Learning to Breathe

by Janice Lynn Mather

  “Nobody know. Mamma couldn’t tell me, your granny couldn’t find her. For all I know, she dead.”

  “Sh-sh-she ain dead. You would know if she was.”

  I’m not so sure. We sit in silence.

  “L-let’s go someplace.”

  I want to go anyplace that gets me out of my head. “Where?”

  “You pick. Y-y-you remember how to ride?”

  This time I sit on the seat while he balances on top of the crate, my bag tucked over his shoulder. Churchy looms over me, a thin, spindly tree. He is close, close enough to smell (Irish Spring soap and peanut cake breath), and his knees keep bumping me. I ride, careful, then reckless, down the middle of the empty road, ringing the bell. I can reach the pedals by pushing myself up to almost standing. We hurtle down the street, nothing to lose. This how Smiley must feel, I think. I ride us down to the rickety dock by the retreat, then turn up to the beach, which is empty of cars, too dark for swimmers. Hoisting myself off, I lean the bicycle against a casuarina and sit on the sand. Churchy sits too, a little ways from me. The water spreads out before us, the tide low and shallow, sand exposed.

  “The place I was the other day, it’s right down from here,” I say. He looks at me expectantly, waiting to hear more. “I kind of work there. It’s a yoga thing. You go there, some people stay overnight, they have classes—”

  “Y-y-you mean the retreat.”

  “What, you been there?”

  “I ain dumb, ya know,” he says, tired and disappointed, and I’m ashamed. “Y-you could show me how you’s do it?” I look at him, quick, to see if he’s asking in that creepy, let-me-watch way. Churchy looks back at me, his eyes on my face, waiting quietly. I remember Smiley, laughing in the backyard. You look so funny. Can I trust him?

  “I ain showin you a damn thing. You could do some with me, though.” I walk him through what I liked best from class today: sitting in meditation, opposite each other. “Your eyes closed?”

  “L-l-look an-an-an see.”

  “Keep your eyes closed. We supposed to be breathing deeply.”

  He lets out a deep puff of air, and we both dissipate into giggles that stretch up into the sky. Grammy’s under the same sky, somewhere. Maybe not that far from us right now. I push the thought away. I’m not ready to tackle that yet.

  “Be serious,” I say, struggling to remember shapes my body’s only made once or twice.

  In the sand, feet sinking down, I show him warrior one and two, tree pose and triangle. We fall over, getting grains of sand everywhere. Finally, we sit back down, watching the moon rise out of the water.

  “This n-nice, I-I-Indy.”

  Something shifts in the air, something subtle. Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe. I close my eyes, but I still can’t make myself step into relaxed.

  When Churchy leans over and kisses me, it’s gentle, barely a brush. My first kiss ever. It is light and slow, and surprisingly soft. Mouths always seem so hard, lips stretching wide to laugh or shout, or puckering in irritation. Who would have thought. My mind is empty, and I let it happen. One kiss. And another, and another, and then his hands are on my waist and—

  Hands on my wrists, drunk breath. Turning away, looking away, and still catching everything in the TV’s reflection. Clothes nothing but rumpled fabric, don’t look too close. His form blurred, don’t look at what it’s doing. My own eyes crystal clear. In them, that same look Mamma used to have, not sad or angry or scared. Blank, accepting. Trying to focus on something outside what’s happening right now, and instead seeing my future as her past, on repeat.

  “No!” I jump up, feet in my shoes in one second, bag on my shoulder in two. Hurry through the brush. I hear him behind me.

  “D-D-D-D-! W-w-wait! W-w-w-w-wait! D-D-Doubles! I-I-I- s-s-s-s-orry!”

  His voice fades away as I hop onto the bike, pushing off, wheels whirring as I whip down the road. Pedal faster, faster, away from his voice, his hands. Faster, until the thumpthumpthump in my chest drowns out everything. Drowns out the memory of Gary.

  • • •

  The next day, I stumble from Smiley’s room to the kitchen and grab a ginger biscuit that barely agrees to stay down. I crawl onto the sofa, pulling a sheet over me. When Aunt Patrice asks me why I’m not ready at seven-thirty, I mutter something about a bellyache.

