Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(19)

"Are you okay?" I asked tentatively. 

"Huh?" her head shot up. "Oh, Emily, I'm sorry." She sniffled and wiped her red cheeks with her sleeve. "I woke you up."

She blinked heavily, and I sank to the floor with the realization... she was drunk. I spotted the bottle of vodka resting next to the top step and swallowed hard against the disappointment that rose in my throat.

"I was... I was just remembering," she stuttered. She was crouching, trying to balance the stack of frames, when she clumsily plopped down to sit.

"Fuck," she muttered, blowing a stray hair from her eye, her arm still wrapped around the frames as she reached for the bottle. It was just out of her reach, so she scooted over to grab it and repositioned herself so her feet rested on the top steps. She took a swig and ran her arm across her forehead, frustrated with the floating hairs that kept falling in her face. She looked like she'd just traveled through a tunnel of blankets.

I held the remaining frames that she couldn't quite manage and settled next to her. That's when I realized what they were―pictures of my father.

My mother shuffled through the stack that teetered on her lap and sent one slipping and sliding down the stairs. "Fuck."

Big, wet tears streamed down her face as she held a photo up. It was of her and my father sitting on a sailboat.

"I know you were looking for these," she blubbered, swiping the back of her hand across her nose. "I had to dig them out of the back of the closet. But I can't..."

She couldn't continue. Her eyes were smeared with mascara, bloodshot and half-open. Behind her inebriation was a sadness that was consuming her, and my heart ached at the sight of it.

"You remind me of him."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not knowing how to comfort her.

"I forgot how much I missed him," she slurred, slouching against the banister. Another frame slid from her lap and crashed down the stairs.

"Fuck!" she screamed. In one sudden motion, she picked up her pile and threw the pictures down the stairs. I jumped at her outburst. Glass splintered along the staircase as the frames collided with each step.

"Why? Why? Why?" she bellowed in agony, crumbling to the floor. I remained paralyzed beside her, my back tense. I took in the destruction at the bottom of the stairs, and then the woman who was disintegrating before my eyes.

"It's okay," I whispered, my heart beating frantically. I doubted she could hear me.

She pushed herself up to sit and reached for the bottle to take another swig. She flopped back against the post, barely able to keep her eyes open. The bottle tilted in her hand as she attempted to rest it on the floor. I grabbed for it, setting it down next to me before it joined the carnage at the bottom of the stairs.

"Let me help you to bed," I offered softly. Releasing the stack of frames that I still gripped tightly and setting them on the floor, I slid closer to her so I could put her arm around my shoulder.

"Huh?" my mother groaned, unable to hold her head up.

"There you go," I encouraged, slowly getting her to her feet. "Easy." She wobbled under my support. I focused on the bedroom door and hoped we'd make it inside before she toppled over. I had a good five inches on her, but if she fell, we'd both go down.

I guided her to her bed, and she collapsed face first. She drew in heavy breaths with a slight snore as I pulled the blanket over her. Leaving her in her induced peace, I shut the door behind me.

I stood on the top step and surveyed the mess below, exhaling deeply and shaking my head. Picking up the bottle that had instigated this disaster, my jaw tightened. I blinked away the tears, not wanting to feel anything. With a weight in my chest, I drudged down the stairs and dumped the bottle's contents down the kitchen sink. I blew out an exhausted sigh before slowly picking up the shattered pieces.



       
         
       
        

I wasn't exactly waiting for it, but I knew. I wasn't convinced after seeing her sober one night a year ago in front of my school that sobriety was going to take. She may not have had a drink that night, but it didn't mean she didn't every night after. I knew. I knew this was coming... I just hoped it wouldn't.

I picked up the picture of her and my father on the sailboat, and the lump tightened in the back of my throat. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to suppress the storm that was brewing in my chest. I breathed out once more before opening them.

After stacking the photos on the stairs, I filled the trash bag with the broken glass and busted frames and swept up the remnants. When I returned from taking the bag to barrel outside, I brought the memories back to my room, where I tucked them under the sweatshirts on my shelf in the closet. I wasn't ready to face them either.