Bear, Otter, & the Kid 03 - The Art of Breathing (51 page)

“Maybe a little,” I say.

“He’s pretty rad?”

“Very rad.” The most rad ever. He might even be gnarly. “Well, for the most part. He’s not a vegetarian.”

She laughs, long and loud. She holds her sides, and I can’t help but smile at her. She’s pretty, this girl.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re a v-v-vegetarian?” she asks me, wiping her eyes.

“Yeah. Why? Are you one too?” I ask, astonished.

This sets her off again. “Of c-c-
course
not!” she howls. “I’m not a h-h-
hippie
! This is so funny! My long-lost brother shows up and he’s s-s-scared of bugs and m-m-m-
meat
.”

“Oh, har har,” I say as I scowl at her. “And why does everyone call me that? I’m not a hippie!”

She finally calms. “So, where is he?”

“Who?”

“Dom. Wow. Great memory. Maybe eat more meat, huh?”

“At the hotel,” I say, somehow resisting the urge to give her an Indian burn.

Her eyes go wide. “He’s
here
? Why didn’t you bring him?”

“Thought I should do this on my own. I don’t know.” It sounds stupid now that I’ve said it aloud.

“That’s stupid,” the little psychic (psycho) says. “You should never be alone. It sucks.”

Oh Jesus. “You’re not alone,” I tell her lightly.

She looks away again. “I didn’t mean me,” she says.

I think quickly. “You have a cell phone?”

“No. Mom says we can’t afford it. She has one, but it’s from Walmart. You can’t even download apps on it.” She says this like it’s the greatest travesty man has ever known. “I don’t even have
e-mail
. How archaic is that?”

“You have a piece of paper? Something to write with?”

“Why?”

“God, do you have to question everything?”

“Yes,” she retorts. But she scrounges on her desk and then hands over a scrap of paper and a Bic pen, the end pocked with teeth marks.

“Gross,” I say with a grimace.

“Oh please,” she says. “You’re gay. I’m pretty sure that’s not the worst thing you’ve ever touched.”

I gape at her. She stares back.

“Sisters,” I mutter and begin to write. Once I finish, I hand it over.

She looks down and mouths the numbers and words. “What is it?”

“My phone number. The address of the Green Monstrosity.”

She frowns. “Why would I need this?”

“In case you ever need help.”

“Help from what?”

This life.
“Anything. Or just to talk. Whatever you want. Bear and me are here. Anytime.”

“You’ve never been here before.”

“I don’t think we knew how.”

She ignores this. “What’s the Green Monstrosity?”

“Our house.”

“Why is it called that?”

I pull out my own phone and flip through the pictures. There’s one of Bear and Otter standing in front of the house, their arms around each other’s waists. I show it to her.

Her nose wrinkles. “Your house looks like someone got sick and threw up on it.”

I laugh. “Isn’t it great?”

“And it’s at the ocean?”

“Close enough.”

“I’ve never seen the ocean,” she says.

“Maybe you can come see it one day,” I say, though we both seem to know that won’t happen for a long time. If at all.

Izzie holds the phone closer to her face. “Is that Bear?” she asks.

“Yeah. And Otter. He’s kind of like my dad. They both are, I guess.”

She touches Bear’s face. “They love each other, huh?”

“Very much.” And I miss them terribly. It’s only been days, but it feels like years.

“And they love you?”

“Yeah,” I say. “They do.”

Her finger slips and the phone scrolls to the next photo. “Who’s that?” she asks.

“That’s Dom,” I say. “Dominic.”

“Dude,” she breathes. “He could squash you with one hand!”

“Dude,” I agree. “Totally.”

“And he loves you too?”

I turn away as my eyes burn. “Yeah. He says so.” And while I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, I’ll figure it out. No more wasting time. I hope.

She hands me back my phone. “Seems like things are pretty good.”

And they are. It’s just taken me this long to realize it. I don’t need to be here. I didn’t need to come here. I’m glad I did, because Izzie is a force of nature, but I need to leave. It’s time for me to go home. It sucks to leave her behind, but I’ll only make things worse for her. I can’t have that. And I have people who need me. And who I need.

“Look, Izzie—”

The front door opens. “Izzie? I’m home. Do I have any more cigarettes here?”

