Breath

By: Aleah Lyons (TikTok: @aleahnoel_writes, Instagram: @aleahwatermelon)

It hurts to breathe, is all I can think, it hurts. I raise my blanket over my mouth and cough, trying to be quiet so as to not wake my sisters. I slowly stand up, trying not to step on my sister Maisie. Mother is laying in bed with my youngest sister, Mary. She has asthma and mother is always worried it’s going to keep getting worse with the dust. My mother wants to sell the farm and leave, for Mary, but father won’t allow it. I turn the knob of the bedroom door and step out, wiping my hands on my nightgown after. The stairs creek as I step down them and I see father sitting at the table with his hands in his palms. I look down at my feet as I make it onto the last stair.

“Ginny?” Father whispers, “What are you doing up? It’s too early.”

“It’s too hard to breathe, I can’t sleep.” I step towards the table and sit down to his right.

His breath shakes as he breathes, in… and out… in… and out… My father is a strong man, nothing usually shakes him. I lay my head down onto the table, gently placing my hand onto his forearm. 

“Mary.. how is she doing?” he asks, sounding more worried than Mama.

“She’s okay, last night was better than most, she’s breathing. Mama’s laying with her,” I say slowly, watching his expression.

“Good, good.” A visible weight has been lifted from his shoulders, but not enough to really mean anything. 

His guilt is constantly radiating off of him. He’s worried about Mary, just as much as mother is, but he can’t part with this land. After his parents died when he was freshly 19, it’s all he has left of them. I look around the dining room trying to find the clock, it’s too dark to see. 5:16, it’s only 5:16. 

“Your mother said y’all were going to see Aunt Elizabeth today, you excited?” My father asks, I’m not sure why he’s trying to make small talk.

I lift my head up and nod as I pull my hands into my lap. He nods back, his hands resting just below his mouth. The wind outside is loud as it blows the dust onto the house. It’s getting worse each day, and no one seems to know what to do. Father’s wheat hasn’t been able to grow like it used to. Everyone’s crops aren’t growing like they used to. He keeps telling us it’s going to get better, although I know better than that. The day after tomorrow, he always says. I repeat the words in my head whenever I get worried. And when Mary asks me when she’s going to feel better, I use the same words just before reading her a book. 

“She hasn’t been getting out of bed much lately. Mary,” I say softly, staring at my hands in my lap. My right middle finger has a hang nail on it and I can’t help but slowly pick at the skin.

“I know, I’m not sure what else there is to do. She says she’s tired and just wants to sleep, that’s all we can ask of her.” His words barely come out and I feel bad mentioning it.

The stairs creek and we both turn to look. As if summoned, it’s Mary, dragging her blanket and rubbing her eyes. I turn my chair and open my arms as she slowly walks to me, snuggling close and sucking her thumb. She hasn’t gotten out of bed in two days. Father gives us a small smile before knocking on the table five times, just like he always does, and steps to the kitchen. Mary hops up and chases after him. He turns around and picks her up, making her laugh. She hasn’t had energy like this in months. Maybe today’s that ‘day after tomorrow’.

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Maisie and I help wash dishes after breakfast while Mama plays with Mary. Father has gone to care for the tattered land. No matter how or when Maisie and I wash dishes, they’re always dust covered by the next meal. Mary and Mama’s laughter fill the house, as if shaking the dust away. Father finally comes back and seems happier than usual too.

“It’s beautiful today. Carolyn, I can see the sun. You could paint again. All you girls should go out and enjoy it.” Father’s about dancing as his words spill out. Mama’s already giddy.

“Calm before the storm,” I whisper, and Maisie bumps my hip hard. I shouldn’t be ruining their fun for no reason. 

I take Mary and Maisie upstairs to get changed into outdoor clothes as well as get their sunhat and bonnet on. Maisie snatches her shoes from me and begins tying them herself. 

“She’s a big girl now!” Mary yells, and all I can do is laugh and agree.

We finally step outside, Maisie at my side, Mary on my hip. Our neighbor’s dog has decided Father’s charcoal cap is his new toy, he’s chasing him as though he’s just as fast as that golden. Mary pushes herself down and runs off somewhere. Mama decides that father and the neighbor’s dog is just the scene she needs in her next piece. I’ve missed staring at her palette while she works. It’s a well-worn wooden kidney-shaped thing, probably older than I am. It used to be honey-stained, but is now mostly obscured by years of accumulated paint splatters, the original wood barely peeking through the edges. The surface itself is consumed by color. There’s thick, dried edges of reds and blues, like tiny mountain ranges. My favorite part is the smoother center where she mixes her colors, stained with faint hues of earlier creations.

Before the hard times, the smell of linseed oil would fill the house. It was a comforting, earthy smell, smelling it here is almost a hug in a bottle. It’s sweet and nutty undertone mingled with the sharper, almost medicinal scent. Not overpowering, but it was always there, a reminder of Mama’s creative world.

Then, I see it. Down past Father, on the horizon, a dark smudge has begun to form, the way a bruise forms on pale skin. It wasn’t sudden, more gradual darkening, a slow gathering of shadows consuming the light around us. I tap Mama and point just past Father and that lively golden. 

“Thomas!” She yells, and points just as I did. 

Father shoos the dog away, then yells for the other girls. We all rush into the house, Maisie hurrying upstairs to make sure windows are closed. I look behind a curtain to find the once distant smudge has started to stretch and rise like a monstrous curtain being drawn across the visible world. The wind picks up, a low, mournful whine that carries the scent of dry earth, and something else, something old and angry. As the wind grows stronger, the shutters begin to rattle. 

