Page 37 of Breathe Again

My journal lay open on the table in front of me. I was attempting to reconcile some of the things I’d written in the past six months with how good I felt presently. If someone told me I’d written those things, I wouldn’t have believed them, but the evidence was all there in indigo ink, in my handwriting, and could not be denied. It didn’t even seem possible for so many feelings, and so much despair, to exist inside one body.

It was past time for Olivia to get up. I had let her sleep in a bit as the weekend had been busier than usual for us, and busy days usually affected her mood and energy levels.

Quite often we visited my mom on Mondays, I wasn’t so sure that could happen today. I was tired from the weekend; I was betting Olivia would be too. Although I usually tried to get her academics done in the morning, I decided to just allow myself extra time to relax with my coffee, (my second cup!) and write for a few minutes before waking her. She came stumbling into the sunroom just as I finished.

“Good morning, little bird!” I exclaimed, surprised to see her.

“Good morning, mommy,” she mumbled.

She walked over to me, leaning her little hip against my side as she rubbed her eyes. She was tired. Hmmm. This did not bode well for my plans. Time to reassess.

“You hungry, little bird?”

She nodded, yawned.

“French toast?”

She nodded again.

“You want to go have your shower while I make it?”

I felt her refusal before she spoke. “No.”

“After breakfast?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay.” I sighed.

I reminded myself that getting her out and enjoying herself was just as important, maybe even more important, than the academics, and if a day off school was the cost of a busy weekend, it was worth paying.

After breakfast, the house phone rang. It was my mother. Even though we were not doing school, it irritated me that she was calling at that hour when I’d repeatedly asked her not to call in the morning unless it was an emergency. She called often and it was never urgent, not to any normal thinking and functioning human being.

I stared at the number on the display, daring myself to ignore it. I couldn’t do it.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mara, dear.”

“Hi, mom.” I waited.

I knew she wanted me to ask how she was so she could give me a rundown of the chores she’d done so far or launch into her litany of complaints about her friends, but I wasn’t going to. I could manage that level of defiance.

“Mara? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” I replied politely.

“You’re not saying anything.”

“You called me.”

“Well! I was just finishing my breakfast and starting to make my plans for the week when I realized you usually come over on Mondays. What time are you coming?”

“We’re not coming today, Mom. We had a busy weekend. We saw you Saturday, then we visited Dean and Sophie, and on Sunday we visited Bex and Rhys. We’re peopled out. Staying home today.”

“So, you had a busy weekend and I lose my Monday?” she challenged.

“What do you mean you lose your Monday?” I was struggling to maintain my polite tone. I hated feeling fenced in.

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