Learning to Breathe

by Janice Lynn Mather

  Sharing a space with him, even a phone line, makes me want to step out of my skin and leave it there, a withered husk. Just keep him talking, I tell myself.

  “I need a doctor who could get rid of it.”

  “So?” I hear the fridge door open, the familiar rustling of foil. “What this have to do with me? You got in trouble. Who ga be surprised? Like mummy, like daughter.” I hear the pop of him opening a can. I can almost smell the sourness of beer on his breath. “You might not be here if she had made a little trip to the doctor herself. And that would be a shame.” He takes a long, noisy gulp from the can. I almost hang up right then. Inside me, the baby is still. I put a hand on my belly, breathe in, breathe out. I have to focus. “My buddy run the bar up there,” Gary continues. “In Mariner’s. Tell me your ma’s be tear right up on rum, let anybody carry her home. Somebody different every night—”

  “Make an appointment for me.”

  “You crazy?”

  “Make it for tomorrow.” My voice quavers. No, I tell myself. I can do this.

  “You got a lot of nerve, ya know. Who the hell you think you is?”

  “I’ll do the paternity test.”

  “How you ga do that? And guess what, you already got four hundred outta me. You think I have more money for you?”

  I say nothing.

  “You ain worth that much.”

  Again, I bite my lip. Let the silence sit.

  “Even if you keep it, it could be anyone own. And you sleepin out now. You know you can’t come back this way. My mummy would have your head on a stick. She goin to the police for you, you know. You probably goin to jail.”

  “Guess we’ll wait and find out when I have the test.” I remember what Joe said. “And you might be the one going to jail.” He’s quiet. Just breathe, I tell myself. Out, in.

  “Which doctor you want?” His voice is furious and low.

  I hesitate. The only one I know is Dr. Palmer. I take a gamble. “You don’t know anyone?”

  He swears, but he doesn’t say no. “I’ll call you back,” he says through clenched teeth.

  “I want to be on the other line.”

  “For what?”

  “To know if you booked it.”

  He exhales sharply and there’s a brief click; maybe he’s hung up. Then another click and he’s reconnected. A phone rings twice before a woman answers.

  “Hey, Lydia. This Gary.” He sounds so amiable, so polite. This must be how he moves through life most of the time. I think back to that first day in Nassau. The laugh. The wide smile.

  I look at my cell again; still recording.

  “Gary who?”

  “You know which Gary. From the hotel.”

  “Oh, right, right.” She laughs, as though she’s happy to hear from him. “What’s up?”

  “I have a little problem. You want to help me out? You could talk?”

  “What happened this time?” She sounds amused, and slightly impatient. “Do I even want to know?”

  “I need you to sort out a time for someone to come in.”

  “Come on, man. What I tell you bout being careless?”

  “Don’t worry about that.” The slightest shake in his voice.

  “We booked. Not till next month.”

  I hold my breath, watching anxiously as my phone picks up their voices. “Look here, this an emergency. Monday, man. Or Tuesday.”

  The woman sighs.

  “Come on, sweetie.”

  “I’ll try to fit her in at four o’clock on Monday. And make sure she come on time, we don’t stay open for anyone who’s late.”

  “Charge it to my credit card now, so she could be in and out fast as possible,” he says, then rattles the number off.

  “All right, she’s set,” the woman says. “Now look here, Gary—”

  “Come on, don’t give me a hard time.” He’s all fake suaveness again. “This the first time—”

  “Second time.”

  “That was a while ago.”

  “Just watch yourself. All right?” Her voice is light, like she’s talking to a friend, dropping gentle advice.

  “All right. Thanks, honey.”

  “Don’t ‘honey’ me. Make sure she get here on time.” She hangs up.

  “You happy?” Gary says. In an instant, his voice has switched, every pretense of pleasantness gone. “You hear what time you gotta be there, you hear it done paid for. And I don’t want ever see your face again. Wherever you gone, you better stay there.”

  “I plan to,” I snap, before he hangs up. I did it. My hand shakes as I clatter the retreat’s phone down into place, but I did it. I pick up my cell phone. I press Stop.