“Mary!” Mama cries, “Mary! Come here!” It’s silent. Maisie comes down the stairs and is quickly interrogated.

“I don’t know! I didn’t see her! I don’t know..” Tears stream down her face and Mama sprints to the door.

Father grabs her arms and picks her up just before she can twist it open, “You can’t Carolyn. She was headed for the barn last I saw her, if she stays in there it’ll be okay. It’s okay.” Father acts tougher than he is. 

He lets go of her arms and she slumps to her knees. His eyes water but he turns so Mother doesn’t see. Maises crawls to Mother and lays on her leg, Mother stays still, all emotion is slowly drained from her face. Dust starts creeping in through the cracks in the doors and windows and everyone has given up trying to contain it. I sit at the table, in my same spot from my talk with Father, who slowly finds his way back to his spot. This time no words fall from mouths, no looks exchanged, my hand does not reach for his. All there is left to do is sit and wait for the dust to settle. I begin picking at the hangnail again, not so slowly this time. She has to be okay, right? She knows to close the barn door, she’s okay. 

I look at the clock, 2:37. This can’t last long.

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My head pounds making my eyes feel as though they’ll pop out of my head. The clock reads 7:44. Did I fall asleep? I walk to the kitchen and find Mama asleep on the floor and Father sitting at the table again; I can’t tell whether or not he’s sleeping. It’s eerily cold for August in Oklahoma and my face feels hot. The walls feel as though they’re closing in, the way cave walls do, and my feet sting against the wood floors. I make my way to a window just past the dining table and pull back the velvet curtain. It’s soft against my palm but suddenly snags on the hangnail, ripping the small skin that was left off. The dust has settled, resting on the shutters and outerrims of the windows. Mary.

I sprint to the front door and slam it open, smashing into the wall next to it, shaking the house like an earthquake. The barn looks so much farther away than it usually does. My legs sting from the dust that hasn’t fully settled and that pain slowly travels to my lungs. If I can’t breathe out here, how can Mary? I can’t think like that, I remind myself, she’s okay. She’s strong. I try to run to the barn but it comes out as an immensely slow jog. No matter how hard I attempt to push myself to go faster, nothing changes. The almost dead tree slowly sways back and forth with the wind, its fiery color making my eyes ache. I move my gaze down and see dark splatters of red where the barn door usually rests. I can’t breathe. The barn door feels impossible to open, like the giant stone in the story of Odysseus and the giant. My hands begin to burn, the cut on my finger from the hangnail makes my hands feel on fire. No matter how hard I pull, it just won’t open. Deciding to use both of my hands fully, I pry the door open, the cut burning a hole through my skin. 

“Mary?” I say quietly, looking around the floor of the barn. 

It’s covered with hay and I can hardly make anything out. Using my left hand, I start moving the hay around, my right hand dripping with blood. I say her name every few seconds. She’s okay. She’s strong, she’s okay.

“Ma-” I freeze. Every word I could’ve thought to say has evaporated into the cold, silent air. 

She’s there, lying on the ground, her hands a dark intense red. No. She’s okay. I slowly step closer, not wanting to see what I already know to be true. My throat begins to tighten and my heart sinks into my stomach where it’ll sit for the next few weeks. Inches away from her, I slump to my knees. Gently, I pull her to me, laying her against my knees. My face gets hot and the taste of salt fills my mouth. No. No. This can’t be true. This is just a bad dream, right? Mary is sweet, and kind, and playful. She’s not. She’s playing a trick on me. But I know deep down she isn't. I lift her up, holding her just as I did when mother first had her. As I head for the house, still holding Mary as close as I can, the front door smashed open again. Light blonde curls bob. 

“Maisie go back inside!” I cry. She can’t see Mary like this. 

The gravel slides loudly and the footsteps get quieter. Just before I step onto the front porch I freeze against my will. I sit myself down on the step, pulling her closer to my chest. The sweet, salty taste fills my lips again and it never seems to stop. 

“I’m so sorry..” is all that leaves my mouth in almost silent whispers, “I’m so so sorry.”

Mary might as well have been my own. After Mother had her, all she did was sleep. And father was much too busy with the farm to care for her. For the first two years of Mary’s life, mine orbited hers. I stay there, rocking her. Mother and Father have come out to see, but weren’t able to get her from me. 

“I’m so sorry, Mary.” I stroke her dark brown hair and her soft white cheeks. 

She resembles me in that way. We have the same eyes, hair, olive skin, and she was smart. The porch creeks, just like the stairs, and I don’t bother turning to see who it is. They slump down next to me and rest their hand on my shoulder. The hand is rough and calloused, Father’s. 

“Ya know, it isn’t your fault Ginny.” He whispers delicately. 

“But it is. I brought her out, I set her down. What have I done?” The words come out shaky and shattered. 

He pulls me onto his lap and rocks me just as I was rocking Mary. It’s an awful sight, a father rocking two of his daughters this way. Mother stays inside and I know it’s because she blames me. She was only three. The sky has begun to turn vibrant shades of pink and purple, and I know it's Mary there. I stay holding her, being rocked by my father, until the sky has gone black. Slowly standing up, I hand her to him. 

“I’m just sorry.” I say looking up at him. 

No words leave his mouth. He shakes his head, his eyes glossy. I finally go inside, and lay on my bed. Bunly. When Mary was two, our Aunt Elizabeth gave her a stuffed pink bunny. She named it Bunly, her word for ‘bunny’. I lay myself down and hold it close, the pillow underneath me becoming tear-stained. It hurts to breathe.