Page 38 of Breathe Again

“My Monday visit, with you and Olivia.”

I took a deep breath. “First, you don’t own Mondays, we come when we can, second, we saw you on Saturday.”

“It’s not the same when Zale is here, too. I love visits with him, but I like to have my girls to myself sometimes, too.”

“You usually have us to yourself.” I started attempting to appease her, but I lost patience. “Whatever. We can’t come today. Wednesday might work.”

I cringed. I’d offered without thinking things through, and Bea was nothing if not inflexible. If she accepted, I’d be stuck, and I hadn’t even looked at the week’s schedule. Wednesday might be a terrible idea.

In any case, I had planned to take Olivia swimming and if that went well, to Bayview Mall. Social skills were important, and she wasn’t going to develop those perched on my mother’s living room couch while my mother politely insulted me in her kitchen.

“I’ll take it. I’ll exchange my Monday for Wednesday this week. Come after lunch though, I have Bingo in the morning and my girls usually take me out for lunch afterwards to cheer me up. They take good care of me. They understand what it is to grieve, Mara. They’ve lost husbands, too.”

“So, they’re not taking you out especially, you’re all going out together.” I strove to clarify, having the niggling feeling that something was off.

“Well, no. They know how sensitive I am and how losing your father affected me. The grief is quite crippling, and they’ve been very good.”

“Aren’t they grieving the same as you?”

“What are you saying, Mara?”

“I’m saying, they’re grieving, yet they are taking you out all the time. Aren’t they grieving as well?”

“What’s that got to do with me?” she asked irritably.

I was dumbfounded. “Nothing, never mind.”

She sniffed. “You don’t know what it’s like, and I pray you won’t for a long time, but it’s so very difficult to be a widow, Mara.Especially when one of your children abandons you, and the other is too busy half of the time.”

I cut her off. “Sorry, Mom, I’ve got to go. As you know, I homeschool in the mornings, and I’ve got to get started.”

She chuckled. “Mara, you can’t expect me to remember your schedule.”

I responded, “And yet, it seems, I do. I do expect you to remember not to call in the mornings unless it’s an emergency.”

She sniffed again. “I’m sorry, I was just missing you, wanted to make sure you were still coming.”

I sighed. As soon as I found a bit of backbone she would say something I could find no fault with. “It’s fine, mom, but I’ve got to go now. I'll see you Wednesday.”

I ended the call, noting I suddenly felt as bagged as Olivia looked.

A movie day turned out to be the best we could do. Olivia was quiet. I was quiet. Zale was quiet when he got home, as well.

I felt like the worst kind of daughter, a poor excuse for a mother, and a sad excuse of a wife. I puttered around the sunroom when Zale headed off to bed, telling him I’d be there in a few minutes.

The truth was, I didn’t feel good about keeping things from him. Our whole relationship was beginning to feel like a lie. How could it not be? I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

Research Mode

Mara

For years now there has been a weapon lodged in my chest, positioned beneath my heart, embedded within the cage of my ribs. Its sharp edges inflame the delicate intercostal muscles between my ribs and lacerate my heart. It takes up space, makes it difficult to breathe, shallow breaths only so as not to puncture my lungs.

Although there were treasured times when it was barely discernible, I no longer remember how it feels to live without it. It swells and shrinks at will, with spikes that sharpen and dull, spikes that when dull, are almost a comfort in their familiarity. I can sense its borders, feel its weight, my nerveendings cringing and curling away from its sharp points that strive to build upon the scar tissue as I breathe through the stabbing pain it delivers.

I map its shape in my imagination. I look up medieval weapons on the internet, sure that I know what it is, and I am correct. A spiked ball suspended from a chain, every spike a pointed weapon designed to cut me down, take my breath, silence my voice. It shreds me from the inside, keeping me curled protectively around my pain, my attention bent on survival and not escape. It is a morning star.

I should not have avoided him last night.

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