Breathing Ghosts

  Breathing Ghosts

  By

  Laekan Zea Kemp

  ***

  Copyright 2013

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Prologue

  “Stop counting them.”

  Stars pricked at me from the darkness like the tip of a blade as we lay on the hood of Nia’s car. I dabbed at my brow with the collar of my shirt, the warm night settling against our flesh like a second skin.

  “I wasn’t,” I lied.

  I could see Nia’s breaths slowing, her limbs falling limp against the hood of the car. I tried to relax, to sink there next to her, but I couldn’t.

  “I know you,” she said, her chin resting in the hollow between my ribs.

  And she did. My fingers crawled to the soft hairs fluttering above her ear, to the smooth skin my thumb had trembled over so many times before.

  “Mari read somewhere that some Native Americans believe that when you die you’re sort of sucked back into the bosom of the cosmos and you become a star. Do you think that’s true?” she said.

  I looked up at the stars all twitching in other galaxies over other fragile mounds of dirt. I imagined them hovering there, spitting heat and light like the beast that was raging over our Florida coast just a few hours earlier. I thought about what it would be like to be trapped inside one of those stars burning for eons.

  “I hope not,” I said.

  She exhaled, the same shallow laugh that was her answer to everything. “So now you hate stars too?” she quipped, gently biting at my thumb, teeth catching on the nail.

  “Hate is a strong word.”

  I slid her hair back, pulling it tight away from her face so that I could see her mouth when she spoke.

  “Oh, really Riv?” She wrinkled her nose and cleared her throat, ready to start off on one of her many impressions of me. “I hate Florida drivers. Does no one around here know how to use a goddamn turn signal? And look at those people, can’t even use a crosswalk. It’s like they just want to die. I hate people like that.” She smiled, laughing. “And that was just on your way to work, I’m sure.”

  I couldn’t lie. She was pretty close. But instead I said, “I wasn’t aware that I was an eighty-year-old man.”

  “That’s just how I picture you when I’m alone.” She reached up and pinched the tip of my nose.

  “You’re sick,” I said, my fingers trolling her rib cage for that groove that always made her squeal.

  “And you’re boring.” She rolled to face me, her hair spilling over my shoulder as she climbed into my lap. “When I’m playing space invader with the rest of those stars up there you’ll be sorry. Maybe I’ll send you a solar flare or an eclipse or a meteor shower or something.”

  “Oh thanks.” I led my hands down to her hips, my thumbs resting on the soft skin just above her jeans. “Better yet can you send Armageddon?”

  She narrowed her eyes, lips slipping into a smile. “You’re so morbid.” She exhaled, a warm string of her breath curling into my mouth. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter 1

  28.5° N, 81.4° W

  She’s dead. I bite down hard on the words, carving them into the flesh of my cheeks, bleeding with them. The dank smell of rosewood and incense fill my lungs as I drift toward the front of the church. I watch my feet, catching and scraping across the maroon filigreed carpet, nudged forward only by the person behind me.

  I can feel the woman shuddering, her forearm knocking against me with every step. Apparently she doesn’t understand the concept of personal space because when I glance back, breaking my rule of making eye contact with any of Nia’s friends or family members, the old woman touches my face and I jerk away, almost hitting the man in front of me.

  He turns around, eyeing me—examining my shoes which belonged to my grandfather and are two sizes too big; my pants one size too small, the hem hovering just above my ankle; the dark stubble I’ve let amass on the lower half of my face, and my blue eyes, stark against my pale skin. That’s where they linger.

  My appearance, a little disheveled, maybe even a tad disrespectful considering the circumstances, that he can look past. But it’s the color of my skin he just can’t quite get over.

  It doesn’t cause him the kind of discomfort that makes him want to pummel me or throw me out of Nia’s funeral. We’re much too evolved for that. But it does cause him to whisper something to the woman standing next to him, the Spanish words buzzing just under his breath. They take a few steps forward and suddenly I’m at Nia’s feet, invisible beneath the polished wood door of the casket.

  Everything beneath her torso is an afterthought, a meaningless mystery to every stranger who parades past her, decorating her lifeless body with goodbyes and apologies and revelations that mean nothing to either of them.

  But those legs, I know those legs. I know what it feels like to be spun in their web, smooth and lithe as they’re tangled with my own. And those hips, the way they’d cut into me as she pressed herself against my chest, mouth in my ear.

  The other half of her body is splayed in a spurious sleep. I know her eyes are closed, can see her lashes drawn, but I can’t make it past her hands.

  They’re folded low near her waist, right over left, her fingernails a sallow yellow that makes my stomach turn. Her thumb is stiff, a few fingers curled as if someone had moved them, as if someone couldn’t help himself and decided to reach out and touch her.

