Breathe Out (Just Breathe, #2)(115)

We sob into each other, not willing to let go for fear that this is all just an illusion.

“Beatrice, dear,” Mr. Nelson calls. “We should move inside before any of us catch a cold.”

She reluctantly lets go of me and I’m suddenly met with the comforting embrace of Mr. Nelson. “We never thought we’d see you again, child. It’s good to see you.”

“Come, come,” Mrs. Nelson sings. “Let’s have some tea or cocoa to warm up while I make us lunch.”

“Yes,” agrees Mr. Nelson. He lets go of me and turns to Joe. “I’m Benjamin Nelson and this is my wife Beatrice.”

“Joe, sir,” he greets. “Joe Covelli.”

“Pleasure to meet you, my boy,” Mr. Nelson expresses leading us up the stairs and into the house.

My legs shake uncontrollably as I move up the stairs, stopping when I hit each one. Joe holds onto my arm, patiently waiting for me. As my feet follow Mr. and Mrs. Nelson, my eyes stay fixed on the front of my parents’ home — the furniture is exactly the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Nelson’s house smells exactly the way I remember from the winters — burnt embers from the fireplace, the smell of Mrs. Nelson’s vinegar and lemon homemade cleaning agent and baked goods — Mrs. Nelson bakes every couple of days during the cold season.

We settle easily in their kitchen at the table as we always did when Mrs. Nelson would cook. They greet Sadie warmly and offer her a bowl of warm water as the four of us sip our tea. Mrs. Nelson stands in her usual place at the stove, heating up some of her delicious homemade chili. Mr. Nelson sits at his seat which is at the head of the table with his back facing the wall that joins our homes. I sit to Mr. Nelson’s right as I’ve always had and Joe sits to my right — where my mother sat.

“Where have you been?” Mr. Nelson starts off.

“Benjamin,” Mrs. Nelson scolds politely.

“What? We’ll get around to it at some point,” he states. “Might as well get it over with.”

“I’ve been living in California,” I answer.

“How did you get out there? Did the State transfer you to a family out there after what happened with the first one? What happened?” Mrs. Nelson rambles.

“I left on my own,” I offer.

“What happened with the first family?” Joe searches, obviously clueless to many details.

“You know they wouldn’t even let us see you in the hospital,” Mrs. Nelson reveals. “We showed proof that you’re parents had given us a letter in case of emergencies, but they wouldn’t let us in. We immediately filed for custody, but they ignored us because we were too old, they said.”

“You did?” my mouth utters, touched by their gesture.

“Of course, sweetie,” Mr. Nelson confirms. “You and your parents were family to us.”

I lower my head, fighting tears.

“Don’t cry,” Mr. Nelson soothes, taking my hand.

Joe takes my other hand, resting it on my lap.

“Why did you make her cry?” Mrs. Nelson questions.

“I didn’t mean to, sweetheart,” he confesses.

“It’s okay,” I offer. “It’s just a lot for me right now.”

“You don’t have to share, sweetie,” Mrs. Nelson consoles. “We’ve got plenty of time for that.”

Smiling, I say, “I’m good. Let’s just lay it all out. I think I’ll feel better if I do.”

The three of them nod, coaxing for me to talk with their eyes while consoling me at the same time.

“I woke three days later in the hospital,” I begin. “They had to sedate and strap me down . . . .”

“What? Why?” Mrs. Nelson interrupts.

“I woke up screaming and yanked out the intravenous line several times. Each time I slept, I had visions of the accident, but wasn’t sure if they were real or not. Once reality set in, my heart broke and I laid there like a vegetable not talking. It took me a while to talk — not until I was out in California.”

A cold shiver travels down my spine, causing me to temporarily lose focus. My gaze travels up and my brain slowly registers where I am. It takes several more seconds before I continue.

“Four days after that, they put me with a foster family in Hoboken. There were two little girls, sisters, with them already and we shared a room. The foster people drank and lived off of the government money. I took care of the girls, Brittany and Leslie, while Dean and Amber drank and watched television all day.

“They made me go to public school, despite already have my diploma, but at least it got me out of the house from Dean’s and Amber’s drunken fits.”


My eyes glaze over as I stare at the coffee mug on the table in front of me, seeing every image unfold in front of me vividly.

“You mother was a wonderful teacher,” Mrs. Nelson praises.

I smile and nod before continuing. “The girls and I made our own routine and soon made friends with a family who owned a restaurant around the block and a few streets down from the house. They were kind and nice, inviting us in to stay warm, giving us food. They even bought the girls and me some Christmas presents.

“At the end of January, Dean saw us in the restaurant and accused me of stealing his money to buy the food. He was drunk and forceful, but Martin, the owner, intervened. The cops picked Dean up and tossed him in jail for the night.