the one Aurora really wanted to be best friends with. Mandy lived in one of the nicest houses in town and eased through every day like a soap bubble floating on the breeze. She made life look fun and simple. Unfortunately, Aurora hadn’t managed to fit into her circle of friends. The closest she came was lending her homework to Mandy and her sidekicks, Carson and Deb. It was wrong to let them copy it; Aurora knew that. But it was also wrong to feel lonely all the time. Ages ago, Mama used to say, You survive by using what you got. In Mama’s case, it sure as heck wasn’t book smarts, but that was what Aurora had going for her. She was a straight-A student. Getting good grades was a cinch compared to the really hard stuff, like figuring out why your life sucked.

  Restless with a pervasive discontent she couldn’t name, she picked up the TV remote and scrolled through the menu. The cursor seemed stuck on the option En Español. She pressed Enter, and the movie began with an opening scene of kids at school, chattering together in rapid-fire Spanish.

  Aurora understood every syllable and inflection. This was her first language, her mother tongue, the only one she knew until she moved to el Norte. Outside of Glenmuir, almost no one realized she was bilingual and she sure as heck didn’t advertise that little tidbit. It was one of the things that made her different from everyone else. There were already too many of those.

  She switched the movie to English. At least the actors’ lip mo
vements matched the words they were saying. But Aurora couldn’t concentrate on the movie. Eventually, she turned it off and went out on the porch, stepping over sports equipment and squeezing past bikes. Her grandmother and Aunt Birdie were always bringing over blooming plants and afghans and stuff to make the place look “homey,” but the look never took. The plants eventually died of neglect, the afghans usually ended up wadded in a cupboard somewhere, and the sports equipment prevailed. You might as well hang out a sign that said, No Woman Lives Here.

  Sticking her fingers in the back pockets of her jeans, Aurora paced back and forth. It was so stupid of her to get all mad and refuse to go with her dad. Because despite the fact that they had a weird family situation, she couldn’t imagine life any other way. She and her dad were a team. They were inseparable. Being without him would be like being without air to breathe.

  Feeling guilty, she put the clean laundry in a basket, including the lacy undies and bras she had hung up to dry. She pretended not to understand why her dad didn’t want to see such things hanging around, but she knew. He didn’t like being reminded that she was growing up. Things were much simpler when she was a little kid.

  She wondered why she did stuff to tick him off when really she loved him so much.

  It was just that whenever they seemed to be drifting apart, she panicked.

  She couldn’t afford to lose him, too.

  Twelve

  Sarah could feel the surface of the bed molding to her body as she lay there, trying her best to lose count of the hours and the days. She wished there was a way to ignore the cycle of light and dark that marked the passage of time. She also wished she knew what to do with herself.

  She never expected to be starting her life over. For the first time ever, where she went and what she did was totally up to her. Right out of high school, her route had been mapped by her acceptance to the University of Chicago. Following that, she’d been enfolded into Jack’s life. There had been no decision-making process on her part except to follow along.

  She’d been an excellent follower, but now that she’d left Jack, she looked ahead and saw no one leading her. To her dismay, she found this utterly terrifying. Maybe she should have stayed, fought for him. Infidelity was something a marriage could survive, or so said all the experts. He claimed he wanted to give it another shot, although she strongly suspected his backpedaling came at the advice of his lawyer.

  She stared at the ceiling of her room, which she had gotten to know in appalling detail. Dormer windows and window seats with plaid cushions. Lace curtains her mother had hung before she was born. Sarah could picture her mother, rounded with pregnancy, threading the curtain onto the rod, then fluffing it out just so. She imagined her pausing to rest at the window seat, gazing out at the water while caressing her belly and thinking about the baby.

  The walls slanted over her like protective arms. Made of old-fashioned lath-and-plaster construction, the chalky surface was hand finished and painted a delicate robin’s-egg blue. Unfortunately, there were a good many cracks here and there that needed repairing.

  Maybe she would be a plasterer, Sarah thought. She would be good at it.

  She imagined mixing up a creamy batch of plaster, swirling it gently in a bucket and then spreading it oh-so-expertly across the scarred and damaged surface. She would cover all the imperfections with a smooth new skin, and no one would know what a mess it was underneath.

  “Sarah?” A light tap sounded on the door.

  She stifled a groan. “What is it, Gran?”

  “Your aunt May and I came to see how you’re doing.” Without waiting for an invitation—which Sarah would not have extended—Gran pushed open the door. She came in, carrying a cardboard box. Aunt May was with her, bearing a vase of freshly cut flowers.

  “Oh, hi,” Sarah said lamely. It took every ounce of her energy to push herself up to a sitting position. The sisters were as kind and colorful as the bouquets they expertly arranged. Gran wore a tunic of barkcloth with a tribal print, a getup that oddly complemented her snow-white hair. The more conventional May was in yellow calico, her narrow shoulders wrapped in a crocheted shawl. Despite their different taste in clothes, they both wore the most extraordinary shoes. Sarah couldn’t help but stare.

