Breath (26 page)

“So until you get another one . . . more time for me?”

He hugged her, breathed her in. Smiling, he murmured, “All the time in the world for you.”

“Love you,” she whispered.

“Me too.” And then Bill Ballard kissed his girl—kissed her and kissed her, and she kissed him back.

The ice cream melted.

Neither of them cared.

“I can’t believe you quit your job,” Sue Miller said. “I thought you loved your work.”

Missy sighed and slumped down in her chair. “Me too.” She was glad that her sister had been home when she’d called. Four years ago, the notion of her voluntarily talking to Sue would have been insane. But the two had grown close in the last few years. Missy had found a new appreciation for her sister, especially once Missy had gone to live on her college’s campus. The magic of living in separate time zones had done wonders for their relationship. “But the hours were crazy, and the work could be murder.”

“You gonna take time off
? Or are you looking for something else?” A pause, in which Missy could practically hear Sue leering. “Or is your mysterious boy toy gonna morph into your sugar daddy?”

“Yeah,” Missy said. “Um. We sort of broke up.”

Sue shrieked, “You
what?
”

Missy held the phone away from her ear. When the echo faded, she said, “Thanks, I wasn’t half deaf until now, always been meaning to try it . . .”

“What
happened?
”

“Well, addendum: We’re not
over
over,” Missy said. “Just sort of on a break. For now.”

“His suggestion? Or yours?”

“Mine.” And that had been even harder than telling him that she wouldn’t pick up the Sword again. But it was the right decision. “He’s going through some personal stuff right now,” she said, trying to be nonchalant. “Changes, you know? He needs some time to himself, to figure things out.”

“But . . . I don’t get it. Don’t you love him?”

Missy sighed, and the sound was bitter. “Yes. Too much, even.”

“Then shouldn’t you be with him? Help him figure out whatever it is he needs to figure out?”

“I want to. But I can’t. This is something he’s got to do alone. And when he knows what he really wants, then I’ll be ready to hear it.”

“What if what he wants isn’t you?”

Missy stared at the acoustic guitar leaning against the wall. “Yeah, well,” she said lightly, “that’s why we’re on a break. Just in case. I love him, but I’m not going to waste my life waiting for someone to wake up and realize how amazing I am. If he wants me, he knows where I am. Until then, there’s a whole sea out there.”

She hoped with all of her heart that in the end, he would want her. That would mean he’d finally tell her those three words he’d never said to her, not once. He’d hinted at it, touched on it, but never truly said it. And as much as she loved him, she couldn’t give her heart to someone who couldn’t say that he loved her. That was like bottling her heart in a glass jar—and that was something she wasn’t willing to do. Not anymore.

“Listen to you,” Sue chirped. “So practical! You sound almost grown-up.”

“Yeah,” she said tiredly. “Yay, me.”

“Missy . . . are you okay?”

“I’ve been better,” she admitted. Her wrist throbbed, and she rubbed it absently.

“Are you . . . ?”

“No,” Missy said. “I’m not. Not that.”

“Because if you are,” Sue said quickly, “you can tell me. You know that, right? You can tell me.”

“Sue,” she said. “I promise. I’m not cutting.”

A long pause, and then Sue replied, “Okay. Good.”

“Good,” Missy echoed.

“Wow,” Sue said. “No job. No boy toy. One more year of college, then you’re out in the cold, cruel world. So tell me, Melissa Miller—what’re you going to do with your life?”

“I have no idea. Guess I have to figure it out.” Missy couldn’t help it: She laughed. “That’s kind of exciting.”

Beneath her bed, the lock box with her razorblade grew dusty.

For Melissa Miller, it was a personal victory.

Tammy is sitting in front of the vanity mirror in her bedroom, brushing her hair. She smiles at her reflection. For the first time in forever, she likes what she sees. She’s not too fat. She’s not unhealthy. She’s normal. She looks younger than her age, maybe seventeen, still in high school with her whole life waiting for her. Her bedroom is sunny, filled with daylight, and she hums to herself as she keeps brushing her hair.

