Don't Leave Me Breathless

by A Kelly

  ‘You think it’s funny?’ Summer said. ‘Let me tell you how I chill!’

  A punch landed on the boy’s nose. She kept punching until a familiar voice cut through the air.

  ‘Knock it off! Knock it off!’ Tim said, pulling Summer away from Randall. ‘Randy, fuck off!’

  Soon afterwards, Joseph arrived at the scene. ‘Summer, we have to go to the hospital.’

  Right then Tim looked at her. ‘Summer… you’re burnt!’

  ‘Summer, come with me!’

  ‘No!’ Summer said, stepping away from both Tim and her dad.

  ‘Summer, please… I’m sorry.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Your back… it’s not… it’s not too bad… but we have to go to the hospital now.’

  Now that these men were talking about it, her back began to hurt like hell. Hot stings pierced at different spots, then they flared under her skin. She was ready to hit either of the two men approaching her. But she ran back home and locked herself in the bathroom.

  Not too bad, he’d said. Summer assessed her back in the mirror. Not too bad.

  ‘Summer… please…’ Joseph begged from outside, his voice muffled by the door.

  Now she heard her mum’s voice. ‘What’s going on, Joseph?’

  No response from Joseph, at least verbally. Behind the door she imagined he closed his eyes, bowed down and then looked up at her mum and begged not to blame him. He would whisper, ‘Catherine, please.’

  She heard a knock. ‘Summer, love, let me in!’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum!’ Summer shouted. ‘Just talk to Jake. Make sure he’s okay!’

  Summer scrutinised her back again. Not too bad, he said. She noticed the bottle of bleach next to the toilet bowl. Maybe she could teach her dad a lesson.

  ‘Summer… please open the door…’ This time it was Tim. His deep voice sounded soft behind the heavy door.

  Why? Her parents always left it to Tim when they couldn’t handle her – as if he were Mary Poppins. To a certain degree they were right. But not today.

  ‘Summer… I’ll kick the door if you don’t open it.’

  It would take him a second despite the thickness.

  ‘I’m gonna count to three, Summer!’

  The bleach bottle was in her hand.

  ‘One…’

  Her fingers squeezed at the cap.

  ‘Two…’

  She turned it anti-clockwise.

  ‘Three…’

  4

  Enemies

  Washington DC, USA

  After being petless since Apache (her German shepherd after Maya had died), and relying on parks, forests and the zoo for her animal-craving fix, at 23 Summer finally had her own furry companions, thanks to her mum. Two of them. Not dogs, but guinea pigs. They were parting gifts when her parents had returned to Australia six months ago. Summer had decided to stay behind and finish her studies.

  ‘Hey babies!’ Summer greeted Molly and Milo. Behind her, boyfriend Scott leaned forward and hugged her waist. Summer and Scott had been together a month. He was a vet student at the George Washington University – the same uni where Summer had taken her Juris Doctor and was now taking her Master of Laws (LLM in International Law). But it was through Scott’s music job that they’d met. Entertaining at one of Summer’s work parties, he’d captivated the lawyers and politicians that night with his own rendition of some of Bach’s apparently notoriously difficult pieces.

  ‘Thanks for taking care of them while I was away,’ she said and kissed him.

  ‘Finally I got a kiss,’ Scott said. She could hear a silent sort of, as it was only a kiss on the cheek. ‘I missed you.’

  Summer took the brown and white furry twins out of the cage, kissed them and played with them. ‘You’re lucky Scott took care of you. Aren’t you Molly? Ay? Milo? They’re still so young.’ Summer put the pair back in the cage. ‘I wouldn’t have trusted them with anyone else. Especially Karen and Beth,’ she said of her flatmates.

  ‘The perks of having a vet-to-be boyfriend,’ he said. ‘How was Paris?’

  She looked at Scott. He was probably expecting a straightforward answer, but the trip had been anything but. She’d been in Paris for work experience, applying her knowledge of international law to the next level. With Pierre. She had been reluctant to meet her father again, what with working with him. But reconciliation with Pierre would’ve meant the world to her mum.

  Joseph Pierre Rideau.

