The Last Exhale (33 page)

“No need. It was a mutual effort. If you're sorry, then I have to be. And I'm not. I did what I wanted to do.”

It's what I wanted to do too. I didn't want what all came with it, though. Don't think any of us ever do. All we want is to have a moment when we feel nothing but the pleasure of that moment. We deal with everything else afterward.

I was his mistress.

He was my should've, would've, could've.

That's the reality.

Another reality is I ran from ending up like my mother and ended up just like her. I've become the lonely woman. My heart aches for the man on the other end of this phone, but there's nothing I can do to mend his pain. I tried once. What good that did. Sleeping with each other didn't do anything about our situations. Continuing it would do the same. Nothing. I can't do this.

I hold the phone close to my ear, my other hand pressed against my chest. “You take care of yourself, Brandon.”

I
t's funny how we always talk about communication being important in a relationship, but the reality is, none of us are communicating.

Sydney couldn't talk to her husband. I couldn't talk to my wife. My brother's wife couldn't talk to him. And so the story continues.

A few days ago, after running into Sydney and then getting a call from her, I did entertain the idea of continuing what we had started. Her ending the call was the best thing she could've done, done for her and for us. Seeing her with her kids put it all in perspective. She had a family and needed to put her focus on them. If she was going to end her marriage, it wasn't going to be because of me. I was going to tell her that, then the conversation started going in a different direction. For a moment, I again put my needs at the forefront of my mind and got off track. I don't know what was going on in her mind, but it was a thought we both needed.

“Remember this?” My father hands me a box.

Inside is my old camera, the one he took from me in high school that caused me to get in lots of trouble for going missing in action. “Man, do I.”

“You were more attached to that thing than Linus to his blanket.”

Going back to those memories brings a smile to my face. Holding the camera in my hand also makes me think of Hilda in St. Thomas.
Brings another smile to my face. Maybe we should've exchanged info after all. Who am I kidding? We'd just be two broken people trying to put the wrong pieces together. I think about Sydney. As with everything else in life, she'd soon become a distant memory. A faded picture in an old album. I glance at the top of the camera to see what the number is. I'd only taken fourteen pictures when the camera was taken from me. I cut it on, aim it in my father's direction, press down on the black button.

“There you go again.”

Funny how he took it from me years ago because it was a distraction. Gave it back to me now only for it to be another distraction. “Doesn't take long for an old habit to be revived.”

“Speaking of…” He removes the camera from my hands, places it back in the box. Takes a seat on the chair next to me in the basement, puts the box behind him. Out of reach and out of sight. “You and your brother need to work this thing out. As you've both been witness to, people come and go, but you two will always be there.”

Andrew and I made the drive to our parents' home in Houston—the home we grew up in—a couple of days ago. After Mel left, I stayed with him at the house. Helped him nurse his knee back to where he was able to stand with only the need of a crutch. His pill-popping count was decreasing, though his drinking increased. That was when I threw some clothes in a suitcase and dragged him into my truck. He'd have plenty space to stretch out and elevate his leg when needed. It was a thirteen-hour drive we both needed, at least as far as getting out of a place where too much pain existed. The only time he talked to me was when he had to use a restroom or wanted something to eat. Other than that, my conversation went ignored. We weren't okay as brothers, but we were working on being okay with our circumstances.

“Dad, that's going to take some time.”

He reminds me again of what I've been witness to as of late. “Time isn't always on our side.”

It was true. I thought I'd have forever to watch my son grow up. Thought he'd be the one to bury me. Thought I'd have forever to love my wife. Thought we'd die together. I'm sure my brother thought the same about his wife and the kids he promised they'd have.

“The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” He repeats a familiar scripture in the Bible. The last time I heard those words was from the minister at Rene's funeral. My father grabs the box from behind him, stands up, hands the camera back to me. He grips it tight, not allowing me to take it. “Make peace, son.”

There's been a lot over the past few months, and even over the last few years that I don't understand and probably never will. One thing's for sure, though, I'm slowly learning to have peace with where I am at this very moment. And sometimes, that's better than understanding.

I tell him, “I will.”

“Love is patient and kind. Love doesn't demand its own way.”

I put a hold on my nightly ritual, stop rubbing lubricant into my feet. Give Eric my attention. “Where'd you hear that?”

“You don't remember?”

My headshake confirms what he already knows.

He slides a picture across to my side of the bed. It's a picture of us. I was in a white gown standing next to him in a white tux. Our lips in a smile, misery in our eyes. “The minister said it that day.”

I stare at the picture, wishing I could rewind time. Wish I could go back to that first date and listen to my intuition. I'd be singing a different song now, had I just been real with me. He could've kept lying to himself, could've found someone else to tell that lie to. Put a ring on her finger, put seeds in her belly. Could've let him be some other woman's boredom. But I let fear overrule. Fear of my biological clock ticking until the clock wouldn't tick anymore. Didn't want to sing the song my mom continues to sing. I was so desperate for a different song that I buried my soul.

Eric takes the picture back, sits it on his nightstand. “I did sleep with her that night.”

If I had the capability of stopping my heart right now, I would reach inside my chest, wrap my fingers around it and squeeze until it ceased to beat.

“She'd flown in from Europe the night before. I wasn't going to see her. I had finally gotten over her. We were just friends. She'd moved on, was engaged as well. Said she just wanted to see me to close that chapter for good. I knew what her definition of closure was, so I planned to give her the runaround until after the wedding.”

My heart defies my desire to stop beating and increases its speed. Feels like I've downed a whole bottle of Metabolife. “How could you?”