  “I hope for your sake that’s true,” Aunt Patrice says as she slams the front door behind her and Smiley. Once I’m alone, I snatch the yellow pages from the living room and call two, three, four, five old folks’ homes, one after the other. They all say the same thing. No one here by that name. No, sweetie, we don’t have no Eunice Ferguson here.

  I shower and put on an elastic-waisted skirt the color of a wet lawn in May. I stare at the busted bra and the roll of duct tape waiting for me. I wince as I press the tape against my skin, then pull on a T-shirt. In my bag, I feel for the money Joe gave me. I don’t know what to do next about Grammy, about school, about Aunt Patrice. But as I head toward Main Street, I’m sure of one thing. This bra has to go.

  In the underwear store, I pick up something bigger than my old size and head for the fitting room. I try it on, pulling the new bra, wide shoulder strap and heavy line of hooks and all, right over the taped-on one. Good enough. Better than what I have now. At the front, when the woman asks if I’m sure it’s my size, I nod and hand her the money. I see the cashier sneaking a look at my belly as she bags the bra. I can’t get out of the store fast enough.

  • • •

  It’s a relief to reach the retreat. All I can think of is getting to the bathroom, taking this old thing off, and putting the new bra on. As I walk by the jeep, in a shady patch of the parking lot, I glimpse a note taped to the back window. Indira: unload the jeep properly. Wipe off the mats and put everything away. Then clean the bathrooms. So much for on-the-mat Joe from yesterday.

  “Sure, you’re welcome,” I say to the trees. I’d still rather be here than at school, dealing with Ms. Wilson and those girls, having to face Churchy. In the bathroom, I carefully peel off the tape and trade in the old for the new. The stiff fabric stings a little against my skin, but it’s worlds better. I stash my bag in the office, then scrub the mats and stack them up neatly.

  “How you doin?” Dion calls as I come around a curve in the path. He’s digging a hole with his good arm, the injured one curled close to his body. “How was Mariner’s yesterday? You got to see your family?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about it. Everything okay?”

  I don’t answer. “Where’s Joe?” I ask instead.

  “Oh, she’s teaching a partner yoga class with Susan. But she must really like you now.”

  “Yeah, she left her marching orders on the jeep.”

  Dion rams the shovel into the soil so it stands up on its own, then leans on the handle. “She wants to hire you part-time.”

  “Really?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He slides a young tree out of its pot, grasping it gently by its trunk, then easing its roots and the soil clustered around them into the earth. “She said you weren’t too bad.”

  “Flattering.”

  “That’s high praise from her. You know the last compliment she gave me?” He pats the dirt down around the tree’s base and straightens up. “ ‘The entryway to this place looks ugly. When are you gonna fix it up?’ ”

  “That’s a compliment?”

  “Yeah, cause the rest don’t look ugly, only the entrance. And I could change that. Anyway, pay ain much, but once the cleaning’s done, you got unlimited rock-sitting time. You could even do a class. Couple hours, three-thirty-ish until you done. In case you got more exams or anything.”

  “I tell you I’m done with school.”

  He gives me a quick sideways look, and I wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on. Probably not, I tell myself as he asks, “So, think you want that job?”

  I’m quiet for a moment, thinking it through. Could I make it on my
own? How long before they notice I’m pregnant here? What will Joe say? And how long can I keep skipping school before Aunt Patrice finds out? Could this job give me enough money to leave? Could it be a way out?

  I have to take the chance. It’s something. It’s a start. I nod at Dion before I head back to the jeep. “I do.”

  • • •

  In the afternoon, Dion offers me another ride home, but the memory of last night is still too much, and I pass, walking instead. As I get close to the house, I see Churchy and Smiley sitting out front. Great.

  “Ahh, there she is, the bike bandit,” Smiley calls as Churchy gets to his feet. He gives me a nod and an embarrassed little grin.

  “Hey,” I say. “I left it in the back.”

  “Why you ga take the boy’s wheels, Indy? How he suppose to get around? He tell me all about last night.”

  “N-n-not all about it,” he interrupts quickly.

  I scowl at him, hoping he’ll get the message, but it’s too late. Smiley looks from him to me as she gets up, heading for the door. “Oh, please. I know y’all two been up to something. Get a room.” The door slams behind her.

  I head for the back gate. “You wanna get your bike?”