  17

  WAKING IN THE DARK, it takes a second to remember I’m back in the cabin. I can’t place what woke me in this silent room. The door’s closed and latched, I’m alone and safe. Then there’s a ding as my phone’s screen illuminates with a new message. As I reach for it, it beeps and shudders again. I’m still not ready to talk to anyone. I go to the recording and start to play it back, just to make sure it’s still there. At the sound of Gary’s voice, I stop it. I have what I need. Maybe now, finally, I can be free of him.

  I’m still tired, but after hearing Gary, even on a recording, sleep is the last thing on my mind. I start to scroll through the dozens of unread messages waiting for me.

  Yesterday, 7:06 p.m. Smiley: When you comin home, big head? Mummy havin a hot fit in here.

  Yesterday, 9:23 p.m. Smiley: I lonely, lol!

  Today, 2:44 p.m. Coming to my game today? Playing soon.

  5:35. You missed it.

  6:15. Mummy so pissed at you, Gary told her you called and said you were OK but you weren’t coming back. Is that true? Only me and him here if you want to come by. He in his room. Gettin drunk, lol. It’s the last text. A missed call at 8:32 p.m. Two more right after that. I check my voice mail, straining to listen; it’s barely audible through Smiley’s crying. Crying? She never cries. I make out the words happen and do and me. The phone’s screen flashes. She’s calling again.

  “Smiley?”

  “Indy.” Her voice is folded in on itself. There’s odd background noise.

  “Where you is?”

  “I by the Tasty Spot.” She’s crying now.

  “What happen? You in trouble?”

  “Come for me,” she sobs.

  I’m already running out of the cabin, heading for the center of the retreat. “What happen? Aunt Patrice can’t come?”

  “It’s, Gary, it’s . . . he . . .”

  The call drops. I take the office stairs two at a time. “Joe?” No answer; the office is empty, but I can see the jeep in the parking lot. The keys are hung up by the desk. I take them and rush out to the vehicle, climb in, turning the key. It starts up tentatively, like it knows I shouldn’t be doing this, then roars, understanding we have to. I can’t drive, really; my foot fumbles for the gas pedal, then the brakes, dust flying behind me, a cloud that hides the view through the back windshield. I swerve down the side road, then onto the main street, struggling to stay in the lane. At the restaurant’s intersection, I slow down to look for Smiley. A car behind me honks and I turn in. Where is she? Nobody’s outside; there are just a handful of cars, the lot slightly lit up by the glow from inside. I pull up farther. There she is—around the side of the building, sitting on the steps with Churchy, his arm protectively around her. Parked right in front, engine still running, is a big black truck. The door is flung open. Gary jumps out, running toward them. Churchy leaps up, recognizing him. His body is tense, bristling for a fight.

  I lean on the horn, a warning cry sent up through the night. I should have told her to look out for the jeep. Please, Smiley, know it’s me. She and Churchy see me, but Gary’s head snaps around too. He changes direction, heading my way. Churchy is faster; he grabs Gary by the shirt, stopping him. He shoves Gary hard, making him fight to keep his balance.

  “Hurry up, hurry up,” I urge Smiley as she sprints
for the jeep. Behind her, Churchy tackles Gary, this time knocking him to the ground, pinning him down.

  “Smiley, come on! Mummy ga kill you!” Gary yells, struggling against Churchy’s hold. “Don’t be stupid, hear? Don’t be like Indy.” I watch Churchy draw his arm back; his fist connects with Gary’s face just as Smiley leaps into the jeep, slamming the door. I put the jeep in reverse and spin around, tires squealing against the pavement as I pull out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror, I glimpse Gary scrambling back into the truck. Then I turn, and turn again, before he can follow me. Beside me, Smiley’s wailing.

  “What happen?” I ask. “What he do to you?” I turn down another street, heading back to the retreat.