  She hadn’t forgiven him, but she had missed him. He was still her father, although she had stopped calling him Dad since the kettle incident. She called him Pierre instead, his middle name, because Joseph was what her mother called him. And every time she heard ‘Joseph’, she remembered the boiling kettle and topless Jake covered with indecent words.

  ‘Paris was good,’ Summer replied.

  ‘I sense there’s a but?’

  The boy was only 20 years old; she wondered how much he could take if she’d told him the whole story about Pierre. After the incident, her mum had taken Summer and Jake to live in another house. Then Jake got sick, and although she’d never said it, her mum had missed ‘her Joseph’ terribly. Her Joseph, the only person she let call her Catherine (she hated that name, everyone else called her Louise). Her Joseph, of whom she thought fondly, despite knowing he’d kept a mistress for years. ‘You can’t have two wives, Joseph,’ she’d said – no anger, just regrets. And when Summer had asked her about the affair, her mum said she wasn’t a fool for love, she was simply working on a precious relationship. ‘Sometimes you have to stop asking. A man isn’t good at answering questions. He either lies or says things he doesn’t mean. What his eyes tell you is what matters.’

  The scars between her parents were deep, but they were two souls that apparently couldn’t be apart. So Summer had accepted Pierre back into her life and they’d lived together as a family again, until Jake’s passing…

  ‘Paris was good. The “but” was… I missed you,’ she said. With that she dragged Scott into her bedroom.

  ‘Mademoiselle! Is this how we do things now?’ Scott giggled, one hand stretched to hang on to Summer, who was already lying flat on the bed, and the other still hanging on to her suitcase.

  ‘Just leave that bloody suitcase!’ Summer said, and pulled her jeans down and slipped under the duvet.

  Scott joined her. She motioned him to take off his shirt while she herself was unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants and yanking them out of sight. He pulled up her sweater, but she quickly gripped his wrists and shook her head. She opened her legs, letting him sink in between her thighs. She rolled up the front of her sweater, sat up slightly to unhook her strapless bra, then lay still – her back glued to the bed.

  Scott slid down to meet her breasts. Slowly he licked and sucked her nipples.

  Summer closed her eyes, enjoying his soothing moves. But when she sensed he was crawling up to reach her lips, she tensed up. After a few seconds of non-action, she motioned him to open the bedside drawer.

  Scott tightened his lips, let out a short breath and took a condom out of the drawer. She waited as he put it on then wriggled, trying to find his way into her.

  She slapped his backside. By now Summer had hoped Scott would’ve got it. In, all the way!

  The both of them were panting. Summer wrapped her legs around his hips and buttocks.

  ‘I’m close…’ he whispered.

  And she dug her heels into his butt cheeks while pressing her pelvis on his crotch.

  In, in, in, goddammit Scott!

  And he came.

  Never mind.

  She had wanted to come with him – the wonderful female orgasm that she read in women’s magazines, which would’ve been doubly wonderful if she could share the moment with her partner. Or so she’d told herself every time she was with a man. Perhaps she was in a category of women where orgasm would simply stay as the holy grail. But she was there, she had had it; when she was by herself, thinking about Tim.
<
br />   She hugged Scott as his body pressed against her chest.

  ‘I love you, Summer.’

  ‘Sshh…’ She kissed the back of his ear.

  He rolled over and sat up. He looked down on her, smiling. He went for her lips but she withdrew with a smile that he could interpret as shyness. No falling in love, not yet. Scott rubbed her chest instead, feeling her sweater. It must’ve been funny for him. They’d had sex many times, yet he’d never seen her naked. He’d asked why, but she’d coil, or turn, or change a conversation to escape having to answer. She wasn’t ready to reveal her scars – not to Scott, not to her exes.

  Scott reached for the guitar next to the bed. It was his, he’d left it there for her to practise.

  He played Ed Sheeran’s Perfect.

  ‘Your turn,’ he said giving the guitar to Summer.

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘Please…’

  Summer dragged herself up. ‘I haven’t practised since you showed me those chords.’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘That’s ok.’ He sat behind her and put his right arm around her neck to reach down to her right hand, readying her for the melody. His left hand wrapped around hers on the chord. ‘You’ve got a funny grip.’

