The Last Exhale (27 page)

There's so much disgust in his eyes as they pour over me. “It's that Brandon guy, isn't it?”

I nod. I grab a bottle of oil off the counter and head into the bedroom. Eric follows, sits on his side of the bed. Both of our backs facing each other.

On cue, our bedroom door swings open. In walks a little person with eyes barely open. “Mommy, can I have a rabbit?”

I rub the top of his head. “No, EJ. You can't have a rabbit, but you
can
go back to bed.”

“But Billy at school said he got a rabbit for his birthday.” He walks around to my side of the bed.

“You're not Billy and your birthday isn't for another few months.” I slip my robe on top of the towel still holding me hostage. “C'mon, let's go back to bed.”

This kid is a work of art. The moment his body hits the sheets, all I hear are light snores. I stand at his door and watch him. I love this little guy. I love both of my kids. I don't see how parents can hate their kids because they hate their father. No, I don't hate my husband, but I do feel some kind of way about him that could affect how I feel about my kids. I could look at them as a mistake. They've been everything but. They're what has kept me sane most of the time. It's because of them that I've sacrificed my own feelings. If only I had sacrificed my desires. Instead of handling my misery properly, I've caused others to be miserable. The kids may not feel it right now, but in time, they'll reap the mistakes I've sown.

Back in the master bedroom, it's completely dark. Every light has been cut off. I'm not even sure if Eric Sr. is still in here.

I move to my side of the room with the familiarity of a blind
person. I've trudged this same path for years. The carpet moves under my toes, molds to my feet like memory foam. I grab a pair of boy shorts from the dresser, a tank top. Resume my position on my side of the bed. Before I pull the covers over me, I slather my feet with Vaseline, rub so hard to bring moisture back to my parched feet that it makes my hands feel like they're on fire. I stop before my hands get all scratched up. Slip on some socks to seal the moisture in.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see my husband is still sitting in the same spot on his side of the bed. His shoulders slumped, head hung low.

“I could've stopped Michael.”

Moments ago I told him I slept with another man. Now he's admitting to nearly taking someone's life.

One confession warrants another.

“Why didn't you?”

“After the last conversation we had, I couldn't.”

It's been weeks since the last time Eric and I said more than a few words to each other. It was right before the accident, after things had already fallen apart in our marriage. He admitted I was a distracting convenience to him. I admitted he was a cure for loneliness to me. Maybe I couldn't form my lips to actually say that to him out loud, but the letter I had written him said it all loud and clear. Neither one of us was strong enough to stop things from going too far back then, and we're in the same boat yet again. “Tell me what happened.”

“On the way to pick up Kennedy, Mike mentioned he had been wanting to talk to me about you. I didn't think anything about it. Figured it was another case of Rachel making a major issue out of something minor. But then he said he'd pulled you over for speeding. Said you had a man in your car with blood dripping from his hand. Said he'd seen the two of you together before.”

Everything in me wants to deny what Eric's saying, but all it would do is make the situation worse. I draw my legs in, sit Indian-style, chin resting in my hands.

“He didn't say any more after that because his phone had rung. It was his wife. As they talked, I tried to put what he had said out
of my mind. You'd just told me how unhappy you were. I know what happens when a wife isn't happy with her husband.”

“But you said you were unhappy too, Eric.”

He turns around to face me. “This isn't about me. It's about you, what you did. Yeah, I was unhappy, but I didn't go out and sleep with another man.” He says that, then turns back away from me.

There's nothing I can say, though, at that time, I hadn't violated our vows.

“When we got to the school, Kennedy was outside in her usual spot waiting on me with Mr. Carter. He was in the midst of shaking my hand when Mike came rushing up to us. His disposition was off. He seemed angry.”

My thoughts drift to when Michael pulled me over and had me get out of the car when he recognized Brandon's face. His disposition had changed then.

“He made a reference to her teacher's hand, asked him how it was healing. Mr. Carter looked at him dumbfounded. The more the teacher denied what Mike accused him of, the more irate Mike became. I'd seen him like that before. Whenever we'd responded to a domestic call and it turned out to be a result of infidelity, he'd have the same kind of hatred brewing in his eyes. I should've stopped him then.”

Again I ask, “Why didn't you?”

“Riverpoint Park.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Mike said that's where he saw you and Kennedy's teacher the first time. I started thinking about all the mornings you got up before the sun to go there. You were spending more time at the park or the gym. If something came up when you couldn't get out there, you'd be different. It was like you'd withdraw from me. I'd
shrug it off, throw myself into work. Started picking up more shifts so I wouldn't have to see it.”

“So you knew?”

“I get paid to notice things that try to go unnoticed, Syd.” He coughs, tries to loosen whatever's gotten stuck in his throat. “My job is to pay attention to my surroundings, to look for things out of place. Twelve hours a day I have to be on alert. Didn't want to do that in my own home.”

Part of me wanted him to notice. I wanted him to say something about my late nights out and my early morning runs. Wanted him to stop me from the temptation of sin before I was too weak to give in.

“I also get paid to pay attention to the truth. I knew Kennedy's teacher wasn't lying. I felt it in my gut. I heard her yelling, screaming for me to leave her teacher alone, that he didn't do anything wrong.”

Now I know why Kennedy is mad with her father. Hasn't had much to say to him at all since he's been home. Though she won't admit it, I know she's happy her father is okay and she's missed him, but I don't know if their relationship will ever be the same. A lot of relationships have been changed as a result of what I chose to do.

“Mr. Carter ran off. Mike ran back to the patrol car. Kennedy was still screaming, but something got a hold of me and I ran behind Mike. I got in the passenger side and let someone else drive my fate. As Mike swerved in and out of traffic, my conscience kicked in. This wasn't a high-speed chase. We weren't going after a criminal. What we were doing had nothing to do with me or you or that innocent man. I put my hand on the wheel, tried to steer us toward sanity.”

