Learning to Breathe

by Janice Lynn Mather

  I play dumb. “What you mean?”

  “What happen to your uniform? Or those old-timey skirts you always wear?”

  “My uniform? You forget what you do to my blouse?” I bite my lip, regretting my familiar purple skirt left behind, balled up in the retreat’s dingy sink. Smiley’s still looking at me sideways. She knows there’s a secret and she can’t wait to sink her teeth into it.

  “But these don’t look like your clothes. Indy . . . you got a boyfriend?”

  “No.” My heart’s banging against the inside of my chest so loud she must be able to hear it herself. “My regular clothes in the wash, that’s all.” It’s Smiley, I tell myself. She’s not going to go rooting through dirty laundry to check my story. “I found these in the back of the closet.”

  She tilts her head to one side, skeptical. “Whose closet? Gary’s?”

  Obviously not hers, and I can’t say it was from Aunt Patrice’s. The clothes are baggy on me, but way too small to be Uncle’s. “Yeah,” I say, almost choking on the word. I pray she won’t ask anything more. Just leave it alone, I plead silently.

  “Oh.” She sucks her teeth. “I thought you had a boyfriend.” She must be satisfied, because she turns away to look out the window. “So what you did after you left school?”

  Great. More questions. “Rode around on the bus.”

  “All that time?”

  “And went for a walk.”

  “Since when you’s go for walks?” Smiley laughs. Through the little window into the kitchen, I glimpse Churchy hurrying past, a pot in one hand, spoon in the other.

  “Hurry up, man, Churchy,” I call, dodging Smiley’s inquisition.

  Churchy pokes his head through the window; he is tall and wiry. The height isn’t so bad, but he’s too skinny for someone working in a restaurant, like a bald woman trying to sell weave. He wipes his forehead with his sleeve; he’s still in his school pants and shirt, a faded apron tied over them. “F-f-five minutes.”

  “I bet you I could make Churchy give me his cell number,” Smiley whispers.

  “What you want that for?” I say, but she’s already off the stool, ducking under the STAFF ONLY sign and into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Churchy, you here by yourself?” she calls from the doorway.

  “J-j-j-just f-for a while.”

  “You want some help?”

  She flashes her classic smile, all teeth. Leaning with one hip cocked off to the side, flat chest stuck forward, head flung back. If I tried the same thing, it’d come off obscene. When she does it, though, it’s funny, or so people think. Aunt Patrice, shaking her head, can only muster a muttered half-warning. Uncle breaks into a muted chuckle. Even Gary laughs.

  The sofa creaks under me, complaining every time I shift around, trying to get comfortable. The bottom sheet won’t stay in place. I don’t care about that, I’ve slept on sofas before, and worse. A different creak; door opening. I reach over and snap on the lamp. It’s Gary.

  “You up too?” He’s in loose shorts and a shirt, ready for bed. “Mind if I watch TV?”

  I want to ask why he can’t watch something in his own room, or sleep, like normal people do after midnight. But it’s his house. I just came here. “Um . . . sure.”

  He sits down on the edge of the sofa, his behind pressing into my feet. Why can’t he sit on the other couch? I pull back, and he eases up.

  “You sure you don’t mind?” he asks, turning on the TV. He settles on a reality show. “Looks pretty good. What you think?” A line of young women in high heels and short dresses stand in obedient formation, posed for a young man whose job it is to pick three to date. “You wanna turn off the lamp? There’s a glare on the screen.”

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to be in here with the light off, but I’m not supposed to sleep in Smiley’s room. He stretches over to turn it off himself, his shirt brushing against me. Settles back into the sofa with a sigh, like he’s sitting down with a cold drink on a hot day. It doesn’t feel right, him and me and the dark and my sheets. On the screen, the young man presents flowers to one of the girls while she simpers, batting her eyelids. I stand up.

  “You ain gotta leave for me. I don’t have to watch this.” He reaches out fast, his fingers wrapped around my wrist, resting there, holding. This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t let it happen. I have to get away. But there’s no Grammy to run to here.

