Hold My Breath (7 page)

“You know it’s not,” he says, only glancing up to me for a beat before looking down again.

I watch him wrestle with himself, with the demons in his own heart and mind. He shakes his head and draws his mouth in tight again before pulling his hands from his pockets and resting them on the edge of my window.

“I’m just sorry, Maddy. Last night…I wanted to tell you that,” he says, his fingers sliding from their grip and falling back to his sides as he takes a step backward.

This time, I’m the one who can’t look up all the way. My mouth works independent of my best judgment.

“I’m meeting Amber here at nine. In the lobby. I’m taking her to the Mill. You…” I swallow once, fast. “You should come.”

I peer up, somehow not surprised when my eyes meet the perfect blue of his. A second or two passes before he smiles faintly.

“Probably not a good idea,” he says, turning his wrist over and tapping along a small tattoo. From here it looks like a series of lines, almost like a sketch-drawn barcode. I don’t know what it means, but I understand enough from his tone that it’s probably a symbol that reminds him of his worst self,
avoiding
that self.

“Right,” I say. “Bars probably aren’t a great idea.”

His lip ticks up in a silent laugh.

“Like a sparkler at a gas station,” he says.

I laugh quietly with him, nothing about any of it really funny. It’s the sad kind of truthful laugh that fades away with regrets and weakness.

“I’ve got some things I need to do, anyway. I’m not sure I’d make it back in time,” he says.

“More estate things?” I ask.

My question is innocuous but there’s something about the way his eyes snap to mine. His mouth parts, but he doesn’t speak right away. When he finally does, it’s strange, like he’s repeating some line he knows will work and not beg for questions. He sounds like he’s lying.

“Just more papers.”

He shrugs, his mouth shut tight. His eyes dare mine for a few seconds, a half smile plays out on his lips, and I feel questions swirling around my head. This estate should have been settled four years ago. Even things that could come up—the unexpected, like debts—would be dealt with by now. Four tax cycles have passed. Either something else has gone wrong with it, like maybe Will drained it all in a few short years, partying hard and driving fast, or he’s not dealing with his family’s estate at all. He’s dealing with—
or doing—
something else. And if his recent past is any indication, those other things aren’t going to be good for his swimming, and the risk is also there for my father and this club.

“Papers,” I repeat the word, “or…whatever.”

His eyes flair a touch, so I hold his stare long enough to force him to respond. He takes a deep breath and backs away a step from my car, a slight shake to his head, like he’s warning me not to dig too deep.

“You always shot straight with me, Will,” I say, a tightness taking over in my chest.

“I did,” he says, his eyes blinking twice, his mouth closed tight. I note the careful choice in words, the past tense.

“You shooting straight with me now?” I ask, my pulse now constant.

Will sucks in his top lip, his hands finding his pockets while he puffs air from his nose, his head down as he laughs silently. He cocks his head to one side, his eyes leveling me. I’m sick because I want to know, and I’m praying for him not to say anything.

“I’ll see you Monday then, I guess,” he says.

We stare at each other for a few more seconds, my hand poised on the button for my window. Will nods one more time before I push it, and I watch him in my rearview mirror as I drive away. I look at him for as long as I can. He never moves. He never tells me a thing.

Straight shot
my ass.

* * *

* * *

I
t’s
a little over a two-hour drive to Indianapolis. Without Uncle Duncan in the car, I make it just under two. It’s noon when I roll up to her house, right in time for lunch. The van is out front, and I’m glad to see it there. At least one thing I’ve helped Tanya with has gone right.

I sit at the edge of the driveway for a few minutes thinking about Maddy, but looking at the doorway to my real responsibilities. I’m taking on too much; I know I am. But Tanya’s the one who convinced me to compete again. She said I needed to do one thing for me. And at least while I’m training in Knox, I’ll be able to drive to her house to help with things rather than having her save them up for whenever I can get myself to make the trip. Flights…they’re still hard for me.

I kill the engine, and the front door opens. She’s wearing sweat pants and a large State T-shirt, her blonde hair twisted in a knot on top of her head. She looks exhausted. I’m not helping enough.

“Thanks for driving in, Will. I’m really sorry. I know you were just here, but I didn’t expect the lift to come in so quickly. I tried to figure it out, but some of those parts are so dang heavy,” she says.

I grasp both of her shoulders and slow her down. She closes her eyes and exhales, her shoulders slumping. She blinks them open, and this close, I can really see the circles around them.

“I don’t mind driving here at all. Ever. Okay?”

She breathes in again, holding it for a second then huffing out stress that I know will begin rebuilding again in seconds.

“Okay,” she says, a forced smile stretching into her cheeks.

“Show me the equipment,” I say.

