Breathless

by Jessica Warman

  “This is my roommate, Mazzie.”

  He stares at her. She stares back, uncertain. Her expression is familiar, and I realize it’s the same look she gets when she wakes up from her nightmares. She’s afraid.

  My immediate family, plus Mazzie, are the only people at Effie’s funeral. It is a brief, closed-casket ceremony. Effie wasn’t religious, so we don’t have to go to a church or anything before the cemetery. Mazzie sits uncomfortably beside me while I lean my head on my mom’s shoulder and cry for the first time since I learned my grandpa died. Will sits beside my father. Both of them stare straight ahead, glaring into the distance.

  Mazzie and I are in my basement later that evening, quizzing each other on vocabulary words for English class. We hear heavy footsteps upstairs in the living room, two pairs, and I know it’s my dad and Will, pacing around each other. My mother’s walk is soft, almost soundless.

  Will starts shouting. “How can you be so cold, man? You don’t know how to love anything, do you? You’re like an android! You aren’t his son. You aren’t part of him. He didn’t love you. How could he? You’re a monster. See your horns? See them? They sprouted from your brain, your tail came right from your ass, you’re transforming into the devil right before everyone’s eyes!”

  “Shh.” I put down the card for “nonplussed.” I reach across the table to grab Mazzie’s arm.

  “Will, I want you to calm down now. Sit down. Your grandfather was complicated. My relationship with him was complicated. I want you to take some deep breaths, now—”

  “I don’t care what you want! I’m not doing what you want—that’s what you want me to do! You think I’m stupid, right? You think you can tell me to calm down and I’ll just do what I’m told? Go look in the mirror. Look at your horns, growing out of your skull.”

  It’s like silent, invisible lightning, electricity crackling through the air. I can’t hear as much as I can feel my father losing his temper. It’s a mistake to lose control in front of Will. My dad, more than anyone, should know that by now. But I guess everyone has their limits, and the Ghost did bury his father just a few hours earlier.

  “Will, your grandfather was a philanderer. I barely knew him until I was nineteen years old. He left my mother alone with a young son and didn’t come back until she was very ill. I was very angry with him. But he is my father, and I loved him. Look at me, son. Please look at me. Take one deep breath. Just one deep breath.”

  A stillness seems to fall over the house then. For several moments we don’t hear anything else. And then we hear footsteps—the Ghost’s I think—stepping delicately upstairs, and I let out my breath, hoping that the trouble has passed. Mazzie defines “nonplussed,” then “archetype,” then “colloquial.”

  When it’s my turn, I can’t come up with the definition for “archaic,” even though I’ve seen the word a million times before. I have felt this calm before in our house. Where are my parents? What is my brother doing?

  “Katie. Are you defective? The word is ‘archaic.’ ”

  There is a flurry of light footsteps, my mother pattering across the floor, coming down the stairs so quickly that she slips on her way down, clutching the banister as she slides the last few steps and then stumbles over to us, car keys in her hand. Oh God, I’ve seen this face before—it’s a wonder she isn’t covered in blood already—and she grabs both of us, me by the sleeve, Mazzie by the neck of her shirt, and half hisses, half sobs, “Go, girls, go, go, go!” She pushes us in our bare feet toward the back door, pushes us through the backyard as splinters of bark and leaf mulch stick to the soles of our feet, her voice a little louder, saying, “Hurry, babies, please hurry,” until we get to the car and Mazzie jumps into the backseat and I get in the front beside my mother and stare up at the back of the house and can’t even scream at what I see.

  Will and my dad are in the guest room—the only room in the house with a lock on the door. The lights are on, the shades are up, and in the clear night we can see everything so perfectly: my brother pacing in circles, the Ghost standing in a corner, crying, begging. My brother holds a handgun, which he’s pointing at himself, then at the Ghost, back and forth like he’s not sure whom he wants to hurt more. He’s screaming at my dad. When he lifts both arms, I see there’s a screwdriver in his other hand. He probably used it to pry open the lock on the gun cabinet.