Eric's right. That accident had nothing to do with us. When Michael threatened me after walking out of the hospital with his minor cuts and bruises, I knew it had everything to do with his bruised ego. Rachel had betrayed him, she had gone behind his back and brought filth to the bed they shared. He saw his partner, his friend, the father of his godchild heading down that same road. He saw himself in Eric, saw his pain. Reminded him of his own. No matter how good his marriage was, he'd never be able to forget the betrayal.

He doesn't say anything for a while; neither do I. The more we uncover what has become of us, the more it becomes evident that we need to right our wrongs and move on before we tear apart more lives.

“Why did you sleep with him?”

I don't have to think about my answer. “Because I wanted to see how it would feel to be without you.”

I
stood by Rene's grave. I kept hoping it was just a dream. As more dirt covered her white casket until it couldn't been seen anymore, it finally registered that she was indeed gone.

It had began to rain, the ground grew mushy under my feet. I almost lost my balance and fell forward to join my wife six feet under. That didn't stop the workers from digging. Didn't stop me from standing. My mind was somewhere else. It had drifted to the last time I stood in that spot. Rain fell hard that day as well. Rene had come to clean our son's name, clean it of the residue that would cover it once again in a matter of days. Would she want me to do the same to hers? I imagined her extending her hand out and reaching Reggie's some six feet under. United again. She no longer had to live without him. When he passed away, we had to learn how to live without him. We had each other to help make it through the rough times. Life went on without him. How would my life go on without her?

When she told me about the cancer as she signed our divorce papers, I was so angry I couldn't see how scared she was. As we fought in the rain, she showed me her fear, showed me what she denied me seeing all those years I thought she had fallen out of love with me. She didn't want a divorce. She never would've wanted to live without me. I knew that woman like I knew my social security
number, and I knew the only reason we were standing there in that moment was because she was scared. I'd wished I had grabbed her the moment I felt her slipping away. I would've reached my hand in her breast, taken the cancer and placed it in my own chest. I would have rather let the disease be my end than hers.

I stood at that grave and replayed every conversation. Every laugh, every tear. Every time we made love danced through my head like Baby when Johnny Castle pulled her out of the corner. I was willing to stand in that rain soaking in Rene's eternal love until the Rapture. I would have, had a hand not slipped in mine and pulled me to the waiting limo.

•  •  •

There's a knock on my hotel room door. It has to be one of three people. By the lightness of the knock, almost sounding unsure as if they're at the wrong door, I figure it could only be my mother. It's been a long day of keeping a straight face in front of everyone. This last hour alone has left me pretty numb and not in the mood for company. I open the door without looking through the peephole.

“Can I come in?”

I move out the way so she can walk through.

Mother hands me a plate with a napkin over it. “I brought you back a piece of cake.”

Tossing the plate in the trash is my first instinct, but I don't want to disrespect my mother's effort of consideration. Not sure why people bake cakes and pies for a funeral in the first place.
Celebration of life.
Is it ever a celebration for those in mourning? I tell my mother that.

“I think it's all about the thought,” she says. “Food, especially sweets, comforts us in a way that nothing else does.”

My mother has never been a small woman. Not big, but not
small. She began picking up more weight after Andrew's accident back in college. Every holiday since it seems like she's a few pounds heavier. These past few weeks have been filled with emotions, many things to make one need serious comforting. I put the cake in the mini fridge. Mom's sitting on the sofa when I turn around. I sit in the chair across from her. “How's your diabetes?”

“I'm doing the best I can. It's hard sometimes, trying to eat right when your spouse is used to things tasting a certain way. I'll change one ingredient and your dad can tell. He doesn't say much, but his face tells me everything.”

“He's never been good with hiding his emotions.”

“Not at all. If he doesn't like something, you will know.”

I do my best to keep the conversation light, keep it off of me. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”

“Not until six in the evening, but you know your dad will want to get there before the sun comes up.”

“Humph, that he will.” My dad invented the rule of being on time is being fifteen minutes early. He took it a step further, though.

Mom smooths out the bumps in her skirt. Does that over and over again while looking all around this rented room. Time for her to get out what she came to talk about. When her eyes connect with mine, she says, “You going to be okay, honey?”

Not wanting to get involved with this conversation, I simply nod.

She drops her hands in her lap, lets her eyes wander again. Moisture builds between her eyelids. “Who was that woman watching you at the gravesite?”

I don't answer. Not because I don't want to, but because I don't know. I barely even remember being there myself.

“Is she—is she the one Rene told me about?”

“What are you talking about, Mom?” I move forward in my seat. My attention fully alert now.

“Remember how I told you Rene and I talked after you left for the hospital with your dad? A lot of what she said wasn't making sense to me. I had to ask her to repeat a lot.” She scoots to the edge of her seat, reaches her hand across the table until it touches mine. “The woman at the grave, is she who you're having an affair with?”

Sydney immediately comes to mind. Wish she hadn't come to Rene's service. Maybe she was paying respects to her client, having just sold her house. Or maybe she was there to support me. She had no right to be there. After leaving her in the bathroom at the park, I was hoping that would be the last I'd see of her. Seeing her again would make it that much harder to forget her. And part of me is not ready to. At least not yet.

I search my mother's eyes, look for judgment, disappointment. I see neither. All that's riding her amber eyes is concern for her son. Genuine concern. I squeeze her hand back, then release it. “Have I always needed more attention than the average kid?”

“It was only you and Andrew. I can't tell you about any other kids.”

“What about him? Did I need more attention than him?”