“Well,” Izzie says, “this is probably going to be slightly awkward.”

Where Tyson Says Hello,

Where Tyson Says Good-bye

I
WALK
down the hall, following my little sister. It’s the longest walk of my life.

And yet, even though I’m approaching approach the woman who hurt me so in the past, all I can think of is Dom and my future. Funny how that works.

It’s because you’re strong
, Bear says.

It’s because you’re brave
, Otter says.

It’s because you’re mine
, Dom says.

So just keep on walking
, it says.
Keep on walking right out that door and never look back. Get Dom and head west, young man. Head west until you see the ocean and smell the salt and hear the cries of the birds above and the feel of the sand below.
That
is how you know you’re home.

Yes. That. All of that.

I try to remember anything about her. All those little good things mixed into the sea of bad. But it’s all gone. Wiped clean. I can’t even think. I can’t focus. My heart is racing and my skin feels cold, and I know Bear thinks I’m strong, and I know Otter thinks I’m brave, and I know I’m Dom’s because we’re inevitable, we’re all so inevitable. But it doesn’t stop my chest from hurting. My lungs from shriveling. My throat from constricting. The ground shifts beneath my feet. Everything’s bright, so very, very bright. I can’t do this, I can’t fucking do this and I—

Hey
, Bear says.

Hey, yourself
, I say back.

All you need to do is breathe
, he says.

Just breathe.

In.

Hold, one, two, three.

Out.

Hold, one, two, three….

She’s in the kitchen, her back to us. Black pants. White shirt. An apron around her waist. I hear the flick of a lighter. An inhalation of breath. A sigh. Smoke drifts up above her head. She opens a window above the sink. Blows smoke out. It’s too fucking bright in here. It feels too real.

She opens the fridge and stares into it. Almost empty. Closes the door. Opens the freezer. Closes it. Opens the cupboard. There’s a bottle of Jack, half-empty, sitting on the shelf. She stares at it. Takes another drag. Blows out smoke. Takes the Jack down and sets it on the counter.

“Izzie!” she calls.

“What?” Izzie says quietly from my side.

She doesn’t turn “Where’s my mug? The one I use. It’s not in the living room.”

“Cleaned it,” she says. “It’s where it always is when I clean it.”

“That mouth,” she says. “Watch it, girlie.”

“Mom—”

“This guy,” she laughs, and I think I might lose my mind, “came into the diner. Drunk off his ass. Made a mess of the table. Sitting there and just hollering about this and that.” She pulls the mug that I just dried minutes before from the cupboard. A couple of ice cubes go into it, just like I knew they would. “And then he tries to flirt with me, and I say I know his type.” A splash of Jack. “I don’t have time for his type.” Maybe a little more than a splash. “But then he says he don’t care. He’s seen me and he wants to know more.” She snorts as she raises the mug to her lips. “Drove a big old truck,” she says and takes a drink. “Lights across the top.” Her throat works. “Eventually got kicked out. Gave me his number, though.” Another drink. A drag on the smoke. “Who knows, kiddo? Maybe I’ll call him. I deserve a break.”

It’s like I’m five, I’m
five years old
and nothing has changed and nothing will ever change ever again.

Except there’s a queer sensation in my head when she turns, because she doesn’t fit what I have in my head from five years old. It’s still her; of course it is. I know that voice, even if I haven’t heard it in a decade. It’s like it’s imprinted in my head and I can hear her through the storm, and she’s saying things like,
Get me my lighter, Kid
, and
I have a headache, Ty, keep your voice down
, and,
Bear, take your brother out or something, okay? I can’t watch him today. I’m not feeling well. I don’t care if you have to go to work! Take him to Anna’s! Or to the Thompsons’! Lord knows Alice doesn’t work. Must be nice, having all that money.

And it’s queer, the sensation, because my mind tries to reconcile how I remember her and how she looks now. A smudged xerox copy covers the original, blurring the lines of what’s supposed to be.

She’s in her fifties now. Izzie came late. She’s tired. And old. Just like the photo. Her dark hair is shot with gray. Her skin sags. She looks beat. Smoke curls up around her face. The tips of the fingers on her right hand are yellowed from nicotine.

Those eyes, though. They’re like Bear’s. And mine. Dulled, maybe, but recognizable.

