The Last Exhale (6 page)

Or I could go home to an empty apartment.

My hands betray common sense by shutting off the ignition. My legs betray my better judgment by pulling me out the truck and leading me toward the gym's entrance.

I mess around with a few weights to give her time to finish her workout. Before long, I feel myself breaking a sweat. I finish the rep, clean the machine off, sip water from the fountain.

“Okay, which one are you?” Sydney asks.

“What, you mean you can't tell?”

That gets a laugh.

I was right. This could be fun.

“Taking it easy tonight,” she says more than asks.

I rub the back of my head. “Actually, I had no plans to work out.”

“So, why are you here? To make jokes again?”

My eyes connect with hers and I say, “To see you.”

Sydney blushes. “You are relentless. Are you like this all the time?”

“Depends.” I pick up two twenty-pound dumbbells to do a few curls. “How many miles you run?”

She wipes her forehead with a towel. “A lot more than last time.”

“I can tell.”

“How so?”

She follows my eyes to her lower torso.

“Are we back to that again?”

I shrug, put the weights down.

“Look, I've always been a sweater. Even sweat in my sleep.”

“I'm sure that has to be tough on the hubby.”

She holds up her index finger. “I am not, I repeat, not about to have this conversation with you.”

Light chuckles as we walk over to the mats.

Sydney plops down, bends one leg inward, stretches the other leg outward. She lifts her head in my direction. “Why do you always want to know how far I've run?” she inquires.

“To be honest, runners intrigue me.”

“Oh, so it's just my running?”

“What else would it be?” I stand back a little, rest my arm on the wooden arm rail. “Are you flirting with me, Mrs. Holmes?”

Again, she blushes.

Maybe I'm the one flirting. I back off. “No, seriously. Runners have this confidence about them. It's like all they have to do is put on a pair of sneakers and nothing else in the world matters.”

Sydney nods, bends the other leg inward. Sole to sole, she stretches her inner thighs. “Well, speaking for myself, nothing does matter when I run. It's the perfect stress-reliever.”

“What's got you stressed now?”

Two people walk into the gym. Breaks up our moment.

Instead of answering, she gets up, walks over to the water fountain
and takes a few sips; licks her lips. Then slips into the restroom.

Not sure what's gotten into me tonight. It's been a while since I've had a real conversation with another woman in years. Guess the stress with Rene and not being able to communicate with her has me jumping at conversation with anybody. Maybe it was out of line to get personal with my questions, but, I have to admit, the conversation flows easily with Sydney.

She walks right past me when she comes out of the restroom, goes over to the storage rack to grab her stuff.

I walk over. “Did I offend you?”

“Look, Brandon. I doubt I would've said anything to you if I hadn't mistaken you for someone else. The conversation has already gone on longer than it should have.”

“Understandable. Sorry if I've overstepped my boundaries.”

“Well, I'm sure I'll see you again since we both work out here. Hopefully, it won't be too awkward.”

“Can I ask you something?”

She nods.

“I'm thinking about running my first half-marathon in November and I was wondering if you would help me train for it. You know, give me some pointers and such.”

Without answering, she walks out the door.

When I get in from the gym, Eric and the kids are sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn watching
Happy Feet 2.

“Mommy,” EJ yells, “come watch
Happy Feet
with us,” and pats the space on the sofa next to him.

“Mommy stinks from the gym. Let me shower and I'll be down in a few.”

“Aircorn.” Eric throws a piece of popcorn up in the air to distract EJ while I run up the stairs.

As soon as my bare feet hit the tile in the shower, tears overtake me. I slide down the wall and cry into bent knees.

Downstairs is a good man. A good man who loves me and our kids. Eric's never cheated on me, never called me outside my name. Never raised his hands toward me in anger. He's worked the same job since we met. Pays the majority of the bills. Picks the kids up from school, helps me with the chores. I can't think of anything he's done wrong, yet I'm up here flirting with the twin brother of our daughter's teacher. What kind of woman am I? Many women would kill for a husband like mine.