  My mother tries to call 911 on her cell phone. She can’t stop shaking or crying, she keeps pressing the wrong numbers, and while Mazzie huddles in the backseat, her body curled into a tiny ball like she wants to disappear, I take the phone from my mom and say, “Mommy, please go, please drive away.” I dial 911 myself. My mother sobs while I’m trying to talk to dispatch, to give them our address, and finally she gets the car into reverse and backs down the driveway too fast with the lights off. We drive around the corner and sit at the first stop sign we come to, and my mother and I punch the dashboard and scream and claw at each other, and I know neither of us has ever felt so scared and helpless, and all the time in the back of my mind I know that we can’t be silent for even a moment, scared to death of what sound might break through the darkness.

  Will gives up the loaded gun to the police, who put him in handcuffs so tight that he yelps. As they’re taking him out of the house, I run past him toward my father and put my arms around my daddy and sob into his beating chest while he holds me, then my mother with her arms around both of us, holding on to each other, Will staring as all the neighbors venture onto their porches to watch—four state police cars and two ambulances with lights all ablaze at ten o’clock at night—while Mazzie stays in the backseat of our car, staring at my family, taking it all in.

  They don’t take him right away. Once he’s in handcuffs, my parents go to him. They try to speak to him, but he refuses to look at them.

  “Katie!” he screams. I’m standing near the car, close to Mazzie, glaring at our neighbors. I want to scream at them to get back inside their shitty houses and just leave us alone. There are dozens of them now, porch lights on, standing on the street with their dumb mouths hanging open like they’re watching a parade.

  “Katie, come here,” Will pleads. “Come here, Katie. Please come over here.”

  His pupils are big, flashing like an animal’s beneath all the lights, no discernable color to his eyes but black and white and lightning bolts of red. Sweat drips from his face like he’s just run a marathon. “I’ll call you, Katie. Okay? I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t you ever call me again.”

  “Katie—Katie, no! That’s what they want, Katie.”

  “I don’t care.” I’m crying again. I try to hit him and kick him; I want to hit him so hard that I kill him, but the Ghost and my mom and two of the policemen grab me and hold me back as soon as I begin to move. “I wish you would die,” I say. The words come out with spit. “I hope you die in jail.”

  “Katie—don’t you understand? That’s what they want, you’re doing just what they want you to do. They sent you away to tear us apart, they want you to stop loving me. Katie it’s me—it’s me, Katie. I love you. You’re my sister, Katie. Please, you’re all I’ve got.” He stares at me, breathless. “Please. Don’t you understand that someone has to stop him?”

  “No.” I shake my head. I struggle in the grip of my parents and the cops. “He’s not doing anything. You’re doing it. You did all of it.” I relax a little bit. “They love us. Everything would have been fine, but you got sick and you ruined everything,” I say. And then I turn to our neighbors and raise my voice and scream, “It’s your fault too! You did this to him too—just leave us alone!”

  “Katie,” the Ghost says, still holding me tightly, “shhh. It’s okay, baby. Calm down. Go on inside now.”

  But before I go, I turn to look at Will one last time. “Don’t call me. I won’t be there.”

  And I turn my back on him. He screams while the police put him in the car and take him away. Our mom can’t look; she g
oes inside and sits on the love seat in the foyer and puts her head between her knees and her fingers in her ears.

  But the Ghost goes with him. On the same day that he buried his own father, his son almost killed him. But instead of falling apart, like any normal person would do, the Ghost goes into the house to get his car keys, gives my mother a kiss on the top of her head—she doesn’t even look up—and lights a cigarette as he gets into his car, following my brother to the police station, to make sure things go the way they should.

  The next morning I shuffle downstairs late, my bathrobe dragging on the floor while my parents’ cat chases at its loose threads on the stairs. My parents’ house has grandeur: the banister is thick and long and curved at just the right angle for sliding down, like they do in the movies. There are high ceilings, endless sunken rooms that make the structure more of a shell than a house, each few steps into the next room giving you the feeling of going deeper inside, and for a while it felt okay, for years it felt okay, until it started to seem like if you weren’t careful, you’d never be able to find your way out again.