Her mother is in her room with her, going through her closet to weed out the things Tammy doesn’t wear any longer. Clothing flies from the closet, landing in a heap on Tammy’s bed. Sweaters, tops, dresses, pants, all sorts of outfits slowly blot out the bright comforter.

All of the pieces her mother pulls out are black.

Her sister is sifting through the pants and sweaters and other discarded clothes, grabbing what she likes. Tammy doesn’t mind. She doesn’t need those clothes any longer. But then her sister lifts up a long black coat and holds it up to her, smoothing out the sleeves, and she coos over how good the coat looks.

Tammy stops brushing her hair.

“Not that,” she says. “That’s not for you.”

Her sister pouts. “But you’re not wearing it anymore.”

Tammy holds the brush, and for a moment she imagines it lengthening and expanding until she’s holding an old-fashioned set of scales, shining brass or maybe bronze, and she feels the hunger of the world pressing heavily against her.

“It’s still not for you,” Tammy says.

“Then who is it for?”

The voice is a rich, booming baritone, and steeped in humor. Tammy turns around in her chair and sees a gray-haired man in a checkered shirt and blue jeans sitting on her bed. Even before she sees his blue, blue eyes, she knows who he really is.

“You’ve changed,” she says, surprised.

He shrugs easily. “So I’ve been told. How are you, Tammy?”

She looks down at her lap. “Confused.”

“Understandable,” he replies. “When we last met, I was on a runaway train. I hurt you, badly. I’m sorry about that.”

She doesn’t trust her voice, so she nods.

“I need to know what you want, Tammy.”

She lifts her head and meets his gaze. “You mean, do I want to be Famine again?”

He smiles and says nothing.

“No,” she says, comprehension dawning. “You mean, do I want to live?”

“Do you?”

She turns away from him to stare into her mirror once more. “I don’t know.”

“I can’t make the decision for you. Well. I could kill you,” he says cheerfully. “But that’s not the same thing.”

“I’m tired,” she says.

“I know.”

“And I’m scared. I’m scared all the time.”

“I know.”

She closes her eyes. “Do you want me to live?”

“Tammy,” he says kindly. “I want everyone to live. But you have to meet me halfway. You have to want to live too.”

“But I stopped living so long ago,” she whispers. “When you offered me the Scales, I was dying.”

“Yes.”

“And when I was Famine, I turned my back on my human life. I walked away from it. My family, my friends, everyone—I lost them all, because of what I did.” Her breath hitches. “I have nothing to go back to.”

“People can surprise you, Tammy.” A chuckle, and then: “They certainly surprise me. And I’ve been around for a long, long time. What do you say, Tammy? You willing to give it a shot?”

She’s terrified.

She wants to say no.

But a still, small voice whispers that maybe, just maybe, people can surprise her and she’ll find her own reason to keep on living.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she says, “Yes.”

“Well then, Tammy. Open your eyes.”

And Tammy Thompson opens her eyes . 
.
 .

***

. . . and she waited for the room to come into focus. It took a minute, but shapes finally settled down and colors snapped to attention. Gray textured ceiling; soothing gray walls. Tammy recognized the sense of sterility and knew she was in a hospital even before she noted the tubes snaking out of her arms. She felt like her body had been wrung out like a sponge. No, that would have been a step up—she actually felt like used chewing gum stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe. She took a shaky breath and was surprised that it didn’t hurt.

“Tammy?”

She tried to sit up, but that was a spectacular failure. She barely managed to rotate her head on her pillow to look at the person who’d spoken.

Her reply died in her mouth.

Sitting on a chair next to the hospital bed, Lisabeth Lewis smiled at her. “Hey,” she said, smiling tiredly. “You’re up. Your mom and sister went to get some food, but they’ll be back soon.”

“You’re here,” Tammy croaked. Her mouth was painfully dry, but it hurt less than looking at the one person whom she’d trusted with everything and who had left her stranded in an uncaring world.

“I’m here,” Lisa said, still smiling and looking so very sad. “I heard what happened, and I couldn’t not come. You’re going to be okay. The doctors here are going to help you get healthy.”

She meant, help Tammy get fat.