  “I goin to the bathroom,” I mumble, pulling away. The bathroom seems too many paces away but I get there finally. As I close the door behind me, I stumble into the garbage can. Under the door, I see Aunt Patrice’s light flick on. Footsteps, then her voice, clearing her throat, then nothing. I stay in a long time, but when I finally come out, he’s gone and the TV is off. The room, as far as things you can put a proper name to, is just as it was before. But something’s shifted, tainting the air.

  “Indy! You daydreaming, hey?” Smiley elbows my ribs as she climbs back onto her stool. “Man, he harder to break than I thought. I had to tell him you needed it to talk about homework. I almost couldn’t get it.”

  My tongue feels like a slug in my mouth. “Get what?”

  “The number.” She rolls her eyes, swinging her legs, a kid again. Lucky for me, the way I feel isn’t showing, or she’s too caught up in herself to notice. Churchy finally bustles out of the kitchen with our two containers of food. “Doubles, you ain ga say hi?” she says, looking at him. “Churchy, see how stuck-up she is? She don’t even talk to people outside school.”

  “It r-r-ready.” He brushes aside her flirty tone like petals falling in his face, pretty but of no real interest.

  “Let’s see,” Smiley says. “What you got for us again?” She’s trying to make him talk, so he’ll have to stutter his way through another sentence, and another. If it was me, I’d tell her to check it her damn self, but Churchy opens each container to show us.

  “One c-c-curry ch-ch-chicken and w-w-white rice.”

  “Mmmm,” Smiley groans, leaning forward, mimicking the women on the late-night TV shows. “What else?”

  “F-f-f-f.”

  “Ooooh. F-f-f-f-f smells so good.” She looks over at me, giggling. “Hey, Indy? Can’t wait to put that in my mouth.”

  “Stop being so stupid,” I tell her, then turn to him. “It’s fine, Churchy.”

  “F-f-f. F-f-f-fried f-f-f-fish.”

  “That’s a lotta effs,” Smiley says. I close up the food containers, shoving them into the bag. Churchy’s head is down as he pretends to check the register.

  “You made it yourself? With your own two strong hands?”

  “Y-your bill come to t-t-twenty-one-seventy-five.”

  “Twenty-one-seventy-five?” Smiley snaps out of her ridiculous act as she pulls out the fifty. “How you get that uneven number?”

  “Th-thirteen for yours.” He points to the bottom container, then points at me. “H-h-hers is less.”

  “Why?” Smiley protests, as if she’s paying for it, and not Gary.

  “C-c-classmate’s special.” Churchy looks down at the register, counting out the change. He slides a ten, three fives, a few ones, and a perfectly arranged stack of coins over to her.

  “Oh, I see,” she says knowingly, gathering up the money. “Classmate’s special.”

  “Let’s go.” I grab her by the arm. I’m squeezing so hard I can feel my fingers pressing deep into her flesh.

  “Bye, loverboy!” Smiley calls as I drag her out the door, her giggles intensifying as we get outside. “Poor Churchy. Ah my. No wonder he wouldn’t even look at me. He got the hots for you.”

  “What you had to bother him for?” I ask her as we step out onto the road. It’s twilight now, darkness closing in fast.

  “You bruise me,” she complains, pretend-sulking as she rubs her arm. Even in the faint light, I can see the red imprints my fingers have left. I should feel guilty. Instead, I’m furious. I hate listening to her squeak and moan. I’ve heard that before, back in Mariner’s, thos
e fake noises made for attention. A strange house, in a room full of kids I barely know, some snoring. Squeak of the mattress springs on the other side of the wall. And noises. Shut my eyes, pretend I don’t hear. In the morning, the older boys say, “Morning, Sharice,” to Mamma, to show she’s not worth being called Ms. Ferguson. “How you sleep last night?” One of them utters a mocking groan before their dad throws a few unaimed slaps and mutters something about respect. Mamma’s voice is hard and proud as she answers. “Just fine. Like a big old happy baby.”

  “What you so sour for? I was only playing, Churchy know that,” Smiley says breezily, turning down a path that cuts between two houses.

  “Where you going?” I call after her.

  “Hurry up, this way faster.” Her voice is muffled by the bush and vine on either side. I hesitate, then step through the narrow opening, the food bag bumping against my legs. A mosquito whines in my ear.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” I call ahead, speeding up. “Where you is?”

  “Right here. Hurry up.” Her voice is coming from somewhere over to the left. I take a few more quick steps and falter my way out onto our street.

