Page 4 of Breathe Again

An ache of longing twisted up like wool on a suspended spindle from my stomach.

Oh, God, how I wanted my name on a door!

I had made different choices, choices that I did not once regret, but still I grieved the possibilities I’d left behind. I didn’t want to change my choices, I wanted to change how I felt. I longed for the feeling of significance I imagined would come with the success of having my name on a door.

I reached a hand out to cover one of Olivia’s gently. She swatted me away. She wasn’t ready yet to make friends. I knew this because she turned to me and blatantly declared it to me with her death glare.

“We are not friends.”

“I’m always your friend, little bird. You can be angry, and I’ll still be your friend. I’m sorry though, I know this is hard for you.”

She gave me a look so filled with acid it could peel the paint off the walls. I waited a couple of beats and reached for her hand again. She turned her little palm and wrapped her fingers around mine.

Those little fingers wrapped around mine gave me pause to take a deep breath. My temper, which used to be a truly fearsome thing until I conquered it, had raised its ugly head again. I blamed my mother for it. I snorted to myself. Of course, I blamed my mother. I’m a cliche. Overweight, approaching middle age, unsatisfied with life, it must be my mother’s fault.

In all honesty, the woman was driving me more than the usual crazy. Olivia and I visited her the day before. Poor planning on my part to do that the day before a hospital visit. There was no telling which Bea Mills I would get: the fun-loving, sweet-natured grandmother, or the critical shrew speaking in sweet dulcet tones.

Yesterday, I got the shrew.

She called in the morning and asked me to come over with Olivia for a visit. She sounded upbeat. This gave me hope, though it nevermeant anything. She could be sad and down and turn on me, she could be upbeat and cheerful and turn on me.

If Olivia was there, she served as a buffer. I disgusted myself for even thinking about Olivia as a buffer, but truth was truth and visits were easier for me when Olivia was with me because my mother behaved better.

We arrived shortly after lunch. With the recent freezing temperatures, I hadn’t wanted to leave the house. The cheer of Christmas lights and greenery had all been stripped away, the winter sky reflected dull shades of white, and the landscape lay bleak and colorless.

I dressed for the visit, in part to cheer myself, in part to ward off advice about needing to work to keep my man. I wore my long, straight, heavy-knit, black skirt, with my new ankle boots Willa and I bought before Christmas. Willa, my thirteen years younger sister, was a beauty.

She wore her curly hair to her shoulders, and it served as a perfect frame for her exquisite face with its wide smiling mouth, pert nose, liberal dusting of freckles and fantastic eyes. Her iris, a blue so dark it was almost black, the backdrop to a multitude of striations so pale they appeared to be white, made her eyes look like the night sky streaked with lightning. Tall, curvy, legs for miles, she could wear anything, and lucky for me, she had an eye for what looked good on me as well.

She picked out the fitted fuchsia camisole that peeked out from under my black, boat-neck, hip-hugging sweater that she had also chosen, albeit several years ago.

I was happy with my look. I felt feminine, almost sophisticated. A little lengthening mascara and tinted lip gloss finished me off and I was good to go.

Olivia wore her typical uniform of track pants and t-shirt, Hogwarts hoodie, seamless socks, and her running shoes that she’d run into the ground but wouldn’t give up because they were ‘finally comfortable.’ Boots were an evil she avoided at any cost, to the point of risking frostbite. I kept her boots in the car in the winter in the event of an emergency, which is what it would take to get Olivia to put them on.

There was going to be hell to pay when the braces came in.

“Helloooo my love!” Bea greeted Olivia with enthusiasm. She opened her arms and Olivia walked straight in for her hug. “Give Gran-Gran a kiss!”

“I don’t like kisses.” Olivia stepped back.

“What do you mean you don’t like kisses?” Bea exclaimed as though this was new information.

It irritated me how she always received this piece of information with surprise.

“I don’t like kisses.” Olivia repeated.

“Well, I’ll remember that when you ask me for a kiss! See if I give you one!”

Irritation did not begin to describe how much this bothered me.

“If you don’t want to kiss someone, that’s your decision, Mom,” I replied. “It’s Olivia’s decision if she wants to kiss someone. She doesn’t have to kiss anybody and neither do you.”

I said this for Olivia’s benefit, to reinforce what I had taught her. In no way did I expect my mother to heed me. If there was any doubt, her tight-lipped smile assured me my words fell on fallow ground.

Olivia tiptoed over to her favorite chair in Bea’s living room and rooted around in her bag of happiness that she carted around with her.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Olivia replied in her matter-of-fact manner, then reiterated, “I don’t like kisses.”

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