Page 43 of Keeping It Professional

Iwoke to brief panic with the sun in my face, my phone vibrating pressed up on my leg. The first thought that struck me was, I was at work. I’d dozed off at the wheel and that buzz was dispatch. The radio crackling,wake up. Wake up.But even as the thought coalesced in my head, my panic was fading. That wasn’t right. I was curled in bed snug as a bug, Sophie’s slow breathing soft at my back. We’d dozed off at sunrise, the room red with dawn. I’d set my alarm. Time to get up.

My panic surged back. I snatched up my phone. But I’d slept through its buzzing exactly three minutes. I was fine. I had tons of time. I sat up and yawned.

“Don’t,” mumbled Sophie. “Leave me alone.”

I leaned in to check on her and she was still sleeping, the quilt pulled half-up over her face. She murmured unhappily when I pulled away, and drew the covers around her when I slid off the bed. I waited to see if she’d open her eyes, but she just burrowed deeper into her nest. It felt rude to sneak out without saying a word, but ruder to wake her, so I got dressed. She hadn’t stirred by the time I was done, so I shuffled out quietly in my sock feet. Iwent to her kitchen and stole one of her protein bars, and raided her fridge for a glass of OJ. By daylight, her place was pleasant and bright, her kitchen the cleanest I’d ever seen. Big windows looked out on a frozen backyard, an old wooden garden shed shrouded in snow.

I ate my protein bar and swept the crumbs down the sink, and stuffed the foil in my pocket when I couldn’t find the trash. I rinsed out my juice glass and put it away. Then I pulled on my boots and headed back down the hall, and I’d have kept walking if not for the bird.

It was out in the garden, perched in a tree, and it startled and flew off when I passed the living room door. I turned to look at it, but I mostly saw snow. Snow from the branches, knocked loose by its flight. The morning sun dazzled through it and I flinched away, and my eyes came to rest on a stack of boxes. Sophie was maybe halfway unpacked, one side of the room packed full of knickknacks. The other side was bare still except for one photo, up in a frame on the mantel.

I shouldn’t have looked at it.

I should’ve walked by.

But I was curious, and it was out in plain view.

I crossed the room without thinking and picked up the small frame, and all the color went out of my day. The picture itself was nothing out of the ordinary — a girl in pigtails, about twelve years old. Her mom and her dad leaning into the shot. But the girl was Sophie, grinning ear to ear. Her mom had one hand on her shoulder, protective. Her dad had his arm out to reach for her mom. He was laughing at something, his eyes crinkled up. It wasn’t a great shot — her mom’s ear was cut off, her dad’s headhalf-turned. But this was her family the way she remembered. The family she’d lost, frozen in time.

I set it back on the mantel and turned away, but I could still see them crowded into the frame. I had the same photo, me and Nick. Mom and Dad. It was one of those fairground shots you got on the coaster, where the camera snapped you on the big drop. Like Sophie’s portrait, it wasn’t high art. Nick was screaming his head off, and so was I. Mom was yelling at Dad. Dad was fighting a sneeze. I had chocolate ice cream streaked down my shirt.

I dug in my pocket and pulled out my wallet. Checked on the photo. It was still there. It had faded some in the years since it had been shot. A water stain had wiped out the design on Dad’s shirt. But Nick’s face was clear, caught in a scream. One of those laugh-screams, like a hyena. He’d half-laughed, half-hollered all the way down, and around the loop-de-loop, and through the grotto. At the end of the ride, he’d begged to go again. Mom hadn’t wanted to, so she’d bought the photo. The rest of us had gone on for one more ride.

I’d looked for other pictures a few years back, when I saw the water stain, and how the colors were fading. But Dad had just sighed and said they were gone. I’d got it out of Mom later, he’d moved them to storage. When he’d gone back to get them, mold had got in.

I folded my wallet back and tucked it away. Turned to go, and my head swam. I caught myself on the back of the couch.

When I closed my eyes, my stomach dropped out. I heard Nick scream again, that high-pitched laugh-scream. I saw his mouth wide-stretched, frozen mid-shriek. Mid-shriek, mid-gasp. He clawed at his throat. I turned around and I thought he wasjoking, doing that zombie thing where he pretended to die. But then he was drooling. He dropped to his knees.

“Nick?”

He looked up at me, white-eyed, red-faced. Lips stretched thin and bloodless, gaping for air. Not joking. Choking. I thumped on his back. His whole body heaved, but nothing came up. Nothing helped, nothing worked. Nick wouldn’t breathe. Not when I thumped him or punched him in the gut. Not when I hung him off the side of the bed. He was limp by that time. Covered in spit. He’d wet himself, too. Wet both of us. I thought it was me at first, pissing in terror, and it scared me worse when I saw it was Nick.

I grunted in pain as my knees thumped the hardwood, not in our old room, but here. Somewhere else. A big room, a bright room. Sophie’s front room. I’d stopped breathing, and now I started again, gulping in agonized swallows of air. How long had it been till I’d yelled out for Mom? Till Dad had come running and tried the Heimlich? Two minutes? Five minutes?

Don’t think about that.

I breathed in through my nose. Sophie’s voice in my head. Normally, it was Brian’s, or sometimes my own. I listened to it anyway because this wasn’t right. I’d moved on from all this, the flashbacks. The panic. I saved lives now. I didn’t end them.

That’s right. Just focus. Head in the game.

Work. I had work. I pulled out my phone. My hand shook at first, then I sniffed a deep breath. I thumbed the screen and the clock came up, ten fifteen. Plenty of time still. Fine. This was fine. I’d get to work by eleven, do my maintenance check. The routine would calm me. Get my head straight. This wasn’t like last time, when I’d nearly flamed out.

You’ve got this. You’re good. Get up. Don’t be late.

I stood up, knees popping, and rubbed my stiff back. I felt sore all over and tight in the chest, like I’d just run a marathon in the wet summer heat. I was sweating as well, and I wiped my face with my sleeve.

Just a day, just a normal day. Get through today.

I started for the door, then my heart did a stutter-step. I stopped, turned around, and marched back down the hall. Back down to Sophie’s room. She was still sleeping. I stood and stared at the curve of her back, at her fist knotted up in her faded old quilt. Her breathing was so slow I couldn’t see it, except in the stirring of a few strands of hair, quivering lightly with each exhale.Fragile, I thought. Small. Breakable. But she wasn’t, was she, when she was awake?

I stood there, half wanting to crawl in beside her, half tensed and ready to run for my life. She’d leave me one day, by choice or by fate. I’d lose her. I’d reach for her and find her not there.

She knew how that felt, to reach for someone not there.

She’d understand, if I woke her right now. If I told her what I’d seen in her photo and in my head. She’d know because she’d been there, and she was all right. She’d come through it strong, and so had I. We had that in common, so…

So…

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