Hold My Breath(97)

Tanya died two months ago. People say that death is easier when you have time to prepare for it, but I think those people are full of shit. It felt just like I knew it would—like the devil had his way with my heart and then shoved it back in my chest, and I was expected to find a way to continue to live—to breathe and go on every day with the things on my plate now.

A year ago, I might have given up.

I might have driven my car off the edge of the world.

I didn’t have Maddy then.

I sip the steaming coffee before setting it next to me, leaning back on my palms, my feet circling in the water and my eyes watching the sky move from a deep royal-blue to violet. Morning—and the colors that go with it—makes me think of her.

Before Tanya’s passing, we worked out the paperwork to make sure I would become Dylan’s legal guardian. Maddy finished school, but instead of taking the job at the hospital, she applied to a special program at State to work with kids like Dylan. I saw something happen to her the first time she met him and he held her hand. My nephew has so many things to overcome, but love isn’t one of them. Love just pours from him, without words, and with limited gestures. It’s in his essence, and it makes me believe in things that I’ve damned and doubted since the day I lost my brother and parents.

It took some work to fix the Clubhouse, but using the lobby space along with the upstairs, we were able to make it livable for Dylan, me, and Duncan. I think my uncle often fancied the office space, with the “just-right light,” so it was just a matter of blowing out a few walls to make the studio apartment’s bathroom shared.

We added a wall downstairs, and though it’s tight, we have enough room for the three of us, more often four when Maddy stays the night, to gather for dinner at a table, and for Dylan to be able to easily maneuver his electric chair from his new bedroom to the kitchen and bathroom.

I’ve found the routine of things, and I’ve found comfort in it. But I still wait for the hour when I get to see her face—every day. Sometimes, it’s midnight after a long day studying, or putting in hours with the hospital’s special therapy programs. Other times it’s morning’s like this, when she puts on her suit and we make silly bets neither of us mind losing, and we race for nobody but ourselves.

She is my joy.

She always has been.

“Either the heater’s working, or you’re tricking me—seeing if I’ll dive in and catch a cold.” Her voice soothes my soul, a song starting behind me, then wrapping around me completely. I keep my eyes on the sky—her favorite color coming next—and I point up.

“Oh, you know how I love the orange,” she says, kicking her shoes off, rolling up her jeans and sitting down next to me.

She shivers a little when her feet plunk in, and she wraps her arm through mine, laying her head on my shoulder to look up at the sky with me.

“Coffee?” I ask, holding my cup out for her to take.

“Mmmmm, yes please,” she purrs.

I watch her sip, her eyes blinking to stay open from the fog of the drink, to stay on the quickly disappearing stars above.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling as the cup’s edge leaves her lips.

I take it from her and set it back down next to me, and I lean back a little more on my left palm, careful not to disturb the place she’s cradled on my right arm.

Maddy won two golds at the Olympics, but my story was the one on the front page. Sports can be sexist like that. The press also never seems to get tired of exploiting my story. I don’t know how many times people can read about the boy who survived, only to come in second, but I guess at least one more time.

Between the two of us, Maddy’s the real survivor. She’s the strong one. I protected the lie, but she’s the one who had to overcome it, to come to terms with what my brother had done. She never once put that hurt on Tanya or Dylan, but there have been times in the last few months that she’s gotten angry. She’ll find something that reminds her—a photo or old yearbooks—and it just opens up the vicious circle for her. Evan’s scars have made it hard for her believe that good love—true love—is real.

But I know it is. I’m looking at it right now, watching it look up at the stars.

I’ve been wandering the world half a man, and Maddy, she made me whole.

“Marry me,” I say.

Two simple words. They fly from my lips with little warning and little fanfare. I suppose it’s rude that I didn’t say them like a question, but I simply can’t. The only answer I can take from this woman is yes, and I won’t quit saying them like this until she concedes.

I’ve asked twice already, and both times she’s said no. So I won’t ask anymore. I’ll just speak it like the truth it is.

Her eyes blink slowly once, and I marvel at the way the orange above mixes with her brown to turn her eyes gold. She doesn’t flinch, and her breathing remains steady, as if she didn’t hear me at all. I’d think maybe she didn’t, but I know how loud I was. I left no doubt. It’s been weeks since I’ve asked, since she told me I wasn’t ready, but I know I am.

I wait with my eyes on her for nearly a minute, finally resolving to repeat this routine in two days, when I know her morning is free again. I don’t sigh. I’d hoped for her to accept, but I’m not discouraged. I’m empowered, because every time I ask, the words get easier to say. This time, they were nearly effortless.