She sees me, and those eyes go wide. Not in understanding, though. No. In fear. The mug shakes in her hand. The cigarette freezes inches from her face. She doesn’t know who I am. She glances at Izzie, who stands by my side. I’m not touching her, but we’re close to each other. I smell the smoke. I almost choke on it.

She gives a little cry. A defenseless animal, caught and cornered. “Izzie,” she says, sounding out of breath and slightly hysterical. “What is this? What’s going on? What have you done?”

Izzie, more and more my sister, rolls her eyes. “What have
I
done?
I
didn’t do anything.”

“This isn’t about her,” I say.

“Isabelle, come here! Get away from him!” The mug shakes and spills Jack to the floor. Ash breaks apart from the cigarette and catches a breeze from the open window. It swirls up with the smoke around my mother’s face, like dark snow. It lands on her cheek. Leaves a smudge.

“Oh, geez, Mom! Calm down!” Izzie looks more annoyed than anything else and embarrassed, as if this somehow
is
her fault. I should have told her to stay in her room. To shut and lock the door and to not come out until I said it was okay, that it was all okay and nothing would ever be wrong again.

“Not helping, Izzie,” I say.

“I’m calling the police!” Julie McKenna cries. The mug clatters to the counter. The cigarette falls to the floor. She goes for the phone hanging on the wall. It’s chipped and cracked. Like everything else in this house. Like her. Like me.

I say, “Mom. Don’t.”

She stops. She doesn’t turn. Her back is rigid.

The air around me is thick.

Izzie sighs.

“What?” my mother says, her voice a croak. “What?”

“Just… don’t.”

She turns. Her pupils are blown out. Her face is white. Her bottom lip quivers. None of this, though, is from sadness, like I expected. I don’t know why I thought it would be. No, this is still from fear. And for a brief moment, even anger. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but I know it was there. I curl my hands into fists to keep from putting them around her throat.

She kneels down and picks the cigarette off the floor. Her gaze never leaves me. The skin of her cheek twitches. She leaves a bit of ash on the floor. Stands up. Brings the cigarette back to her lips. Inhales deeply. Holds it. One. Two. Three. Exhales the smoke through her nose. One. Two. Three.

It’s all breathing. It’s all it ever was. She knows the art of it as much as I do, and I want to scream. I want to scream so bad. Tell her that I am the way I am because of her. That she did this to me. She’s the reason I am who I am.

No
, Bear says. Or Otter. Or it, that damnable voice that never seems to leave… I don’t know anymore.
You are the way you are in
spite
of her.
She
is
the reason you are who you are, but not like you think. She left. We broke. But we found the ones to help piece us back together. We’re not the same shape. But we’re stronger because of it.

I want to believe. I do.

“Tyson,” she says, her voice flat. “What a surprise. Look at you, all grown up.”

“Izzie, go to your room,” I say quietly.

“But—” she starts.

“Please,” I say.

“No,” my mother says. “Izzie, you stay here. As a matter of fact, you come here. By me. Now.”

Izzie looks between us, conflicted. “Go,” I tell her quietly. However bad this is for me, I can leave. I can walk out the front door and never look back. Izzie can’t. At least not yet. I don’t want this to be bad for her after I’m gone. I should have thought about that before I came. As usual, I was only thinking about myself. But some part of me thinks my mother knows this, that part of me thinks she’s using Izzie as a buffer. A shield. “It’s okay.”

Izzie nods, her face tightening. As she walks away, she reaches out and touches my hand, our fingers grazing. I’m electrified and heartsore. As we touch, I feel the scrap of paper I’d given her. My number. The Green Monstrosity. Clutched in her hand.

Put it in your pocket
, I think.
Before she sees. Oh, Izzie. Hide it.

She doesn’t.

But Mom (
Julie
, I think.
She’s not my mother—she’s only Julie, Julie, Julie
) doesn’t see it, and as soon as Isabelle is within reach, she grabs her and pulls her close… but not at her side. Or behind her. She puts her in front of her, her arm around Izzie’s chest. Her daughter is now between us. She takes a final drag on the cigarette, then flicks it in the sink.

Things might have changed
, Izzie had told me,
but it’s nowhere near where it should be.