  “I was watching TV and I guess I fell asleep. Daddy still away on his trip, Mummy was out late at her women’s meeting again. Gary was in his room drinking. All I know, I wake up and he beside me on the sofa. He had his hand on my leg. The lights was off, only the TV was still on. Then he start sayin all kinda funny things, how he make the appointment even though he already give me money, an Mummy ain ga stand for no baby in her house. He keep callin me Doubles, and I keep tellin him I’m Smiley. I try to get up, I ask him what he doin an he wouldn let me go. He tell me don’t fight. Say he know I like it, know I miss our secret, an don’t worry cause if I ain deal with it yet ain nothin could happen. Then he push me down an I couldn get up. I was fightin him off, Indy, tellin him I’m Smiley, I’m his sister, I slap him, I scratch him, everything, an he wouldn stop tryin to press up on me. I knee him right in the groin an he tumble back, cryin, throw his whole wallet at me. Look. This where he was grabbin me.” She turns on the jeep’s light to show me the bright red mark on her leg. Looking at it, I nearly run into a car ahead that’s come out of nowhere. I swerve and keep going.

  We finally reach the dead-end road back to the retreat. No headlights behind us, no dust but ours. I turn in, finally, and park.

  “That’s my brother . . .” As Smiley starts to talk, her voice catches, and she leans over and curls into me. We hold on to each other in the safety of the jeep.

  “What else he do, Smiley? That’s everything?”

  “That’s everything. But Indy . . .” Her voice tapers off as she looks up at me. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

  She asks like telling would have been an easy thing. Before I can answer, we hear footsteps on the gravel driveway.

  “Indira?” It’s Joe. She shines her flashlight in through the window. “You took my jeep?”

  “I had an emergency.”

  Smiley sits up, realizing Joe and I know each other. “Ma’am, you gotta help us!”

  “No, Smiley!” I don’t want her saying it, not here, not to Joe. I don’t want all my ugly to come out in this peaceful place.

  “Ma’am, it was my brother, he attacked me cause he thought I was her, he grab me here, and he keep calling me by her name, and then Churchy punch him in his face, and you have to help.”

  Joe looks from her to me, and comprehension slowly starts to dawn on her face.

  “Okay, well, I already called the police when I saw the jeep was gone. They’re on their way now.”

  “You gotta help, you gotta help,” Smiley urges. “I need to call my parents. I want my daddy.”

  “Come into the office,” Joe says. “Let’s call him from there.” Smiley’s out of the jeep in a flash, plastered to Joe’s side like she’s known her forever. “Indira?” Joe reaches through the open window, and I offer her the keys. She doesn’t take them, just keeps her hand outstretched, palm open, until I put my hand in hers. “Whatever happened, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  There it is again. Another flutter. Then a kick. I close my eyes, then blink them open, wiping them. I have to tell her everything, even if I’m not sure where to begin. I have to, for Smiley. For me.

  “I’ll meet you in the office,” I say, pulling my hand away. Joe nods.

  After they’ve gone, I climb out of the jeep. I take the path the other way, heading back to the cabins. When I reach mine, I pause at the door before going in.

  I turn on the light and look around the room. Everything I own is in here: that tired straw bag, one handle taped together. A stack of clothes. The Pregnancy Book. One thing doesn’t belong—the garbage bag, shoved off to one side, stuffed full of those awful clothes. It’s time. I know what to do with it now. I pick it up and slide my hand into my pocket, feeling for the cell phone. Still there. I steel myself, then open the door and step out into the night.

  • • •

  The office is painted with the flashing blue and red lights of a police car. Joe’s sitting on the steps.

  “Apparently your uncle is out of town, and we can’t get ahold of your aunt. I’ll keep trying.”

  “Oh.”

  “Think she’ll want you to go back?”

  I shake my head. “She doesn’t want me in her house.”

  “Maybe that’s better.”

  “What about Smiley?”

  Joe rubs her forehead, thinking. “Your cousin? I don’t know, Indira. That might depend on whether this Gary’s going to continue to be in the house.” She shifts on the step, making room for me to sit beside her. “There’s a policewoman inside, talking to her now.”

  I drop the garbage bag onto the grass and sit. “Can I talk to her too?”

  “Definitely. She needs a statement from you next.” Joe looks at the garbage bag. “What’s that?”