“The same way you could sleep with that dude. Doesn't feel so good, does it?”

My jaws are clenched so tight feels like my gums are rubbing against each other. “Don't go there.”

“I wish I could say I did it because you did something to piss me off or I found out you'd lied to me. I can't say you did anything, because you didn't. I slept with her because I wanted to. Because I was still in love her.”

The bed we've slept in for the past six years, the bed we made love in, created our kids in all of a sudden feels like a mattress tossed by the trash. I feel dirty. Feel like bedbugs are making a new home in my pores. If I had some matches, I'd set this bad boy on fire. Burn it, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, just like everything else has been in this marriage.

“Are you going to say something?”

“What is there to say?”

“Tell me I'm a bastard, tell me you hate me. Say something.”

As much as I want to say those words to my husband, I can't. I'm as much to blame in all of this as he is. He knows it. I know it. We've both made our mistakes and seems like we keep making them. It all started from day one. I get up from the bed and leave him in this room where too much has been said and a lot more has been done.

In the hallway, I catch Forrester trying to scratch his way into Kennedy's room. He looks tired, like he's been digging away all night. The closer I get, the louder his breathing sounds. Poor kitty's winded. “Tomorrow you're going on a diet, buddy. I mean it this time.” Not sure why my daughter's door is closed to begin with. The kids know their doors are to stay open. I crack the door open slowly, but Forrester nudges it all the way open with his big head, and announces his entrance with a deep meow.

Kennedy stirs in the bed, her journal hits the carpet. I pick it up, flip through it without looking at anything in particular. She's almost seven. I'm sure there's not much for her to vent about. It's evident she's still mad at her father, can't see too much else going on with her. I close her privacy up and put it next to Forrester at the foot of her bed. Before walking out, I give her a light kiss on her head. Make sure I leave a wide gap in the door.

“What are you doing up?” I ask EJ when I enter his room.

He slams his face in the pillow. “I'm sleeping, Mommy,” says a muffled voice.

Toys are tossed around all in his room. It was not like that when I sent him to bed nearly four hours ago. I sit on the bed next to him, put my hand on his back. “You're something else, you know that?”

He giggles, then flips over and puts his head on my lap with a serious look on his face. “Mommy, I don't like it when you and Daddy fight.”

I rub by hand across his hair. “Aw, honey. I don't either.”

“Then you should stop. Fighting's not nice.”

“You're right; it's not.”

“Okay, I wanna go to sleep now.”

“Can Mommy have a hug first?”

He wraps his growing arms around me as best he can. I melt in his arms.

On my way out his room, his father's words rush through my thoughts like runners at the beginning of a race.
Love doesn't demand its own way.

The moment my kids were born, they came out loving me. There was nothing I had to say or do for them to love me. It was natural, instinctual. Love should be that way. No one should have to do anything or treat someone a certain way to deserve love. If that's the case, love is one thing it isn't. Eric and I both tried to make ourselves love each other. It didn't come natural for us. And when we tried to force it, we felt the pull making us pull away. What would happen if we just let each other be?

Instead of going downstairs to catch up on some TV, I turn around and walk back in the master bedroom. It's time I stop lacing up my sneakers and taking my mark, get set, go. I'm tired of running from the consequences of bad decisions. I've been running for far too long. Running from fear. Running from the mistakes I've made. Running from the mistakes I didn't make. Tonight, right now, I'm going to face this for what it is.

I cut the light on and position myself right in front of my husband. Just like I told his mom he chose to marry me, I chose to marry him. It's time we stare truth in the face.

I search his face, search his eyes. Look for any indication that he's ready to call it quits. I come up short. “I had an abortion before we got married.”

Now his eyes study me. “I know.”

My knees buckle. Eric catches me, ushers me to sit on the bed. All these years I thought that was my secret, thought it would follow me to a very deep grave. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“You want the truth?”

“It's time we start telling nothing but.”

He bends over, elbows on knees, chin in hands. “Because I wasn't
going to marry you. I knew if I went along with your act of everything being normal that you'd terminate the pregnancy.”

I pull my feet into my lap, fold them like a pretzel. “How'd you know I was pregnant?”

“You always talked about being bloated when it was that time of the month. You'd talk about all the gas you had. It was clockwork every month. One day while at your place I needed to look up a date on the calendar. I noticed you had a date underlined. I looked on the previous month, saw the same underline on a different day, but that day had a circle as well. Kept flipping through and saw the same thing in all the other months except for the month we were in. That line had been two weeks ago.” He rubs his hands up and down his face.

“You get paid to notice things.”

“That's the real reason Abigail came to town. I had told her I wasn't going through with the wed—”

“You weren't going to marry me.” I cut him off. “Uh yeah, I get the picture.”

After a pause on both of our ends, a pause long enough for our thoughts to circulate, Eric's hand slides over on top of mine. “We didn't marry for love, we've both admitted that. But over time I've grown to love you. We have two beautiful kids together. I can't make you love me, that's something you have to want to do on your own.”

I think about what he's saying as I slide my hand from under his. I run my fingers through my hair, give my head a light massage. I had no idea how my life would change after allowing my heart, mind, body and soul to tiptoe out of this marriage. Had no idea how it would change if my husband ever found out. The last two weeks of Eric's suspension, he flew out to Denver to visit his parents. He needed time away to think clearly without being in the
heart of the situation. We both needed the space to think without having the other to distract the process. I was able to put things in perspective. Though I didn't love him when we married, I, too, have grown to love him as the father to our children and as a man. Not
in
love with him, but love is there.

Eric interrupts my thoughts. “Is this it for us?”