Lisabeth Lewis, of all people, was preaching to her about being healthy. The same Lisabeth Lewis who once admired her because she’d been able to stick a finger down her throat and vomit up her food.

The same Lisabeth Lewis who’d cut Tammy out of her life.

“You left me,” Tammy said. “You
left
me. We were best friends, and then you just . . .” Exhausted, she closed her eyes. “You hurt me so much.”

“I know,” Lisa said quietly. “I had to make a clean break, to get healthy.”

To get fat.

“I could’ve done it better,” Lisa admitted. “I did what I had to do, but I was selfish about it. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve told you that I couldn’t be your friend. When I got out of the clinic, I should have called. I didn’t. That was wrong of me. That was shitty of me. I’m sorry.”

Tammy wanted to be angry. She wanted to be bitter. And she was both of those things, but tangled in there, too, was a sense of relief, of respite, as if part of her that had been clenched tight for years was finally beginning to loosen.

“Was that when you stopped eating? When I left?”

Tammy whispered, “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Lisa said again. “I’m so sorry. If I could take it back, I would.”

People can surprise you.

“If you want me to go,” Lisa said, “I’ll understand.” When Tammy didn’t reply, Lisa said, “Please, tell me what you want.”

I need to know what you want.

Tammy took a deep breath and opened her eyes again. She looked at Lisa—no longer thin, and much more beautiful than Tammy had ever seen her—and she said, “I don’t know what I want. But I’m glad you’re here.”

Lisa smiled, and she reached over to take her hand. “Me too.”

He’d gotten better at separating part of himself. This time, there was barely an earthquake. A number of humans would chalk it up to climate change. And that was as good a way to put it as any.

The pale steed snorted and stamped its newly made hoof. “Really? You unmade me, and now I’m back?”

“And better than before.”

“Please spare a steed and don’t break into song.” The horse glared at him, in the way that horses do. “Unless you don’t do that anymore. New cycle?”

“Yep.”

“Humph. You all done feeling sorry for yourself
?”

“Yep.”

The steed took in his new form. “Not going to do spontaneous manic monologues about your past, are you?”

“Nope. At least, not for a while. The urge might overtake me.”

“You realize I’m angry with you, right?”

He patted his steed’s neck. “You have every right to be. I’ll strive to make amends.”

The horse blew out a satisfied breath. “For starters, buy a steed a cheeseburger. Getting remade makes a horse hungry.”

“Any particular place?”

The horse considered. “The one with all the health-code violations.”

“That narrows it down . . .”

“You know the one. The meat is questionable and the bread is soggy, but oh, those fries . . .”

“Ah. Yes, I know the one. Shall we?”

“Just like that? What about work? All those souls to see?”

He shrugged, smiled. “They can wait.”

The primary imagination I hold to be the living power and prime agent of all human perception, and as a repetition in the finite mind of the eternal act of creation in the infinite I Am.

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

By the time his parents got home, Xander was a mess. His head was pounding like there was no tomorrow, and he kept hearing a high-pitched beep shrilling in his mind like an alarm clock on helium. When he’d first noticed the beeping, he’d looked to see if one of the smoke detectors was on the fritz, but no, everything was fine.

Everything was fine.

So he ignored the weird intermittent beeping and rubbed his head, but when that did nothing to ease his headache, he went for the aspirin. And then for the beer. He’d known that his parents would give him hell about the drinking, but he’d spent part of the night talking to a suicidal Death. He thought he’d earned a drink.

When his mom and dad walked in, Xander was curled up on the den sofa, staring blankly at an old episode of
Doctor Who
as he thought about Ashley Davidson. It had been six years ago that he’d learned Ashley had died. Xander’s first beer of the evening had been a toast to his first crush; the second was to the Amazingly Perfect Riley Jones.

Who still hadn’t returned his text.

That had been why Xander had chugged the second beer. And left the empties on the coffee table. Along with the packages of pretzels, chips, and peanuts. And all the crumbs. He had a third beer to drown the unsettling feeling he’d been starting to get about Riley. Now he was pleasantly buzzed, and thinking about poor dead Ashley and how first loves were always doomed, and then his mom was yelling at him.