  “Smiley?” I don’t see her anywhere. The road is empty; no one could have taken her that quick, but panic doesn’t wait for logic. “Smiley?” I call again, fighting to catch my breath.

  “Gotcha!” she shouts, jumping out from behind a parked car, her laugh ringing through the air. I push past her and start walking toward the house. “What, you can’t take a joke?” she calls behind me.

  It’s not funny. It’s not even scary. It’s nothing, a stupid prank from a stupid kid. She’s only playing. So why’s my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest? Why are my palms so slick with sweat I can hardly hold on to the bag of food?

  A streetlight blinks on and I look back to check that the footsteps behind me are Cecile’s. Even though it’s only the two of us on the road, I pick up the pace, hurrying away from my cousin, and her joy that nothing can touch. From the jokes she can find funny and I can’t, the lightness that comes from being teased for nothing worse than a goofy smile. From that feeling I get sometimes, being around her. Envy. For what I have to carry while she swings her arms, hands free.

  3

  MARINER’S. MUSIC BLARING, VOICES raised. Laughter somewhere, and bottles clinking. Me, hidden in the shadow of the trees, as far from it as I can get without leaving. Watching this man, not a monster, just an ordinary man, lean into Mamma until the space between them disappears. Her legs are wobbly; the drink in her hand spills onto the grass, the party swallowing up its splash.

  It’s Avery Jones, who’s a plumber, sometimes, who says good morning if Grammy and I pass him on the street. Eyes that squinch up, crinkled and happy, when he smiles, large hands I’ve seen clamp down on his little brother’s shoulder, not rough, but firm, when he’s been caught smoking in the back of the graveyard. Those same eyes, now hungry, piggy. Those same fleshy hands groping Mamma while she pretends to push him away, her laugh stretched out like a telephone wire. “Trust me, your ma know what she’s doing,” Grammy said once. “Letting all these men around her.” I knew, even then, at ten years old, that Grammy didn’t really mean “around her,” but something else, something murkier, something harder to put into words.

  I see Mamma’s head bobbing and lolling, liquor heavy, her neck loose. And that laugh. Too high to be giddy, too loud to be straight, too silly to be sure. Right before Avery Jones carries her around the back of the house, where I don’t dare follow, she teeters toward the shadows where I hide.

  “That’s you, baby?” Her words pile up, one on top of the other. “I know that’s you.”

  “I right here,” Avery Jones says, an arm around her waist. “What you lookin at? You see ghost in the bush, ay?” As he leads her off, I swear she looks straight at me, her eyes drained and empty.

  • • •

  I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, shirt pulled against my body, pants hanging low on my hips. The ruined bra is knotted so tight it digs into my sides, but my chest still droops. “That’s how you’s carry yourself?” Grammy would say. “That’s how I look now,” I imagine myself answering. “You let Mamma send me away and this what happen.” For a moment, I let my gaze drop to my midsection. Even with my clothes on, I’m reaching the stage where I can’t just pass for plump. I remember the one thing Grammy told me. Don’t let no one take advantage of you. If she meant it, how could she go and give me that book? Was she trying to warn me? Or did she know what I would become?

  I turn away from my reflection as I take off the shirt and bra. To look my big, bare self in the eye would make it feel too true. I reach for the roll of gray duct tape I’ve brought in with me and set it down on the counter. I wrap strips of it around each end of the bra’s back straps so the broken hooks can’t cut into me. Pull it back on and take one more strip, wrap it around the whole bottom of the bra. Then I pull the shirt over my head.

  Okay. That looks better. My belly is still suspiciously large, if you look close, but my chest, at least, is in the right place. Sort of.

  The tape gives with an abrupt popping sound. My life can’t even be held in place with duct tape. The tape that holds anything.

  I’m desperate. That’s the only reason I do it. If I could call Grammy, I would, but she’s never had a phone. Crouching down in the bathtub, a towel tented over my head to keep the sound in, I hammer out Mamma’s number on the cell phone. My fingers are clumsy and numb. The number is the one she had when I came to Nassau, and by now it’s probably changed. Ring. Come on. Ring. Pause, then somebody hears my prayer and there’s the familiar trill over the crackly line.