  She loved his touch, and she melted at the sensation of his arm hair rubbing her neck. If only his touch and his arm hair were all she needed from a man, she would’ve married him and clung on to him until the end of time.

  ‘I told you, I’m not musical.’

  ‘You can do this.’

  ‘Doe a deer, a female deer… Ray, a touch of golden sun…’

  ‘You have a beautiful voice.’

  Summer sneered. She kept looking at her files on the desk.

  ‘Come on, one more time.’

  And one more time she played. Scott kissed her neck and rubbed her back. She abandoned the guitar and rolled on her side to escape his strokes. She then quickly shifted her leg under the sheet. Her toes climbed along Scott’s calf and thigh, and soon they found his balls.

  ‘Oh God, Summer…’

  ‘Once more?’

  He exhaled and moaned as her toes teased his cock, but the boy looked to have had enough.

  ‘Hey, come to my gig next weekend, would you? It’s at Echostage.’

  She left his cock be and straightened her leg.

  ‘Saturday?’

  ‘Friday, Saturday, Sunday? Am I pushing my luck?’

  ‘Umm… I’ve gotta work.’

  ‘Well, one of the nights then.’

  ‘I don’t know...’

  ‘Come on, do you have to work that hard?’

  ‘Yeah… and I still have to finish my research paper for my LLM. You know.’

  ‘You’ve just come back from Paris. And what did you do there?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘Yeah. I haven’t seen you in a week and your plan is to work again this weekend?’

  Summer bowed her head.

  ‘And I bet you want to be working right now. You’ve been looking at those folders since I played the guitar.’

  ‘Scott…’

  He threw the duvet aside and jumped out of bed. ‘Larry was right! All you care about is your degree and your work.’

  Larry, one of her exes. She’d just found out recently the two boys had been friends.

  ‘All right, I’ll come Friday.’

  ‘Forget it!’ Scott said as he buttoned his shirt. ‘When I picked you up at the airport all you were asking about was Molly and Milo. When we got here, you were playing with them. Now we’re in bed, you want to work. I care about you, Summer. A lot! I was hoping you’d do the same.’ He grabbed his guitar harshly. The lower part scraped the stack of folders on her desk. Pieces of paper scattered on the floor.

  ‘Shit…’ he said, ‘Sorry, Summer…’

  A sketch grabbed Scott’s attention: Always my sister, Love, Jake. She’d always put it in the folder of her latest work.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ Summer said.

  Scott stopped and sat at the edge of the bed. He took a deep breath and said softly, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Summer picked up the sketch, her brother’s last sketch. He’d said he couldn’t picture any bird to be able to draw it, and there were none around the hospital for him to jolt his imagination, but Summer’s face needed no imagination – she was him and he was her – so he drew the both of them instead.

  ‘Look, Summer, I know you’ve had a terrible time with your brother’s death.’

  ‘Did Larry tell you that too?’

  ‘It’s been almost a year, right?’

  Summer shook her head. ‘Please don’t go there.’

  ‘I’m just saying… I’m here for you.’

  ‘Scott, please leave me alone.’

  Scott’s hand reached out to Summer’s. His soft grip soon turned into a suspicious grip as he noticed a photo protruding out of another folder under the desk.

  He picked it up. Summer stayed silent.

  ‘Your dad?’

  Tim and her, bundled up in winter gear.

  She could’ve said yes.

  ‘Part of your case?’

  ‘Please leave.’

  Perhaps Scott noticed her face changed, he said, ‘Your secret lover? Is it your thing? An older guy?’

  ‘Scott, leave!’

  ‘Do you let him kiss your lips? Do you get naked in front of him?’

  ‘Shut up! No, I don’t love him. And no! To all those other things that you said.’

  ‘God, Summer. I’ve been warned, you’re full of secrets. I know a few of your exes. Yet I said to them – she’s a great gal, she’s different, I understand her, she loves me.’

  ‘Scott…’

  ‘Goodbye, Summer.’

  Summer cried. For who? For the boyfriend who had left her? No. Right now she was crying for Jake – thanks to Scott!