  I don’t know if it’s what she would have wanted, to be seen with eyes and hands she didn’t recognize, everyone taking a piece of her with them as they filed past. But it’s not what I want.

  I want so badly to brush my fingers across her skin, to feel the ripples along her knuckles, the soft hairs on her arms. But I feel the heat of eyes on me, their gazes sending tremors down my back and I have to move, I have to get out.

  I glance up at her face cut by shadows streaming in from one of the ornate glass windows and I want to brush them away, to touch her cheek, to bury my face in the hollow of her neck and crawl in next to her.

  But I don’t.

  I don’t touch her. Instead, I push back through the line, hands clutching at my chest as I search for a bathroom. I see the door that reads Men and I barrel through it, collapsing against a stall door, my hands braced over the toilet. I retch, stomach twisting, emptyin
g myself until there’s nothing left. I try to concentrate on my breathing, on slowing it down, holding it out. Not on the smell or my hands, damp against my knees, or the knot in the back of my neck.

  I finally crawl to my feet, slowly, searching for unsoiled handholds as I make my way to the sink. I rest my elbows on the cool marble counter and twist free the spout before letting the water run over my hands, down into the cracks and folds, underneath my fingernails. I pump a few drops of soap into my palm and clean myself up, throwing some water on my face, gargling some before spitting it into the drain.

  But I can still taste it—the harsh chlorine smell rising from the toilet bowl, the bile burning hot against my lips, the wax flesh of a thousand burning candles. Her death.

  I hear voices on the other side of the wall, splitting and breaking apart as people regain their gall to speak. A handful grow muffled outside on the front steps, people starting to leave, and I wait for them to dissolve so that I can make it to my truck without anyone seeing me. But then I hear something fall against the bathroom door.

  “Stop it Nacio. Don’t do this to mom.”

  I recognize the bite in Mari’s voice, sharpened by a wariness of the world she learned early on when their father was killed. Nia was only four when it happened but Mari was seven and remembered everything.

  “Me…?” Ignacio’s voice trails off, the words choking him. “He did this.”

  He. Julian? A strange heat rushes over my ears and it sends me against the wall. I press my forehead to the plywood, every nick pressing hard into my skin as I wait for the nausea to pass. But Ignacio just keeps talking, his words cut by sobs and trembling lips and I can’t breathe.

  “And he thinks he can show his face here? No.”

  Here. The word shoots through me like a bout of adrenaline, burning hot in my veins. I push through the door but Mari and Ignacio are still in the small entryway and Nia's brother grabs me by the arm.

  “What are you still doing here?” he spits at me.

  Mari struggles to peel away his fingers, avoiding my eyes as she tells her brother to lower his voice.

  “What do you mean Julian’s here?” I ask.

  Toe to toe with him I’m at least a head taller than he is and he takes a step back, heel catching on the wall.

  “That’s none of your goddamn business.”

  I want to knock him square in the jaw, I want to spit in his face and rip his fucking head off. I want to tell him that it is my goddamn business. That she was my girlfriend. That I love her. But after trying for almost eight years to be acknowledged by them, to be accepted, to not just be some ghost in her life but a real living breathing part of it, I’m so fucking done with dealing with their bullshit.

  I shove past him and out the front doors. Sunlight careens off the hoods of cars and steams up from the black tar of the street, burning my eyes. People are still huddled in the middle of the emptying parking lot and I edge past them, winding through cars, trying to avoid their eyes as I make my way to the truck.

  Hands slip into the collar of my shirt, fingers gripping the fabric and pulling it tight against my throat. I whirl, fists clenched, and Julian pushes me against the hood of my truck.

  “Take your fucking hands off me, Julian.”

  He grinds a knee into the soft flesh on the inside of my leg. “I thought I told you to disappear.”

  I push him back. “And I thought you already did.”

  He shakes his head. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Me?” I glare at him and he glares back. “Just leaving the funeral that should have been yours.”

  He swings and then it is night, black stars pulling me into their orbit as rage rips through me. And I’m swinging, fists diving like birds of prey, knuckles grinding into his flesh. I don’t feel the impact, the gristle of his skin, the sweat brimming from my palms. Only the low drum of my heart is animated, charging my limbs with a ferocious rhythm that just keeps hammering and hammering and hammering into him.

  “You piece of shit,” I growl.

  I hear a crack, dull below the pulsing in my ears and each black star, one by one, begins to drown, swirling into nothing as tears flood my vision.

  He staggers, out of breath. “You son of a bitch.”

  I blink, my hands reaching for the sharp ridge of my nose and as my fingers twist into focus I see the blood trickling down my fingernails.

  I look right at him. “You fucking murderer.”

  The pain shoots through me and suddenly I’m kneeling, Julian driving his foot into my stomach. But I just keep yelling.