A tap on the door jars me from my madness. I stand up, stick my whole head under the water. Do my best to keep my emotions in check. “Yes?”

My husband walks in, cracks open the shower door. “You okay in here? Been in here for a while.”

I lather my hair with shampoo. “Yeah. Running all this week has my hair in need of a good wash.”

He rubs his thumbs across my eyes. “Must've gotten some shampoo in your eyes; they're red.”

“Must have.”

He stands there for a second, just looking at me.

“Hey, babe, can you shut the door. Letting the steam out.”

“You sure you're okay?” he asks again.

“I'm fine, babe. My woman-time is about to come on and has my emotions out of whack. You know how that goes,” I say in between sniffles.

“I'll put the kids to bed and when you get out, I'll give you a nice rub down.”

My lips part into a half-smile.

Eric nods, closes the door, and heads out of the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he's back with a cup of hot tea and a warm bottle of massage oil.

This is exactly why I have to stay as far away from Brandon as possible.

No one leaves a good man.

I
t's a quarter after eight and still no sign of Sydney at the gym. It was the same story last night. She hasn't been back since I let my mouth run the wrong course. Seems like miscommunication with women, or the lack of communication, is becoming the story of my life. I'm either saying the wrong thing or the right thing at the wrong time.

I grab my cell to dial my brother's number. Four rings later, his voicemail alerts me he's unavailable at the moment. I click the phone off before hearing the beep to leave a message.

Two nights in a row I've wasted waiting on another man's wife. Doesn't make any sense.

Wife. Speaking of which, I left mine a week ago and have yet to hear from her. I thought she would've at least called to make sure I was okay, that nothing had happened to me, that I wasn't run off the road by a drunk driver or something. She's definitely not the same woman I fell in love with almost a decade ago.

Instead of heading to my apartment, I find myself driving a path I rarely drive. Haven't been here since my son passed away. My wheels turn into DelCosta Funeral Home. I pull into the back of the building and use my key to unlock the service door.

I see Rene, but she doesn't see me. She has on a long white coat, black gloves, a mask covering her nose and mouth, goggles over her eyes. I watch as two men enter through another door, wheeling
a table with a white bag on it. They grab the bag from each end and place it on the table in front of Rene. The two men wheel the now empty table out of the room, leaving Rene to herself again. She unzips the bag, stares at the man's body for about five minutes. Walks around him, views him from different angles. She takes one of his stiff hands in hers, closes her eyes, says a sincere prayer before rinsing his body with hot water and bleach, sprays him with more water and a soapy solution, and again with water.

I nearly gag as the smell of death begins to invade my nostrils. I cover my nose and mouth with my shirt, try to quickly fill my nostrils with the scent of life.

Rene slides the bag from under the man, rinses and places it in a bin with other bags to be sanitized for later use. She then covers the man with a white sheet.

I watch through a storage room window as she tosses her mask and soiled gloves in the trash. She removes her goggles, sprays them with a clear solution before placing on the shelf for another day's use. Her lab coat comes off next. It's placed on a rack and sprayed with a can of Lysol. She turns off the classical music and lights. Her footsteps stop in front of the door I'm behind. We're so close I can hear her hesitated breathing.

My heart pounds heavily against my chest.

“Rene,” one of the male voices calls out.

“I'm coming,” she says.

Finally, I'm able to breathe again as I hear her footsteps fade in the dark. A few minutes go by before I step out of hiding and into the hallway.

I find myself creeping up the stairs to the owner's office. A shallow light reflects off the hardwood floor underneath the door. I turn the knob slowly, see my wife nursing a half-filled glass of clear liquid.

We make eye contact.

“What took you so long to come up?” she questions.

“How'd you know I was here?” I do a poor job hiding my voyeuristic shame.

“I smelled you.”

The fact that she could pick up my scent in a place saturated with death surprises me. Then again, her nose is trained for the aroma of death. Anything smelling different would put one on alert.