  “Like them?” Gran pointed her toe and turned her foot this way and that.

  “Your grandmother made them,” Aunt May added, “so the only possible answer is yes.”

  “I love them.”

  The shoes were hand-painted Keds canvas sneakers. May’s were decorated with sunflowers, and Gran’s with wisteria. And they were not just splashed with fabric paint. These sneakers were works of art, the flowers as intricate and beautifully rendered as old masters’ still lifes.

  “You get your talent at art from me.” Gran placed her box in Sarah’s lap. “These are for you.”

  “We had your father bring us a pair of your shoes so we could get the proper size,” May explained.

  Sarah opened the box to find a pair of size-seven Keds, gorgeously painted with multicolored primroses. “These are just beautiful,” she said. “Did you know primroses are my favorite flower?”

  Gran nodded. “I remember. When you were a little girl, you used to say it’s because they’re like Life Savers candy. They come in all colors, and all colors are good.”

  Sarah cradled the sneakers. “These are too nice to wear. I should put them on display.”

  “You’ll display them every time you wear them, dear.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I can’t get over you two. How can I compete with your tactics?”

  “You know what they say about old age and treachery,” Gran said.

  Aunt May patted Sarah’s arm. “This is a symbolic offering. Here’s to you getting back on your feet.”

  Sarah pressed herself against the pillows. “God, that is so—”

  “Manipulative?” Aunt May suggested.

  “We’re using everything we’ve got,” Gran admitted.

  “We have quite an arsenal,” Aunt May said.

  Gran and May exchanged a glance that was weighty with concern. “What are you doing, Sarah?”

  “Actually, I was contemplating a new career. What do you think of a future in plaster?” She indicated a crack in the wall.

  “Don’t be silly.” Aunt May set her vase on the dresser and fussed with it for a moment. She was one of those women who had a magic touch. A few seconds of plucking, and the flower arrangement looked like a miniature English garden.

  “What’s silly about plastering?” Sarah asked. She figured it was no sillier than arranging flowers and painting sneakers.

  “You’re an artist,” Gran said. “Not an artisan. There’s a difference.”

  She and May sat on the end of the bed, on opposite sides. Sarah thought they looked as pretty as a picture, backlit by a soft glow from the window, filtered through the lace curtains. Seeing them together made Sarah wish she had a sister, or even a best friend.

  “Maybe I don’t want to be an artist anymore,” Sarah said.

  “Why would you say such a thing?” Gran looked aghast.

  “It’s too hard to make a living. And too easy to get your heart broken.”

  “Heavens to Betsy. If you’re afraid of a broken heart, you’re afraid of life itself.” Her grandmother was a walking Hallmark commercial.

  “I’ll worry about my heart later. For the time being, I need to find a stable job and quit dreaming about making it as an artist.”

  “You don’t sound a thing like the Sarah we know.”

  “The Sarah you know is gone—cheated on by her husband and dumped by her biggest paper.”

  “Oh, dear, the paper?”

  “My comic strip was dropped from the Tribune. Working at the oyster farm doesn’t look so bad to me now.”
/>   “You always hated working at the farm,” Gran pointed out. “Don’t pretend you didn’t. And we’re sorry about the Tribune, but there are thousands of other papers and you mustn’t give up. You’ve had a huge loss. One of the biggest losses a woman faces. Your husband was unfaithful. He took away your sense of trust and security. But don’t let him take away your dream, too.”

  Aunt May bobbed her head in agreement. “We know it’s risky—”

  Sarah plucked at a fluff of chenille on the bedspread.

  “Taking an emotional risk calls for a special kind of bravery,” Gran said.

  Sarah couldn’t help herself. She burst into laughter. It was the first time she’d really laughed since leaving Jack, and it felt great, a surge of emotion so strong that it left her spent and limp against the bank of pillows.

  “That’s me,” she said. “Fearless Sarah Moon.” She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of the bedspread. “You girls crack me up. You really do.” When they didn’t respond, she finished drying her face. “Did you know I haven’t washed my hair in ten days?”

  “How very fascinating,” Gran said.

  “I’m letting the natural oils repair the damage.”

  “And clever, too,” Aunt May chimed in.

  “I could use a little sympathy here. What do you say?”

  “Oh, Sarah,” Gran began. “You don’t need sympathy. You need a life.”

  “What for? So I can screw it up some more?”

  “Well. With an attitude like that, you’re doomed.”

  She glared at the sisters. “Even the doomed need sympathy. You’re supposed to tell me that you love me and you want to see me finding new ways to be happy, and that’s why you’re giving me advice. And you’ll point out that you’ve both suffered your share of pain in this life so you know a little about how I’m feeling.”

  The sisters exchanged a meaningful glance. “Such a smart girl,” said Aunt May.

  “We always knew it,” Gran agreed.

  “This is not helping,” Sarah said.

  “Talking about your troubles with people who care always helps.”