  She couldn’t blame her boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – for provoking her tears. She had been crying since Leukemia took her brother away. Today was no different.

  Jake had been buried in Sydney – in the Rideau’s family plot. Perhaps it was one of the reasons her parents had decided to leave Washington DC. Summer had thought about joining them, but she’d known she had to keep a distance, and for her sanity do nothing else but study and work.

  She reached for the Penguin holiday photo tucked under the same folder as Jake’s sketch. Her thumb pressed hard at it while her other hand hugged Jake’s penguin toy, Sam. She wished she could turn back time – to that point when her brother was healthy, she hadn’t known any Tim, her back was flawless and the scar on her thigh, and others on her arm, hadn’t existed.

  Alone, she could feel her thoughts turning into enemies. She wanted to fight them all and go to sleep in peace, but they were too many. Pierre would’ve said: ‘Split your problems, concentrate on the ones that linger in the middle; keep splitting until there’s only one, then attack it. Trust me, at the end of it you will have reserve energy to deal with the rest. Think like Napoleon – he was a master of splitting his enemies.’

  How do you split memories? How do you vanquish their parts? The only thing she could split right now was her wrist. She rolled up her left sleeve, a pen knife already in her right hand. The pain would be liberating, but the scar would remind her how weak she was. Or maybe this one cut would be the cut that ended it all?

  She picked up Tim’s photo – her and him snowshoeing in Yellowstone backcountry. Behind them was a wolverine track, but they’d never found the animal. The last she’d heard he was in Iraq, while Sylvia and Randall had gone back to Montana. She wished she could talk to him. He’d been the only one who knew about her cutting habit (she hadn’t wanted him to, but despite her best attempts to care for her wounds so they didn’t scar too much, Tim had noticed). She’d promised him she would stop, and she had. Today she might just break that promise. The man might’ve forgotten about her already, he might even be dead.

  Summer gripped the pen knife hard and stared at the blade
.

  Damn, Tim!

  She threw the pen knife against the wall and swiped her desk – her phone, pens, paper, books, scattered all over the floor. Her laptop sat precariously on the edge; she wanted to throw it against the desk and perhaps when the screen split from the keyboard, she’d feel she’d won a battle.

  The laptop was firmly in her hand, she lifted it chest-high, ready to let go, but on the floor her phone screen lit up. An email from Joseph Pierre Rideau. Subject: I quit.

  She put her laptop back on the desk and opened the email on her phone.

  My Summer,

  Our time in Paris was one that I’ll cherish forever. I wasn’t wrong when I said you’d be a formidable lawyer. I hope you had a safe flight back and had a chance to rest.

  I told you I’d had enough of this job. Your mum wasn’t happy that I started travelling again either (and, of course, she wouldn’t move to Paris). As you said, the job was just a contract. I finalised the terms for the trade deal, everybody felt they’ve won, so I quit.

  I’m heading home and I’ll be working with my old uni mates to set up a firm. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do, but as a start, I’m thinking about taking on this case (attached). Pro-bono.

  If it’s not too much to ask, would you have a look? I haven’t done Criminal Law in years, but somehow I feel this case is pretty special. What do you think?

  Gros bisous,

  Dad

  She opened the first attachment and a man stared at her. Clean-shaven and youthful, his lips slightly parted as if he was about to say something. He gazed softly behind his wire-rim glasses.

  Hunter Valley man found guilty of bashing an off-duty security guard

  The victim didn’t die, but he’d been left permanently brain-damaged. So Pierre wanted to save this ‘baby-faced basher’, as the article called him, because he believed he was innocent or because the 20-year sentence was too harsh?

  There was also a video attached to the email. An interview.

  ‘The back of your neck is the weakest spot on your body.’ Bobby Swinburne’s tone was flat, as if he simply spoke facts, but when he said ‘weakest spot’ his shoulders straightened and he leaned slightly forward. The subsequent close-up shots sent chills down Summer’s spine: his pupils dilated and his lips curved a tiny smile as he said, ‘So I hit him there.’ After pausing for a few seconds, he added, ‘I had to defend myself.’