My eyes stare in her direction. Her face holds much more softness than Sydney's, but her eyes look as vacant as a midnight sky with no stars.

The window behind her desk is open. I can see the moon's reflection ripple on top of the lake. A burning candle is on the windowsill. Another one's on her desk. A third one is on the table, burning next to her drink. One tranquil, one citrus, another earthy. A mixture of moods floating in one room.

Rene's eyes are on mine when I notice an open cabinet next to the door. Inside are about twenty or so different bottles of hard liquor. I guess this is how she decompresses at the end of a day filled with death. And all this time I thought that's what the baths and red wine were for.

“Those are for nights like tonight,” she answers my silent inquisition.

I sit on the sofa next to her. “I saw you downstairs with the body. Saw you hold his hand.”

“Wesley Washington.”

“Sounds like you knew him.”

She nods. “He was a cop who worked for us every weekend on traffic patrol for the last four years. I could always depend on Wes. He was a good worker.” The glass of clear liquid comes up to her lips. She swallows slowly. “A good friend.”

The way she says that pinches at my ego. A husband's supposed to be a good friend, not another man. “How'd he die?”

She holds the drink in her hand, but doesn't drink. Just holds it and stares. “Cancer.” The drink that temporarily rinses all pain away nears Rene's lips. She takes the rest in one hard swallow.

I want to reach my arm over her shoulder and pull her close, do for her what she depends on the drink to do. She gets up before I have the chance to do anything.

She stands by the window gazing out at the man-made lake. “Why'd you move out?”

I knew the question would come sooner than later. I was hoping for later. “I think you already know the answer.”

Her voice cracks. “What's happening to me?”

My heart stops beating as my feet move in her direction. I wrap my arms around her, try to hold her together before she completely breaks. I do that while fighting back my own emotions.

The woman I've loved for so long is still inside. She's fighting with the woman she's become. Maybe if I hold her tight enough, I can pull the real her out, like Logan did Jean Grey in
X-Men: The Last Stand.
If only for a moment, long enough for her to love me back.

Rene pulls away. Her eyes darken. “Why are you here?” Her Phoenix side is stronger. “Just leave.”

I have to become Wolverine. “I already left.”

And with that, I walk out. Again.

I drive into the parking lot of Pick Your Fit.

This is the same time I've run into Brandon here twice. I'm not here to work out this time. I'm here with an option.

An SUV swerves into an empty parking spot, almost swiping off my side mirror. A crazed-looking man who looks like he hasn't shaved since Jesus walked the earth jumps out, slams his door shut, does the same to the trunk after he grabs a bag out of it. He flings the bag over his shoulder and chirps the alarm to his truck on.

I slink down in the driver's seat, hoping he doesn't see me. He doesn't.

Everything in me tells me to leave the madman to his madness and drive home to a man of calmness. Why am I here?

I honk my horn, roll down my window. “Tough day?” I ask, throwing all sensibility out the window.

He slows his stampede, turns around with furrowed brows and flared nostrils. He sees me, smoothes out the anger in his face.

“Let me guess, every barber within a forty-mile radius was booked today and your wife used the last razor to shave her—”

Brandon just stands there and stares at me.

I put my attempt to be funny on pause. “I never was good at telling jokes,” I say.

Brandon walks back toward my car. “Wasn't expecting to see you anytime soon.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting to see myself around here either.”

“Ahh.”

“C'mon. Where's the jokey-joke guy I met a few days ago?”

He shrugs broad shoulders. “Guess he doesn't want to come out and play today.”

“Wanna talk about it?” I want to slap myself for asking that.

No response.

“Ohhhhkay.” I turn my eyes away from him for a moment to break the stare. I restart the engine, tell him, “I came by to see if you're serious about running. If so, meet me tomorrow. Six a.m. Riverpoint Park. Google it if you don't know where it is. Show up a minute late and you'll just have to find someone else to help you train.” I roll the window back up and put the car in reverse.