  The Ghost sits at the table in the dining room, doing a crossword puzzle, drinking coffee that has undoubtedly been rewarmed in the microwave, holding a cigarette between his teeth. To look at him, you would think it was just another normal day.

  “Where’s Mazzie?” he asks without looking up from his puzzle.

  “Upstairs. Still asleep.”

  He nods, still not looking at me. “She seems like a nice girl. I hope you bring her home with you more often.”

  “Well, after the fun we’ve had this weekend, I’m sure she can’t wait to come back.”

  Finally, the Ghost looks at me. “Your brother won’t come back this time,” he tells me.

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?” He studies me. “I know you’re angry with him. Trust me, I know how it feels to be angry with someone you love. But Katie, when that anger goes away, you’re going to love him again.”

  I shake my head. “No. Not after last night.”

  “You will. You’ll love him because he’s your brother, I know. But you can’t talk to him. You have to let him go now. He’s only going to get worse.”

  I’ve been hearing the same thing for years, always presented as a possibility rather than a definite. But now it seems certain that Will is never going to be my big brother again. At one point, years ago, somebody reached out and unlocked the cellar door in his head, and there he was: forever unhinged.

  When I don’t say anything, the Ghost puts down his crossword puzzle. “Come here.”

  I sit in his lap. He gives me a hug. I put my head on his shoulder and recognize the smell that is uniquely his. It occurs to me that he almost never says my brother’s name out loud.

  Had he been here at all, all these years, instead of working every day, the Ghost might have been a really great dad. I think it’s better that I don’t know him that well. Better not to really know what I’m missing and just swim away.

  chapter 9

  It’s a long, silent ride back to school the following morning. All four of us go together: the Ghost, my mom, Mazzie, and me.

  Before she goes inside, leaving me alone with my parents, Mazzie gives my mom a hug. She says to my dad, “I’m sorry about your father, Dr. Kitrell.”

  “Thank you,” the Ghost says. He hesitates. “I’m so sorry about the weekend.”

  Mazzie only shrugs. “Shit happens. Right, sir?”

  For once in his life, my father is speechless. Then—for the first time in as long as I can remember—he laughs.

  I don’t know what to say to Mazzie. How does someone apologize for something like this? For the rest of the afternoon, we continue to study vocab words on flash cards, quizzing each other. The only thing that’s different from any other Sunday evening is that Mazzie is nicer than usual.

  When Drew knocks at the window, interrupting me as I struggle to recall the definition for “phylogeny,” I can tell Mazzie and I are both grateful for the distraction. I open the window and give him a hand as he climbs in.

  “What’s going on?” he demands. “I couldn’t find you, and then yesterday, Mrs. Martin finally told me your grandpa died.” He glances at Mazzie, almost glaring at her. “The two of you went home? For the funeral?”

  “My mom showed up out of nowhere, Drew. We had to hurry. It was a really emotional weekend, and I wanted to call you but I was so upset—”

  “We’ve been dating for a year, Katie, and I’ve never even met your parents. I can’t believe you would take—instead of—”

  “I’m sorry, okay? It’s a four-hour drive, Drew. I barely see my parents. Don’t be mad, please—”

  “I can’t believe what a jerk you’re being,” Mazzie interrupts, startling us both.

  Drew stares at her. His jaw drops. “Are you talking about me?”

  “No, I’m talking about your mother. Of course I’m talking about you. Your girlfriend has to pack up and leave without any notice because her grandpa died, and she has a weekend that, let me tell you, was not pleasant in any sense of the word. And you come climbing in the window like a big angry giant and yell at her because she didn’t think to bring you instead of me. Maybe she didn’t want to bring you, Drew. Maybe she didn’t think that her grandpa’s funeral was the right time to play get-to-know-you with her boyfriend and her family.” She whips “phylogeny” at him, nicking him on the forehead. “What would Jesus think of how you’re acting, Drew?”

  There is a long pause in which I know I cannot make eye contact with Mazzie without bursting out laughing.

