Nothing to See Here (36)

They sat on the floor, their legs tucked underneath them. “Sit cross-legged, okay?” I said, demonstrating. I was not flexible, lived a life that required me to be tense at all times in case someone tried to fuck me over, and I found the simple act of making my spine erect, making my pelvis and thighs do regular stuff, was a little more difficult than I’d expected. I hoped that the kids didn’t notice, but they were easily making their bodies into pretzels, like I could have twisted them into any shape and they could have held it.

“Now what?” Bessie said.

“Close your eyes,” I said.

“No way,” Bessie replied, and I again felt tenderness for her because I also understood how ridiculous my request was. When I was ten, I wouldn’t have closed my eyes for all the money in the world.

“We’re all going to close our eyes,” I said.

“So you’ll close your eyes, too?” Bessie asked, as if she hadn’t expected it.

“Yes,” I said, trying to maintain calm, to not be irritated.

“So you won’t know if my eyes are closed or not?” she said.

“I guess not,” I said. “I just have to trust you.”

“You can trust me,” Bessie said, and I knew that this was a test. So I just closed my eyes.

“Now,” I said, feeling their hot little bodies, their sour breath, the tremors running all over them, “take a deep breath.”

Roland sucked in air like he was trying to drink the world’s biggest milkshake. He coughed a little.

“Just an easy, slow breath, and then you hold it,” I said. I tried it myself. The air went inside me, more than you’d think, and I just held it. It sat there, mixed with whatever was in my body that made me who I was. And I don’t know if the kids were doing it right or not, but I wasn’t going to open my eyes. I held it, and it felt like the world was spinning just a little less quickly than it had been before.

“Now exhale,” I said, and I could hear the relief in their lungs as they blew the air out of their bodies in one long, ragged exhalation.

“Are we done?” Bessie asked. I opened my eyes and saw that they both had their eyes closed.

“No,” I said. “We’re going to do it again.”

“How many times?” Roland asked.

I had no clue.

“Fifty times?” I said, and Bessie immediately protested.

“No way,” she said. “No way fifty times; come on, Lillian.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Twenty times.”

“Fine,” Bessie replied. And so that’s what we did. We breathed. We held our breath. We breathed again. And I had never thought about it this way, had always assumed that whatever was inside me that made me toxic could not be diluted, but each subsequent breath made me a little more calm. And I lost track of time. I had no idea how many breaths we’d done. But I didn’t care. I just kept breathing, and the temperature of the room stayed the same. And, finally, when it seemed enough, I said, “Okay, then.”

“That’s it?” Roland asked. “We’re done? We can eat breakfast?”

“How did it feel?” I asked them.

“Silly,” Bessie said. “At first. But it’s okay. It wasn’t so bad.”

“So we’ll do that every day,” I said.

“Every day?” they both whined.

“Yes,” I said. “And if you feel yourself getting worked up, you breathe like that. Okay?”

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Bessie admitted.

“We’ll see,” I said, and we went downstairs to eat Pop-Tarts and drink huge glasses of milk.

After breakfast, I got out these little workbooks from one of the closets, all wrapped in plastic from some educational company for weirdos who believed the end of the world was coming and wouldn’t let their kids go to a normal school. Or maybe that’s harsh. Maybe it was for parents who couldn’t let their kids out of the house or else they’d catch on fire. Or, maybe, just parents who thought they could give their kids something good and true. Who knows? The workbooks were high quality, though, at least that.

I found a math workbook for fourth grade. What grade was ten years old? I had no idea. I tried to think back to my own life. Was it third? Fifth? I truly had no idea. The fourth grade one would be fine, I decided. I ripped out some pages, basic multiplication, and slapped them on the counter. The kids looked at them like they were written in Chinese.

“School?” Roland moaned. “No way.”

“I just want to see what you know,” I told them. “You’ll be going to school in the fall.”

“Mom never made us go to school,” Bessie said. “She says school is for sheep. She says it’s for people without creativity.”

“Well, that’s actually kind of true, but creative kids like you and me find ways to make it work.”

“Why can’t you just teach us?” Roland asked. “Or Madison?”

“We don’t have the proper training,” I told them. “Look, that’s a long time from now. Right now, we’re just going to practice. We’re going to learn and have fun, okay?”

“I hate this,” Bessie said.

“It’s pretty basic stuff. Like, see, what’s four times three?”