Rescue Breathing (2 page)

When I finally allowed Charley to convince
me to go to the doctor to run a test and that too was positive, I
decided that it was time to tell Jay. I called him and asked him to
come over for dinner. He hemmed and hawed, complaining about some
work commitment, but in the end, he agreed to come for dessert
later in the evening. I was nervous, although I didn't know why.
When I told him about the pregnancy, he blanched visibly and fell
back into the couch.
Not
the response
I'd been hoping for.

He wanted to know how this could have
happened, where had I gone wrong with my birth control.
I watched him, frozen, as he
spewed accusation after accusation until finally he spit out, "I
don't want any more fucking children, Olivia!"

Huh?
More
children? When had he gotten the first set? He turned and
stormed out of my apartment and, eventually, my life. I had never
been more broken in my life. I spent two weeks in a full-on fugue
that then morphed into rage. Every day a little more bitter, a
little more angry. By the end of the second week, I somehow found
strength. Strength born by anger to be sure, but strength
nonetheless.

After a doctor
's visit where we discussed my no-longer-existing
relationship and what was left of my options, my doctor started in
on the “termination of pregnancy” talk. I listened to her speak, my
mind reeling, my heart splintering. We talked about how abortions
happened, what I could expect, did I have a friend who could take
me? In that moment, I suddenly realized that I wanted to try and do
this. This baby didn't deserve to not have a chance just because
its father was a piece of shit. This baby was still part of me
too.

I smiled the whole walk back to my
apartment, eager to tell Charley I actually
was
as strong as she said I was. I was keeping this
baby, damn it. So help me God, I was going to be such an amazing
mother that I was going to blow all other mothers out of the water.
We were going to do this together.

Two days later, I miscarried. I had barely
gotten home from the hospital confirming the loss of my baby when I
texted Jay.

No more worries. I lost the baby.

Have a great rest of your life.

There was no helping or consoling
me.
I would vacillate
between deep, debilitating depression and almost manic work hours
when I was trying to forget. My parents were devastated, my friends
were full of sorrow and my heart was pulverized. From that point
on, I had no interest in anything related to the opposite sex. Not
dating, not sex, not marriage. Oh, in my heart, those were still
things I wanted, but I mourned the loss of that dream lifestyle I
thought I would have with Jay every day. It was safer to just close
off.

The following months were a blur. It was
as if someone had uncapped his bottle of lies and it came spilling
out all over me. It turned out, people we had been friends with had
all known. Every little thing I'd thought was real fell apart under
his betrayal. I locked myself in my apartment for a week straight,
crying and sitting in the fetal position on my couch. I didn't
shower. I didn't eat. I didn't talk to anyone until my brother,
Simon, and his fiancée, Reese, showed up one day and threw me in
the shower, force-fed me some soup, and then let me sob in his
lap.

For some reason, that pulled me out of my
funk, and I returned to work.
I threw myself into my research, everyone around me walking
on eggshells and avoiding the topic of Jay. To this day, his name
is not uttered by anyone I know, friend or colleague, with the
exception of Charley and Simon. And good riddance for
that.

* * *

I haul my bag out of the trunk of the cab
in front of my gate at LaGuardia.
The taxi driver doesn't consider helping me out of
the cab.
Thanks, asshole. There goes your tip
. I'm early, but being that it was an
evening flight, I didn't want to get stuck feeling rushed. I always
carry on my bags. It's so much easier than having to wait for the
carousel in an airport you've never been to before. I pop up the
handle to my rolling suitcase and walk toward a bar I can see in
the terminal. Charley suggested I get a drink since I hate
flying—especially across the country. I decide that it isn't such a
bad idea.

CHAPTER TWO

Owen

Is there a term for being more than
exhausted?
Whatever the
word is, I'm it. After having worked a double shift where I was on
duty four twenty-four hours, I fell into my own bed around 9:30
this morning. FDNY Brooklyn, Rescue Company 2 is a very active
firehouse, and you're lucky to get a few hours of shuteye during
the night shift. Last night was no exception. Between a code 10-75,
or multiple dwelling fire, on 73rd Street that required four engine
trucks, two ladder trucks, and Rescue and a single-car
drunk-driving accident at 3:00 a.m., I saw it all last
night.

Part of being selected for the Rescue
Company is just that—you're selected. We are the most highly
trained fire company of its kind in the world. Many apply, but only
an elite few are chosen. We're a specialized group. Six men make up
a team each shift, and we assist other fire companies on emergency
calls. When you need the heavy equipment, the special skills, and
the dexterity to execute the job, the firemen call in the Rescue
Company. We do what the other firemen cannot. I'm proud of what I
do and wouldn't trade my career for anything, but being on the
Rescue Company brings its own set of issues. I've seen things that
make a Herschell Gordon Lewis movie laughable. Things that stick
with you and fuck with your head.

After I got home from my shift, I managed
to sneak in an all-too-short two-hour nap before hurriedly packing
for my flight to Seattle. My buddy, Travis, recently got engaged
and I'm going out there for a guys' weekend. My sole job will be to
make him remember how much fun it is being single. Why he called
me
after
he
proposed instead of having me talk him off the ledge
before
he proposed, I'm not
sure.

I spent countless minutes on the phone
with my other good buddy, Marc, who also lives in Seattle,
discussing how this weekend will go down.
I'm fairly confident it'll be a shit show with our
lack of planning, but we'll have fun. Excessive indulgence of all
forms is on tap for the next five days and I'm a-okay with
that.

As I walk down the stairs of the
brownstone I own in Brooklyn, I see my tenant and neighbor lady
coming up the stairwell. “Off to work again, Owen?” she asks,
eyeing my large duffel.