  He points to the lawn, at a purple bicycle sprawled across the grass. “Th-that’s for you. U-used to be my sister own.” I try to imagine him riding that thing over here, legs jacked up like mountain peaks, knees nearly grazing his chin.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” I drag his bicycle into the front yard.

  “S-sorry. About last night. I j-j-just thought—”

  “Thought what? Thought I must want it? Thought you could do whatever you wanna do?”

  His hands are raised, backing up. I shove his bike at him and it lands against the croton bush, one wheel spinning around, handle twisted up into the air.

  “N-n-no, n-n-no way, I ain th-th-that type, I ain l-l-like that. I-I-I-I-I—”

  “What? Spit it out!”

  “I th-th-thought we could g-g-g-g-go for a ride sometime,” he says, not meeting my gaze. He looks like I felt in that classroom full of kids stuttering D-D-D-D-D at my popped-open blouse. I remember his words from last night. I ain dumb, ya know. Before I can open my mouth to say sorry, Gary’s black truck roars up to the house; he slams on the brakes and starts to reverse into the driveway.

  I grab the purple bike, straightening it out. I jump on, ignoring Churchy’s gaping expression. “Let’s go now.”

  “N-n-now?”

  “Now.” I ride over the bumpy lawn, between bougainvillea and garbage cans, then onto the road. “Now!” I yell back. “Now!” I hear the click-click-click of Churchy’s bike behind me. I keep looking back, but no one’s following us. He lets me lead the way again, through the neighborhood streets, until darkness gathers in the sky.

  • • •

  Monday morning. I hear Smiley’s alarm, roll over, and reach to turn it off.

  “You ain getting up again today?” she asks, switching the light on.

  “I feel bad,” I mutter, pulling the cover up over my head. My legs are cramped and sore from riding the bike, my head swirling, my back aching.

  “All right, lazybones,” she sings, prancing out of the room. “Indy say she sick today,” I hear her tell Aunt Patrice.

  “Fine. If she want miss all her classes and flunk out of school, that’s her business,” Aunt Patrice says, so loudly I know she wants me to hear. A minute later, Aunt Patrice thumps into the bedroom, yanking the sheet off me. “Get out this bed.”

  “I don’t feel good,” I whimper.

  “Make up the sheets and let Smiley get ready. You want lie up in the house all day, do it on the couch.”

  Smiley comes in quietly as Aunt Patrice leaves. She shoots me a sympathetic look as I head out, curling up on the living room sofa. I listen to the sounds of the household around me; I might as well not exist. I must drift off again because when I wake up, there’s nothing but silence. The clock says 8:50. I’m ravenous.

  I get up, listening carefully. Nothing, no one. The kitchen is empty, no cars in the driveway, Gary’s truck gone. I finish the cold grits left in the pot, then head for the bathroom with clean underwear, my new bra, and a fresh shirt and skirt. The door shut and locked, I peel off my nightclothes and dump them into the hamper. It reeks of sweat and cologne. The smell makes me gag. I shut the hamper fast and step into the shower. The spray of water catches the early light spilling through the window, making rainbows as the two collide. My skin is still irritated where the duct tape was. It stings as the water touches it. I grit my teeth and soap up. When I’m done, I turn the water off and reach for my towel.

  It’s not there.

  I push back the shower curtain. The spot on the rail where my towel always hangs is empty. Smiley’s pink towel is nowhere in sight either. Nothing but the old, worn one Aunt Patrice wants us to dry out the tub with when we’re done. Someone’s left it on the floor, behind the toilet. Dirty clothes would be better, except that I’ve dropped my pajamas into the hamper with that disgusting, sweaty stuff. I step out carefully, then shake out the floor towel and stretch it across myself. Ugh. It barely even covers my chest on one side, my behind on the other. I creak the bathroom door open and step out.

  “Hello, sunshine.”

  I cling to the scrappy towel, step back with one foot, and lose balance, nearly falling on the wet bathroom tiles.

  “Nice wrap.” Gary eyes me up and down.

  “Your truck—”

  “Oh, I let my friend take it. Hope no silly girl cause him scratch up the paint.” The fleck of a threat in his voice.

  If I run for the bedroom, he could grab me. If I stay here, I’m trapped. He knows it, too. I can feel the grits fighting their way back up. Not now. Please, not now.