  “Something from when Gary . . .” I can’t finish the sentence, and she nods, as if she already understands.

  I can hear Smiley’s voice drifting out from inside the office, and a woman speaking, steady and subdued.

  “Indira.” Joe’s tone is even. “Is it true? What your cousin says about Gary?”

  I close my eyes. Breathe in, filling my lungs, letting the air expand me, then letting it out, letting go.

  “Did this Gary get you pregnant?”

  I open my eyes. She’s looking at me, waiting.

  Breathe in. Expand, then let go. I nod my head, but it feels wrong. Get you pregnant is what your boyfriend does by mistake. This is something different, something I’m struggling to say out loud. There’s movement from in the office then, and Smiley saves me, appearing at the top of the stairs. She looks as shaken as I feel.

  Joe stands up. “You want me to go in with you, Indy?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  Joe walks into the office with me, beckoning Smiley to join us.

  The officer sits behind Joe’s desk. Smiley slumps into a chair off to one side, leaving Joe and me to sit across from the policewoman.

  “I’m Officer Pinder,” she says. “I have some questions for you. We’ll start easy. What’s your full name?”

  “Indira May Ferguson.”

  “Age?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “And your current address?”

  I look over at Joe, who nods.

  “Here.”

  The officer keeps going: When did I come to Nassau? Where are my parents? Who are my aunt and uncle? Then come the harder questions, the ones about Gary. What happened, and when, and where. And for the first time, I say it out loud, all of it, not just a few choked words or a whisper. I start with that first day he came to the house. Then I tell her about the first time he came into the living room when I was alone there, and the time without the condom, and all the times with one—before then and afterward—and the truck and the bathroom, and the clinic that day with Churchy, and what Gary did in the kitchen when I got to the house. The policewoman’s pen scratches furiously across her notepad, transforming my words from secrets I carry around inside into a real story with a shape, a thing I can point to and say This is true. I put my hand into my pocket, bring out my cell phone. I glance over at Smiley, who’s been silent this whole time; tonight, she’s been changed. Seeing her this way, so frightened and small, I know I can do this. I play the recording for them all. Last, I hold up the garbage bag I brought and exp
lain what’s inside.

  The policewoman writes down everything I say, then clicks the cap back onto her pen, signaling an end.

  “I’ll take all of this,” she says, gathering up the phone and the garbage bag. She takes Smiley’s phone, too. “Who’s acting as your guardian, Indira?”

  “I’m her guardian.” Joe speaks up for the first time.

  “Do Cecile’s parents know she’s here?”

  Joe answers no, she’s called them but can’t get through. Smiley comes over, arms folded, determined. “I stayin with Indy.” She reaches over for my hand, her warm fingers curling around mine. It’s as comforting as all those nights I slept in her room, chair wedged under the doorknob, her snores lulling me toward sleep.

  Officer Pinder closes her notebook. “Joe, you need to take them both in to see a doctor, tonight. Routine, in this type of case. I need to call for backup and head over to your house, Cecile, and to this restaurant. I want to see if this Gary is still there. We need to speak with him. And to the other young man, Churchy.”

  • • •

  The drive to Dr. Palmer’s office is quiet. Smiley goes in first, while Joe and I sit in silence. After Smiley’s exam, I overhear the doctor use the word intact.

  “You don’t have to see me again, right?” I ask Dr. Palmer when she’s done with Smiley.

  “I really do, Indira. I can’t force you to have an examination, but it would be helpful, for the police. And for you.”

  “Let me come with you,” Smiley says, reaching for my hand.

  After the examination is done, Dr. Palmer asks Smiley to go out into the waiting area. She pushes the door closed, then passes me a stack of papers.

  “This is a brochure for the Women’s Center,” she says, tapping the one on top, which has the word counseling sprawled across the front. I listen while she explains that she has a friend, Nicola, who works there. Under the brochure is a piece of paper covered with Dr. Palmer’s handwriting.

  “What’s this?”

  “That’s the contact information for a lawyer I know. She can talk to you about legal things. In case you want to press charges. You can call or email her there. And Indy?”

  I look up at Dr. Palmer.