by Aly Martinez
She stood in the doorway, her long, chestnut hair in tangles, and the silly Hello Kitty nightgown she’d insisted on sleeping in every day for the last week brushed the hardwood floor.
“What’s wrong, Hannah?” I asked, using the heels of my palms to scrub the sleep from my eyes.
“Travis can’t breathe.”
Three words that birthed my nightmares, haunted my dreams, and lived in my reality.
Slinging the covers back, I flew from the bed. My bare feet pounded against the floor as I rushed down the hall to his bedroom.
Hannah had started sleeping with him weeks earlier. Her big brother acted like it was a cruel and unusual form of torture, but secretly, I thought he liked having the company.
And, while she was three and a half, it still made me feel worlds better that someone was with him on nights like this.
Pushing his door wide, careful not to rip the Minecraft poster we’d hung up earlier in the day, I hurried to his bed only to find it empty.
“Trav?” I called.
It was Hannah who answered. “He’s in the bathroom.”
I kicked a box of Legos out of my way and opened the bottom drawer on his nightstand to retrieve his nebulizer. Suddenly, an avalanche of empty Gatorade bottles tumbled down from the top bunk.
As I rushed from the room, a bolt of pride struck me. That was my boy. Sick as hell, stuck in bed for the last week, and he’d somehow managed to find the energy to booby-trap his room.
“Hey,” I whispered as I turned the corner into the hall bathroom.
My stomach knotted at the sight. His thin body was perched on the edge of the tub, his shoulders hunched over and his elbows resting on his thighs. He was drenched in sweat, and his color was off. Deep, labored breaths not making it to his lungs rounded his back with every inhale.
“Please…no,” he heaved.
I knew what he was asking, but I was in no position to promise him anything.
“Shhh, I got ya.” I rubbed the top of his dark buzz-cut hair and did my best to fake a calm as I frantically went to work setting his machine up.
He’d been on antibiotics all week, but the infection in his lungs wasn’t budging this time. Months ago, Travis’s nebulizer had been nothing more than an expensive paperweight that collected dust. But, over the last few weeks, it’d gotten so bad that we’d had to buy a spare to keep in his room.
I’d thought it was bad when he couldn’t make it through the day without at least one breathing treatment, but now, we were up to three.
My son was eleven. He should have been out playing soccer and being a little shit, pulling pranks on the girls he liked—not waking up at three in the morning and struggling for survival. And, with every passing day, as he slipped further down the inevitable slope, I became more and more terrified that, one day, I’d lose him.
His lungs rattled as he sucked in so hard that the wheeze could have been heard throughout the house.
The familiar buzz filled the room as the nebulizer roared to life.
“Calm down, and try to breathe,” I whispered, my heart shattering as I placed the mouthpiece between his lips, his pale, shaky hand coming up to hold it in place.
Jesus. This was a bad one.
I sank to the cold tile floor at his feet, my heart in my throat, and draped my arm over his thigh. My boy was a fighter, so I couldn’t be sure if my presence helped him, but the contact did wonders for me.
I timed my breathing with his, and within minutes, I was lightheaded. I couldn’t imagine how he was still upright.
Please, God. For as many times over the last three years that I’d bargained with the Lord in exchange for Travis’s health, I should have been a priest.
A vise wrenched my chest. The breathing treatment wasn’t helping. At least not fast enough.
A wave of dread rolled in my stomach. He was going to hate me. But I was the parent; it was my job to make the hard choices—even if they destroyed me. His pain and struggle coursed through my veins, too. This wasn’t only his fight. It affected us all. If anything ever happened to him, I’d have to carry that hole in my soul for the rest of my life.
I’d promised him that I’d take care of him. I hadn’t promised him that I’d be his friend while I did it. “Hannah, can you go grab Daddy’s cell phone?”
“No!” Travis choked.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head against his shoulder. “Buddy, I’m sorry.”
“I’m…not…going,” he wheezed.
I swallowed hard to pack the overwhelming emotion down. I had to be strong enough for all of us—regardless that parts of my heart were crashing to the ground.
I couldn’t go through this again.
But I couldn’t not go through it again, either.
“You have to go, Trav.”
On weak legs, he shot to his feet, but his balance was off and it sent him stumbling forward.