Tanya leads me through the living room of the small two-bedroom home, and we pass through boxes of medical supplies and stacks of clean towels, linens, and a few baskets of unfinished laundry. She glances at me sheepishly when I have to step over a pile of more clothes to get into the kitchen.

“Sometimes it’s hard to keep up,” she says.

I look around at the state of her house. She looks buried in life.

“Maybe I should come stay here…just for a little while,” I start, but she laughs to herself and reaches for my hand, squeezing it.

“I’ll catch up, Will. You can’t come here and drive to train every day,” she says.

I chew at the inside of my cheek, my mouth tasting of guilt as I nod and agree with her. She’s right. I couldn’t keep up with training at the Shore Club if I lived here. Doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do, though.

“At least let me hire you some help? In-home care, or a nurse, or…”

She holds up a box labeled LIFT MECHANISM, interrupting me before I can continue offering solutions that will never be enough to fill in for everything she needs. What she needs is me…here…full time.

“How about you figure this out instead, and then I’ll get Dylan up, and we can try out this whole van thing with his new power chair? You do that, and we’ll call it even,” she says, looking up at me through her lashes.

I shake my head and take the box in my hand, pulling out a booklet that unfolds into pages of tiny-print instructions. I drop the box to the floor and begin to read, rubbing the back of my neck wondering if I’m smart enough to even know where to begin.

“See, you do this, and we’re even,” she laughs, stepping around the laundry pile toward her refrigerator.

“For once, Tanya, I think that sounds fair,” I say, glancing at her then back down to step one of 178.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“Lots,” I say.

* * *

I
t takes
me a little more than two hours and six phone calls to my Uncle Duncan to get the lift mechanism working and attached to the van. For such a small part, it serves an incredibly enormous function. We test it on our own a few times before moving the electric wheelchair down the hallway to Dylan’s door.

“He’s just napping. He gets so tired, and we had therapy this morning,” she whispers.

I push the door open slowly, and Dylan doesn’t stir until I kneel at the edge of his bed and grab his hand in both of mine. My touch startles him, but the second his eyes focus and he realizes it’s me, he begins to squirm and moan with excitement. His fingers fight against their rigidity, and I force mine into his, massaging his impossible muscles and joints, wishing I knew how to make things okay for him.

“How’s the new therapy going?” I ask, leaning forward and pressing my head to Dylan’s. It calms him when I do this; it always has. He smiles, and I can see he’s grown another tooth. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper to him.

“It’s hard to tell. We’ve only been at it for three days or so. But you know Dylan; he’s up for anything,” she says.

“He is,” I say, smiling.

His hand comes loose from my grip, so I lean back on my heels and let Dylan work to steady himself. His severe cerebral palsy has kept him non-verbal, but the doctors we met with a few days ago told us we weren’t too late to be aggressive with speech therapy.

“What do you say, Dylan? Wanna take this new chair and van for a ride?” I ask.

“You’ll need to help him in, but he’s already figured out the forward and back. He doesn’t steer very well, though, so I keep it on the lowest speed,” she says, while I lift his small, struggling body into the seat.

“I’m good at patching walls. I broke a lot of them roughhousing when I was little,” I chuckle.

“You and Evan? Hard to imagine,” she says.

I laugh lightly to myself before giving all of my attention over to Dylan. Tanya was right about his comfort in the chair, and he begins to palm at the controls quickly, his fingers finding the right switch, sending the chair forward. He bangs the corner of the doorjamb only once on his way out and manages to get down the hallway without much trouble. The ramp I built during my last visit seems to be able to handle the weight of the chair, and within a few minutes, with Tanya’s guidance, he’s moved himself to the open door of the van.

It takes us several tries to line him up just right, but the first time the lift raises him, Dylan begins to hoot loudly and clap his curled hands. I hold a fist to my mouth and pull Tanya to my side, letting her cry at the sight of her son finally being able to go for a ride in something safe. Until now, she’s been carrying him to the backseat of her old car and laying him down, strapping him in with the belts and avoiding major roads, hoping she wouldn’t get in an accident. He’d gotten too heavy for her to carry, and I finally convinced her to let me buy some of the things she so desperately needs. As far as this takes her, though, she still has so many hurdles to overcome. The more times we practice with the lift, the more the weight of it all hits my chest, and the more guilt I feel for letting her do this alone.

We get Dylan back inside. He watches television in the living room, and I sit with Tanya at the table, finishing the pot of coffee she brewed. I slide my empty cup on the table and pry hers from her hand, holding on to her small fingers.

“We could make this work. Let me stay here. We’ll just see how it goes,” I say, my eyes pleading with her.

She runs her thumb across my knuckles and turns my palm over in both of hers, running her fingers along the lines tattooed on my wrist.

“I count twelve here, Will. That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you,” she says. I look down at my skin, the last line still pink around the edges.