  “Get out my way.”

  “Ain nobody stopping you. Would be nice to get in there so I could shower too, you know.”

  “Where you put my towel?”

  “Maybe Mummy took it to wash.” He eyes me again. “Come on, I ain got all day.” He steps forward and I bolt for Smiley’s room. I barely make it past him before I trip, falling and landing on my hands and knees, yellow vomit bursting from my mouth. Scramble for the towel, slipping, bawling, puking, running for the room. Before I get there, I hear him mutter, “Disgusting.” The bathroom door closes with a click. I lock Smiley’s bedroom door behind me, start hammering on it with my fists, yelling “Leave me, leave me alone, leave me alone, don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me, leave me alone!” Wish it was Gary I was beating. Wish it wasn’t my puke smeared all over the floor. Wish, instead, it was his head.

  • • •

  When I wake up, the house is quiet. I listen for several minutes. Nothing. My mouth tastes sour. I’m sweaty, the shirt and skirt I pulled on stale and damp. I open the door. In the hallway, the tiles have been cleaned. I check every room to make sure I’m alone. When I open the washing machine, my towel is inside, balled up with Smiley’s. I wash everything together in extra-hot water and take a fresh towel from the laundry basket. I have to get out of here today. I shower a second time, so fast I almost fall again. Something keeps me upright. I dress right in the bathroom, hooking on the bra. Suddenly, it seems as old and broken as I feel. I can put on a new bra, but it won’t make a difference; underneath, I’m still falling apart.

  • • •

  In the afternoon, I bike toward the shore, turning off onto the retreat’s dirt road, past the blur of trees. At the entrance, a new collection of flowers is planted around the gate, droopy in the heat. Inside, the parking lot is empty; for once, even the jeep is gone. I lean my bike against the closed office door. Just start walking, my feet taking me to the same path I went down that second time here, to the water, to the large rock I saw Dion balancing on. I’m not in the mood to swim, but I lie back on the rock, feeling the bumpy surface under me. The salty breeze and the slap of the waves start to relax me. My stomach is still knotted, though. Just le
t it go, don’t let this thing kill you, I think. My eyes are open, it’s not proper yoga, not the way Joe did it on Mariner’s Cay. I sit up, deciding to try it the right way, on my own. I let my limbs dance through the poses, I don’t know how many times. When the light finally begins fading, I stop.

  Stepping onto the path, I welcome the evening. Out here, away from streetlights, night is complete, in a way that makes me feel at home. As my eyes adjust, I can make out the roof of the dining pavilion, the murmur of conversation ornamented with laughter. I head the other way, into the part of the retreat I’m most curious about: the smattering of guest cottages hidden in the trees. Most are darkened now, the odd square of light peeping through thin curtains. As I approach the buildings, a woman emerges from one of them, into the night.

  “Hi there,” she calls, seeing me.

  “Hi.” I’ve stopped walking, without meaning to. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be at the retreat at all, not at night, and definitely not skulking around where the guests stay.

  “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” She comes toward me on the path. “I just got in this morning and I can’t get over how serene it is. Must be a nice place to work.” She unties the shawl around her shoulders, then takes it off. “I don’t even need this, do I?” Turning back to the cottage, she runs in, opening the unlocked door. When she switches on the light, I catch a glimpse of a bare, simple room. Bed, old bureau, one bulb hanging from the ceiling. She’s got a suitcase open, clothes strewn around it on the floor. “Just smell that ocean air,” she says when she comes back out, not surprised, it seems, to see me still there. “So close. I bet if I leave the door open tonight I’ll hear the water when I’m going to sleep.” She waves as she leaves.

  The walkway goes on a bit farther, then curls around to one last cottage. It’s a little thing, half the size of the others, and more run-down. I turn the light on and peer in. The bed is bare and it’s missing a bureau, but the bedside table stands, ready. It’s like looking into another world. Everything a person could need, all there, all private. A bed you don’t have to share. A door that can lock. Bathrooms nearby, and a place to eat. The water is close enough to hear through the open windows. Nobody on the other side of the door. Compact, but so much room. Turning the light off, I step in and sit down on the floor, the wooden boards squeaking and groaning beneath me before they settle, agreeing to let me stay.