  “Who’s this?”

  I haven’t heard her voice in months. The time evaporates instantly, and I’m right back there in the next room, crouched in a quiet spot while the party rages. I imagine her laughter billowing, limbs moving, smile blooming, till she gets too drunk and starts to crumple.

  “Mamma, this me.”

  “Who?”

  “You only got one child.”

  She laughs ridiculously, amused by something I can’t see. Her voice is too sweet, like overripe guavas hitting cement. “Indy!” She says my name as though she’s just discovered it, proud of excavating this artifact. “You bein good? You ain giving your auntie no problems, ay?”

  I know right then this call was a mistake, worse than trying to duct-tape my life back together. She’s past drunk. But I’m in it now, and I need someone, really need someone who might get it, so I keep going anyway.

  “Where you is?” I ask.

  There’s a crash in the background. “Whoops!” She giggles. “I at the house, baby, but I lil busy now. We got company!”

  I don’t know which house she means. When I left, it was a run-down duplex, her and the pimply-faced man in the one bedroom, me on the sofa out front. By now, it could be some lean-to with four kids in the other room, or the master suite of somebody working in Nassau or Miami who sneaks away from his wife one weekend every two months. I want Grammy. I want to tell her. I want her to know, and want her to tell me what to do. I’m not scared of whether she’ll be sad or angry, of the disappointment in her voice. Having her know what happened wouldn’t be the worst thing, if I could have a person who knows me, a person who isn’t drunk, who’ll tell me it’ll be okay, who’ll help me figure out what to do.

  “Mamma, how’s Grammy?” The question is hollow, a sucked-out chicken bone. Right now, it’s almost implausible that Grammy, in her evening housecoat and a soft-worn headscarf, glasses on and a book in her lap, could exist in the same universe as Mamma, with the sloshing drink cups and the curls of smoke and the abandoned bottles of rum.

  “You call for me, or you call for your grammy? Don’t matter, I know you love her more. You ain got time for your old drunk ma. Right?”

  I know what that means; they aren’t speaking and Mamma has no idea how she is. “I called for you.”

  “Look here, tell
your auntie hold on. I ga send something down there for you soon. I so broke right now,” Mamma slurs. A man’s voice mutters something. “Stop that, baby,” she tells him, but her voice is thick with invitation. “This my daughter on the phone. Yes I did tell you I had a daughter.”

  The bathroom doorknob rattles.

  “Hey, what you doing in there?” Smiley calls from the hallway.

  “Hold on,” I shout back. I can hear whoever’s messing with Mamma, a man with a low voice. Then the line crackles, or she drops her phone, or both.

  “I gotta pee!” Smiley shouts.

  “Well, use Aunt Patrice bathroom!” I shout back.

  “We lil busy, baby. You wanna call me later?”

  “You mean me?” I whisper into the phone. That’s the thing with Mamma. To her, everybody’s “baby.”

  “Indy, open the door, man!” Smiley’s voice pitches to a whine. “Hurry up, I about to pee my pants.”

  Mamma laughs at some joke I can’t hear. Smiley’s fist is on the door now, while she complains to Aunt Patrice that I’m hogging the bathroom. The music’s louder. Another laugh on the line. So much noise and no one hearing me. I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because Mamma’s been there, she is there, and my saying it won’t be letting her down. Maybe because she’ll know what to do. Maybe just so the call won’t be a waste.

  “Mamma, wait,” I whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Indy!” Smiley pummels the door, shaking it so hard it threatens to burst loose. Aunt Patrice’s voice booms in, loud and firm.

  “Indira, hurry up, you don’t own the toilet in there. You know you don’t pay no bills in this house.”

  “Mamma. You hear me?” I whisper again.

  In the pause that follows, everything seems to stop. Smiley and Aunt Patrice’s talking, the song on the other end of the phone line, the party’s din, the murmuring man, they all fade away. Mamma’s words come to me, crisp as 6 a.m. air.

  “Do what you gotta do.”

  The line goes dead or she hangs up or my two dollars’ worth of minutes run out. I climb out of the tub, and the distance between where I stand, with my slightly damp feet, and the door seems so far. I put down the towel and the phone. I pick up the roll of duct tape, staring at it. It’s too weak. Like me.