  “Oh, God,” Drew says, “you’re right.” He puts his arms around me. “I’m so sorry, Katie. I’m acting so selfish.”

  As I look over Drew’s shoulder, I can see Mazzie making a series of hand gestures in his direction, each one a little more obscene.

  “I’ll be here for you,” he whispers.

  I nod, unable to suppress my laughter, which I pretend is a sob. I bury my face in his shoulder and hold him tight.

  A few weeks later, just after two in the morning, the phone rings in our bedroom. Mazzie and I both sit up; I wonder if she isn’t sleeping well, either.

  I’ve turned our answering machine off so that Will can’t leave messages while I’m in class. The phone keeps ringing and ringing. Even though the volume is set to low, each ring feels like a smack that could startle the whole dorm awake.

  I finally pick it up with every intention of hanging up immediately, but before I can put down the receiver, I hear an automated voice asking, “Will you accept a collect call from . . .” and then Will’s voice, desperate, saying, “Please pick up, Katie, please talk to me.”

  I’m so tired that I can’t think straight. I feel myself trembling at the sound of his voice. Where is he? Is he safe? Are they taking care of him? Why is he awake in the middle of the night?

  Mazzie stands behind me. She puts her hand over mine on the receiver, and together we hang up on my brother.

  The same weekend, Lindsey has a birthday party at her house for Estella. I feel exhausted from the week. Aside from everything else that’s going on, swimming season is going to start in a few weeks, which means longer practices and less sleep. On Saturday morning, during a flip turn, I smack my big toe against the gutter and crack my toenail in half. A ribbon of blood dissolves in the water behind me as I swim to the opposite end, not realizing what has happened until Solinger is blowing hard on his whistle and Drew is wading over to me, his arms outstretched to pick me up and lead me to the edge.

  The last place I want to be is at a party, but there’s no getting out of it. When I tell Estella that my grandpa just died and I’m tired and sad and just not in the mood, she presses her lips together and says, “I didn’t kill him, Katie. You’re coming.” When I don’t say anything, her expression softens a twinge. “It will make you feel better to be around your friends,” she assures me. “You’ll see.”

  By ten o’clock, all I want
to do is sleep. Drew holds my hand and takes me up to bed, on Lindsey’s third floor, where there’s one big room set up. It’s like how I’d picture a nineteenth-century orphanage: there are eight twin beds, all made up with worn, matching sheets and blankets, in a row against the wall; a big bathroom; and bookshelves filled with all of Lindsey’s and her sisters’ old books. There are the complete Nancy Drew and Doctor Seuss series, and Woodsdale Academy yearbooks going all the way back to the eighties.

  Drew and I go to sleep together in one of the twin beds, wearing nothing but our underwear. Mazzie is in the room with us, a few beds over, her nightstand light burning while she reads Madame Bovary for our women’s lit class, and while I’m lying on my side trying to fall asleep, I focus on her little face, her jaw moving frantically back and forth, mouthing the words as she reads, her narrow shoulders hunched against a pillow, tiny hands holding the book up and far away from her face, almost out of the light.

  Every time she goes to turn the page she takes a quick look at me, like she’s checking to see if I’m asleep or not. I know for sure I’m awake because I can feel Drew’s breath on the back of my neck. One of his hands is slung over my waist, his elbow digging into my hip.

  I don’t remember finally falling asleep, but when I wake up, in a blink, I’m on the floor and Mazzie is kneeling next to me with a towel in her lap, trying to fit her arms under my shoulders. At first I’m sure it’s a dream because she isn’t saying anything and all the lights are off except the bathroom light, which wasn’t on when we went to bed. I can hear water running. It’s the shower. Mazzie is in her underwear: a little white tank top stretched over her breasts, which are almost nothing; baggy white underpants; and white athletic socks. She isn’t strong enough to pick me up, but she does it anyway, falling back onto her butt a few times until she finally props me up against the wall and puts the towel in my lap. I realize I’m all wet. My thighs are sticking together. Nothing makes sense.