Barely Breathing (The Breathing #2)(71)

Evan laughed.

"Anyway, one time, she climbed too far up this tree, and the branch broke out from under her. She fell, banging into branches the whole way. I heard her crying and found her hanging about twenty feet up. She'd managed to grab the last branch before she would've hit the ground."

I leaned back against the sink, absorbing a story that I couldn't connect with. Although there was something about it that opened a hole in the bottom of my stomach.

"Derek had to use a ladder to get her down," she laughed, like the sight of me dangling from the tree, needing to be rescued by my father, was humorous. "She didn't break anything but was covered with bruises from head to toe. And, she never climbed a tree again."

Then she directed her attention toward me. "Are you still afraid of heights?"

I stared at her, recognizing the gap in the bottom of my stomach was triggered by fear. I swallowed and returned, "I don't love them."

"I didn't know you had a problem with heights," Evan noted, examining my pale face. "You did okay when we went rappelling last year."

"I was pretty convinced I was going to fall to my death," I admitted. "I wasn't about to tell you that. Besides, I didn't really have to look down, just for the next step. But we never did it again, right?"

"No, we didn't," Evan considered. "I had no idea."

I could only shrug, since I hadn't known why I was afraid of heights until I was blindsided by the memory. I couldn't recall a single second of it―but the emotions were there. The fear and desperation. I knew her story was true. 

My mother continued with childhood stories. I should've been embarrassed, but it didn't feel like she was talking about me. It became apparent that I didn't have a single recollection of my childhood, and it was unsettling. That time completely escaped me, leaving me in the present without a past.

When the cleaning up was done, so was my mother's bottle of wine―producing a giggly mess.

"Want to go for a walk?" I asked Evan. He stood from the table, smiling at another unrecollectable moment about some haircut I'd insisted on when I was eight that made people think I was a boy.

"Sure," Evan responded. "Thank you for dinner."

"My pleasure," she grinned fondly.

After wrapping a scarf around my neck and pulling on my gloves, Evan and I escaped into the cool crisp air of the lingering winter. It hadn't snowed in a while, but what was left wasn't going anywhere fast.

I stared silently at the ground with my hands in my pockets.

"That bothered you," he concluded, drawing my attention. "It wasn't that bad from where I was sitting."

I shrugged. "No, it was fine." And it was partly true. I wasn't really bothered by my mother's nervous chattering, even after a bottle of wine. Evan waited, but I didn't continue.

"Are you going to tell me what you're thinking?"

I breathed in deeply, sifting through what I wanted to say. "I don't remember our house the way she does." I paused in thought before continuing. "I remember loving it, but I don't remember anything about it at the same time. All I can picture is lots of sun and trees. I felt safe there, so it couldn't have been as horrible as she's making it out to be."

I directed us toward the park, and we followed a worn path to the playground. I sat on the chilled seat of a swing. The black plastic hugged my hips. "I didn't realize how blank that time was for me until she was talking about it."

"You were young," Evan offered.

"Not that young," I countered. "You'd think I'd remember something as traumatic as falling out of a tree."

Evan sat next to me, watching as I rocked the swing gently with my feet on the ground. I stared at the flattened snow, still troubled. I'd locked everything up, blocking out the good with the bad, leaving myself with not much of anything to hold on to.

"I do remember one thing," I said, gazing at him with a soft smile on my face.

"What's that?" Evan encouraged.

"My dad made me this swing out of a piece of wood that he hung from one of the trees. I would pump so high my toes would touch the branch above. I'd tilt my head back and close my eyes; it was the most amazing rush. I was convinced that's what flying must feel like. I spent hours on that swing."

Evan smiled affectionately. I allowed the warmth of the memory to fill the emptiness.

"Sometimes, I wish I were back there, when everything was perfect and I was happy, swinging my life away."





19. Waiting for Friday



"Did I totally screw up last night?" my mother asked as she poured her coffee. "I did. I completely embarrassed you. I was nervous, and I drank too much wine, then told too many stories. I am so sorry, Emily. Tell Evan―"