  “You killed her. You did this.”

  “Shut up!”

  “You fucking killed her!”

  He hangs back, fists clenched and shaking. Voices sift in, quavering and hushed and I feel someone lace their arms through mine, pulling me to my feet.

  “River?”

  But Mari’s voice is swallowed by a low rumble vibrating against the pavement and through the warped tunnel of tears I see Julian falling into the backseat of a car. I want to get a good look at him, to see what I’ve done, but there’s too much blood. On both of us. And that’s all I see as the door falls closed and they pull back onto the street.

  Mari opens the door to my truck, her fingers pressing into my back as she nudges me up into the seat. I linger, my foot against the side of the truck, waiting for the weight on my lungs to dissipate.

  I feel her breath on the back of my neck. “What the hell, Riv?”

  I flinch at the familiar ghost in her voice. I wait for her to say something else, for the shallow lilt of Nia’s voice to flutter against my skin. But she doesn’t. Instead she closes the door, hand lingering against the glass for half a second, before turning away and heading back toward the church.

  I lay my head against the back of the seat and peel my hand from the cushion, glaring at the crimson shadow I’ve left behind. Jack will be pissed, I think, the realization that I’ve had his car longer than the two hours I’d said I needed it for cutting through the pain throbbing in my skull.

  But the panic doesn’t settle there. Not like it would have when I was nine or ten, just a wisp of a thing trying to stay out of his way. I just beat the shit out of Nia’s brother and a hate I didn’t know I was capable of is still thick and burning in my veins.

  Because he did this. He killed her.

  It was a Saturday morning and Nia was in her bedroom. And maybe she was drawn to the window by stray light flooding in from a car’s headlights, or maybe the sound of tires slowly pulling to a stop, the rubber catching on the curb. Or maybe by the sound of her mother getting dressed for work in the bathroom they shared, the low warble of the water running as she brushed her teeth, the soft click of the door as it was being locked.

  Something though had pulled her out of bed, still in the ratty tank top she slept in every night, her hair strung up in a loose bun. Then, barely awake, her eyes probably straining from the light, the first bullet sliced through the thin glass window above her clothes hamper and a shelf of schoolbooks. The lead cut past her skin, carving into the wall behind her. Maybe she turned to see it, glinting and black, the wood around it splintered. Or maybe she slid to her knees, hands over her head, trying to crawl toward the door or under her bed.

  Or maybe she didn’t even have time to move before the next round tore through the front of the house, cutting the thin plaster exterior completely in half, careening off appliances, settling within the cotton stuffing of their furniture, shattering picture frames and light fixtures, tearing into her skin, ripping her into nothing.

  Julian had been their target, but it was Nia’s silhouette that had been in the window that night. Now she was the one being shuttled in the back of a hearse to a private burial for just the immediate family—no friends, no boyfriend, no güeros.

  I try to replay the fight in my head—my hands on Julian’s throat, fists pounding into him. I try to savor it, just for a second. But those flashes of him
are so fleeting that I can’t even tell if they’re real.

  I glance down at my knuckles, at the translucent skin raw and torn, following the blood up the slant of my jaw to the bruise crusting over my eye. I stare at my reflection in the drop down mirror above the steering wheel and from my skin to my joints down to my very cells begin to ache. But it’s not because I look like shit. It’s because I look like shit and I still feel even worse.

  I think about Julian being pulled into the backseat of that car, of getting away again, of getting away with all of it. The keys spill out of my pocket, clinking against the seatbelt holder. I fumble with them, trying to stick the starter into the ignition and get the hell out of there while I can still think, while I can still move, because I feel the grief settling at the base of my stomach like a pile of ashes.

  I could drown in them, suffocating, and I want to. But instead I press down hard on the gas and peel out onto the street, trying not to glance at the empty seat next to me, the fabric sunken and hollow as if it knows someone is supposed to be there.

  Chapter 2

  28.5° N, 81.4° W

  I pull into the driveway and wait for Jack to materialize on the front porch. I look for the scruffy Marlins hat first but there’s nothing and the longer I wait the harder it is to move. Something flutters in the kitchen window and I see a sliver of my mother’s face peering out from behind the curtains. When I know she’s seen me, I finally go inside.

  She’s already at the door when I’m reaching for the handle, her face dark behind the screen, a finger pressed to her lips. I pull back gently, easing the door open so that the springs don’t uncoil with a squeal. I don’t want to disturb Jack who, from the look on my mother’s face, has already been disturbed enough for one day.

  I play this game with her almost instinctually, slipping off my shoes and stepping only on the floorboards I know won’t give, taking the quietest route to my bedroom. One we mapped out together years ago when my mother decided living in fear was better than living alone.