“
Not this time, Claire. I'm heading out of
town for a few days. Mind grabbing my mail and watering the plants
while I'm away?” I ask, pausing at the stairwell landing to let her
pass.

Claire Martin has been my tenant since I
bought the building and had it rehabbed four years ago. The day I
held interviews for the downstairs apartment, I knew I didn't need
to look further than Claire. She keeps telling me she's thirty-five
years old, but her salt-and-pepper hair and smile lines around her
eyes and mouth say that she is sixty-two, which her New York
driver's license confirmed. Claire is a retired meter maid—her
words, not mine. The more politically correct term would be a
traffic enforcement agent, but Claire is old school and has no
pretenses. She's a tough broad—again, her words—but she has a
generous soul. Being a divorcée
with no children, she has a full life. Her social calendar
may be more active than mine. She takes various classes and trips
with friends, and I always know when she has people over because
her infectious laugh will drift out her open windows and up through
mine.

Before her interview for the apartment,
she came in with gusto and started off with a compliment, which
never hurts.
“Aren't you
a panty dropper. My goodness, you are a handsome young man. Wow!
Okay, here's the scoop on me,” she said, taking a seat on my couch
and making herself at home. “I'm single but I '
entertain'
now and then, if you know what I mean,” she stated
matter-of-factly. “
I
don
't have kids and I'm
not one of those spinsters with fourteen cats. I'm clean and always
pay my rent on time. Now,” she finally breathes, “I have some
questions for you.
I
don
't see a ring on your
finger and I'm not seeing any pictures of girlfriends on your
mantel, which leads me to believe you're single. Why is that and
what is your stance on dating older women?”

She signed a long
-term lease that afternoon.

“
Sure thing, handsome. I'll watch your
place as long as you bring me back another box of chocolates. Ya
know,” Claire continues, resting her bag of groceries on her hip,
“those little local shops make the best chocolates. Don'tcha
think?”

“
Mmhmm,” I reply, knowing that, once you
get Claire talking, it can be hard to get her to stop.

I drop my duffel bag and take
Claire
's groceries from
her. I bring them up the last flight of stairs to her door while
she rambles on about her love affair with chocolate.

“
Ya know, unlike sex, you can make
chocolate last as long as you want.”

I look back at Claire and roll my
eyes.
“Yeah, but sex
gives you a high like chocolate can't,” I reply, challenging
her.

“
We can agree to disagree, Owen. Chocolate
can get me preeeetty excited,” she sings. “Ya know, I once combined
the two when—”

“
All right, Claire,” I cut in quickly,
terminating the direction of the conversation. “I've got to run to
my mom's house before I fly out, so I'll catch you next week, all
right?” I hand her the bag of groceries after she's opened the door
to her apartment.

“
Yep. See you next week, handsome. I'll
make sure your plants don't die and you remember those
chocolates.”

“
Right.
Chocolates. No nuts.
”

The last time I gave Claire chocolates,
she sorted out the ones with nuts and left them in a pile by my
door, making it very clear that nuts were not her
preference.
Lesson
learned.

“
Good. You remembered.” Claire yells after
me as I bound down the stairs. “Remember, with chocolate, size
doesn't matter.”

I grin and shake my head before I head out
of the building. As I throw my bag into the back seat of my black
Range Rover HSE, I do a mental check of the things I may or may not
have packed for my trip. I'm not one hundred percent sure of what I
packed, to be honest. I just hope I have enough shirts and condoms
to last.

I fight the ever-present city traffic as I
make my way to my mom's house in Connecticut. Without fail, my mom
always has a few things on her honey-do list. I would be the
“honey” in this equation. My dad passed away five years ago, and
although she could easily afford to hire someone to take care of
the incidental stuff around her house, my dad left me strict
instructions to take care of my mom. Most times, I don't mind
trekking out here from the city to help my number one lady.
Although, at times, like today, it can be an
inconvenience.

“
Mom?” I call out as I open the door to her
house. “Mom, I'm here.” I toss my keys on the hallway
table.

“
Owen?
” my mom replies from the laundry room. “Owen! What a
surprise! What are you doing here? I thought you were headed out to
see Travis and Marc this weekend,” she asks as she walks toward me
with her arms open wide for a hug.

“
I am but I wanted to make sure you were
taken care of and get your lawn mowed before I left. I'll be gone
for five days and I know how picky you get about your yard.” I lift
my eyebrow teasingly before bending down to give her a quick kiss
on the cheek and a big bear hug.

“
Oh, Owen, I
'm not as much picky as I am...well, particular.”
She pats me on the shoulder, knowing full well that she's fussy
about her yard.

She takes great pride in her
perfect
-hue-of-green,
weed-free grass and likes the lines from the mower to be evenly
spaced. My mother is the envy of the neighborhood, and while she'll
vehemently deny it, she likes it that way. Hey, we all have to have
our “thing,” right?

I'd do anything for my mom, but don't take
that to mean that she washes and folds my skivvies or wipes my face
off using spit and her thumb. Although, if she wants to bake me
cookies, I'm cool with that. I'm one of the fortunate ones when it
comes to my family. My younger sister, Emily, and I were lucky
enough to have a “mostly” stay-at-home mom. My father was a
successful attorney and eventually became a U.S. Senator. With Dad
getting into politics, she quickly adapted to the senator's wife
role. However, despite their respective busy social calendars and
schedules, my parents always made family a priority. Whether it was
my football games or Emily's music recitals, our parents were
always supportive and I could count on them being in the crowd.
Since my dad's passing, I've taken care of my mom and don't think
twice about it. It's my honor.