Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(110)

I was trying so hard not to cry when he pulled into the driveway. I was frustrated, sad, even a little angry that I was in this predicament. Oh, yeah, and extremely humiliated―especially when I saw him emerge from his truck in a suit.

"Oh shit," I murmured when he neared. "You were out. You had plans. Jonathan, I am so sorry. I shouldn't have called you."

"Yes, you should have," he countered without hesitating. He took us in with his hands on his hips. My mother's tight dress was pushed up so her underwear were showing, her knees were bloody, and her hair was matted with the vomit that was smeared across her cheeks and oozing down her chest. She was collapsed to the side, completely unmoving. At first sight, she appeared to not even be breathing, but I knew that she was because her breath reeked of alcohol and puke.



       
         
       
        

And then there was me. Slumped and broken, covered in dark red vomit, like someone just heaved their innards all over me. I couldn't move. The cold, slimy, vile substance made me cringe in disgust, sliding across my skin with the slightest movement.

"Bad night?" he observed with a shake of his head.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" I groaned sarcastically.

He took a deep breath and asked, "Is the door unlocked?"

"We didn't make it that far," I told him, handing him the house key. He crept carefully past us and placed his shiny dress shoes on the unscathed sections of wood. Opening the front door and flipping on the foyer lights, he disappeared into the house and reemerged a moment later wearing a fitted t-shirt and the dress pants.

"Go ahead upstairs and get the shower ready for her." He looked me over and added, "And you."

I shuddered when I stood up, my wet jeans sliding along my thighs.

"Don't think about it," Jonathan encouraged when I cringed.

I laid down a towel to kneel on and pulled the shower curtain out of the tub. Jonathan was a minute behind me, carrying my mother in his arms while trying to keep a distance between her and him. He wasn't successful. The dark red vomit from her cheek smeared across his t-shirt as he laid her in the tub.

I grabbed a garbage bag for her clothes as we slid them off of her. I should have been uncomfortable seeing my mother in her underwear with Jonathan beside me, but I'd moved beyond that embarrassment. All I cared about was getting her cleaned up and in bed, so that I could do the same. We sprayed her down with the hand-held shower, doing our best to soap her up and rid her of the vile smell.

Jonathan removed his shirt before he carried her to bed, not wanting to get the puke on her clean skin. I helped him rest her on her side, placing the bathroom's empty trash bucket below her. It wasn't like she would aim for it. She hadn't moved a muscle the entire time. She just breathed heavily and groaned every so often.

"Go ahead and clean yourself up," Jonathan instructed. "I'll stay with her in case she gets sick again."

Nodding silently, I went to my room to get clean clothes. I numbly removed my soiled items and dumped them in the garbage bag, tying it tightly to contain the sour odor. Then I lingered under the hot water, scouring the stench from my body. I didn't realize I was crying until I turned off the water and the hot tears kept streaming down my face.

I sat down in the tub, pulled my legs into me and continued to cry into my folded arms.

"Emma?" Jonathan's voice called to me from outside the door, interrupting my tears. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be out in a minute," I replied, trying to sound as normal as possible. But I know I didn't. 

After dressing and rinsing my face with cold water, I grabbed the trash bag and opened the door. Jonathan was sitting on the floor outside of my mother's room, his back pressed against the wooden spindles that lined the top of the stairs. He wore the white dress shirt untucked over his dress pants.

I tried to smile, but there was no use. "Thank you," I said quietly, setting the trash bag on the top step to throw out―deeming its contents unsalvageable. "I'm really sorry for interrupting your night. Please don't tell me you were at a business dinner or," even worse, "on a date."

Jonathan smiled warmly. "I told you to call me anytime you need me. And I meant it."

I sat down against the frame of her door so I could see her and face Jonathan at the same time.

"What was this about?" he asked, motioning towards my mother with his thumb.

"I have no idea," I sighed. "She left me this weird message after she was already drunk, but I don't know what happened. Everything's been so great lately. We were talking more. I haven't seen her drink in a while, not even a glass of wine after work. She hasn't gone out, well... until last night.