Lurching up, I caught him around the waist before he cracked his head on the vanity. The nebulizer clattered against the floor and the buzzing droned on as he fought against me.
His movements were sluggish and his hands were slow, but for the way each blow slayed me, he might as well have been a championship boxer. God knew I’d welcome a TKO if it would soothe him.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, dragging him into my chest.
“I hate you,” he cried, refusing to give up.
He didn’t. Travis loved me. I knew that was as true as the sky was blue. But, if he needed an outlet for his anger, I’d be it every single time.
I gave him a gentle squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t hug me back, but I didn’t need him to. I just needed him to keep breathing.
When Hannah reappeared with my phone, I guided Travis to sit on the toilet.
As expected, he was crying. I couldn’t fault him. I wanted to fucking cry too.
It wasn’t fair. None of it.
Lifting my phone to my ear, I hit send. As it rang, I bent, and scooped the plastic tubing up, and passed it back to my son. “Finish that and we’ll head to the hospital.”
He glared up at me, giving it the pre-teen attitude that seemed to be bred into kids, but he was too weak to properly snatch it from my hand.
A sleepy, “Hello?” came through the phone.
“Mom. Hey, can you meet me at the hospital to get Hannah?”
Her bed squeaked as she presumably climbed out of it. “How bad?”
I glanced at Travis, watching him sway with every breath. He refused me his gaze, but he was listening.
“Hannah, stay with your brother,” I ordered, walking out of the bathroom.
I didn’t answer her question until I was in my room. I went straight to my closet and changed into a shirt and jeans before slipping a pair of sneakers on.
“Pretty bad.”
“Oh God,” she whispered. “Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way. Hurry, but drive safe.”
I then moved to my dresser to collect my wallet and my keys. Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Yeah. Same to you.”
With a deep breath that I hoped would ease the hollow ache that never seemed to leave me anymore, I opened my eyes.
Catherine was staring back at me.
I wasn’t positive why I left that picture on my dresser. I’d told myself that it was for the kids. So they could feel like she was still a part of our lives, despite the fact that it was now only the three of us.
I picked the picture up. She was smiling at the camera, her brown eyes glistening with unshed emotion, Travis wrapped in a swaddling blanket, mere hours old, tucked into the crook of her arm. I traced my fingers over the top of his dark, unruly hair as if I could comb it down, but my gaze drifted to his mother. It had only been three years since she’d died, but so much had changed.
She’d have known what to do with Travis. How to heal him. Maybe not physically, but emotionally. I remembered the first time he’d had an episode. I’d raced around the house, calling 911 frantic while s
he’d calmly sat next to him, rubbing his back and whispering reassuring words into the top of his hair. She was in agony, but she kept it together for him, a skill that had taken me over three years to master. She’d always been so good at reading his mood and rationalizing with him to take his medications. If he’d needed something, she had known instinctively. I’d often thought that watching the two of them together was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.
She hadn’t bumbled. Or faltered. She’d been a rock.
I wasn’t like Catherine.
I was weak.
And exhausted.
And so damn scared.
But, even if it destroyed me, I would be there for him. That was one thing that would never change.
So, no. I wasn’t like Catherine at all.
When I heard the nebulizer turn off, I set the picture back on the dresser and stared my wife straight in the eyes as I whispered, “I hate you so fucking much.”
Keep reading:
The Darkest Sunrise
Other Books by Aly Martinez
The Retrieval Duet
Retrieval
Transfer
Guardian Protection Agency
Singe
Thrive
The Fall Up Series
The Fall Up
The Spiral Down
The Darkest Sunrise Duet
The Darkest Sunrise
The Brightest Sunset
The Truth Duet
The Truth About Lies
The Truth About Us
The Wrecked and Ruined Series
Changing Course
Stolen Course
Among the Echoes
Broken Course
On the Ropes
Fighting Silence
Fighting Shadows
Fighting Solitude
* * *
Born and raised in Savannah, Georgia, Aly Martinez is a stay-at-home mom to four crazy kids under the age of five, including a set of twins. Currently living in South Carolina, she passes what little free time she has reading anything and everything she can get her hands on, preferably with a glass of wine at her side.
After some encouragement from her friends, Aly decided to add “Author” to her ever-growing list of job titles. So grab a glass of Chardonnay, or a bottle if you’re hanging out with Aly, and join her aboard the crazy train she calls life.
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