Ten Tiny Breaths (28 page)

“Good,” Dr. Stayner takes that as an
agreement. “I will have your room prepared. The first part of your
therapy will begin now.” I’m reeling over how quickly he seems to
react. Efficient and business-like, but at the same time like a
tornado, swooping in to wreak havoc. He smoothly walks over to the
door and motions someone in.

No
. I cower in my bed and squeeze
Livie’s hands until she whimpers slightly.
Good God, please …
no! He wouldn’t.

An older version of Trent turns the corner
and steps into my room, sorrow marring his handsome features.

Trent’s father.

Cole’s father.

Fuck. I don’t even know what to call him
anymore.

“I want you to listen to what Mr. Reynolds
has to say. Nothing more. Just listen. Can you manage that?” Dr.
Stayner asks me.

I think I nod, but I’m not sure, I’m too busy
staring at this man’s face, how much he reminds me of
his
face.
His
eyes that I fell into day after day. Happy. In
love. Yes. In love. I was in love with Trent. With my life’s
murderer.

“We’ll be here with you the whole time,”
Storm says, gripping onto my free hand.

Trent/Cole’s father clears his throat.
“Hello, Kacey.”

I don’t respond. I just watch him slide his
hands into his pockets and hold them there. Just like his son does.
“My name is Carter Reynolds. You can call me Carter.”

A shiver runs through my body at the sound of
that family name.

“I want to apologize to you for all that my
son has put you and your sister through. I tried to do so four
years ago, but the police issued the restraining orders. My family
and I respected your privacy then. Unfortunately, Cole … Trent has
since harmed you again.”

He takes a few steps further into the room
until he’s at the end of my bed, casting a furtive look at Dr.
Stayner, who only smiles at him. “It was our car … my car … that
Sasha drove the night of the accident.” A frown flashes across his
face. “I think you knew that, though, right? Insurance papers would
have specified that.”

There’s a pause as if he’s waiting for me to
acknowledge. I don’t.

“We lost Cole after the accident. He ceased
to exist. He dropped out of Michigan State, quit football, cut off
all contact with his friends. He left his girlfriend of four years
and stopped drinking altogether. He changed his name from Cole
Reynolds to Trent Emerson—his middle name and his mother’s maiden
name.”

Carter pauses, his lips pressing together in
a slight scowl. “That accident tore our family apart. His mother
and I divorced a year later.” He waves his hand dismissively. “That
doesn’t matter. What I do want you to know is that Cole … er …
Trent is a troubled young man. Two years after the accident, I
found him in my garage with the car running and a hose connected to
the tail pipe. We thought we lost him for good that night.”
Carter’s voice cracks with emotion and I feel an unwelcome spike of
pain over the image in my head. “Soon after that, we admitted him
to Dr. Stayner’s inpatient program for post traumatic stress
disorder.” Again, Carter looks to the doctor to see him smiling and
nodding him on. “When they released Trent, it was with a seal of
approval. We were sure he had recovered. He laughed and smiled
again. He began calling us regularly. He enrolled in a graphic
design school in Rochester. He seemed to have moved on. He even
attended outpatient programs and therapy groups to help others get
through their grief.

“Then, six weeks ago, it looked like he was
having a relapse. He appeared on his mother’s door step, mumbling
something about you and how you’ll never forgive him. We brought
him here and admitted him to Dr. Stayner.”

I fight hard to school the shock from my
face. So all the time that Trent was missing, he was here, in
Chicago. In a hospital for P.T.S.D., the thing he was insistent on
curing me of.

“A few days after release, Trent was ecstatic
again. We couldn’t figure it out. We thought maybe he was manic or
on drugs. Dr. Stayner said no to both. He couldn’t tell us what was
going on because of patient-doctor privilege.”

“And I didn’t know what was going on, to be
clear. Trent hid critical information from his sessions with me,
knowing I wouldn’t approve,” Dr. Stayner interrupts.

“Right,” Carter dips his head in assent. “We
figured it out three days ago, when his mother ran into the
receptionist here and she asked if Trent and Kacey had worked
things out. She didn’t think anything of it, given Trent mentioned
he had a girlfriend named Kacey and they were having trouble. I
guess he felt telling the receptionist was low risk.”

Carter sighs. “When my son left the inpatient
program two years ago, he did so with the belief that if he could
fix your life, he would be forgiven for all the pain that he had
caused.” He looks down at the floor now, as a shadow of shame
crosses his face. “My son has been watching you from a distance for
two years, Kacey. Biding his time until he approached you.”

I hardly notice Livie’s fingers dig into my
forearm. Though I don’t feel much, the knowledge spikes somewhere
deep inside. Trent’s been following me?
Stalking
me? All
because he wants to fix what he broke?
I want to make you happy.
Make you smile.
His words play back in my head. It all makes
sense now. He truly did. He was on a mission to fix me.

“His mother and I had no idea, Kacey.
Honestly. But Trent has watched over you for the past two years. He
knew someone from school who could hack into your email. That’s how
he found out you were moving to Miami. We had no clue that he up
and left New York. But he did, leaving his condo and his life to
come to follow you with this notion that if he could fix your life,
he would be forgiven. We talked daily over email and voice mail. He
even came to visit his mother once.”

“So I was a project,” I mutter to myself. A
peace project.

Nauseous. That’s all I feel right now. Thick
bile rising up my throat as realization hits. He never cared about
me. I was a step in a fucked up twelve-step program he created in
his head. “It doesn’t matter.” My voice is hollow. It really
doesn’t matter.

Trent and all the good that he brought to my
life is dead. It was never really alive.

Storm speaks up now, for the first time since
Carter stepped in. “Kacey, Dan wants you to press charges against
Trent. What he did is wrong and illegal and fucked up on so many
levels. He deserves to go to jail.”

I smirk to myself. Storm never swears. She
must be really mad.

“But I made him wait to report it until you
were feeling better and you could make the call. I thought that
should be your call.” She adds with a low growl, “even though I
want to shoot the bastard in the head.”

I nod slowly. Report Trent. Charge Trent.
Trent goes to jail.

“His mother and I understand if you want to
press charges,” Carter says calmly, but I see his shoulders droop
as he casts away his only son.

“No.” The word surprises even me as it leaves
my lips.

Carter’s brow curves, surprised. “No?”

“Kacey, are you sure?” Livie asks, her hand
squeezing mine.

I look at her and I nod. I have no idea why,
but I know that I don’t want to do that. I’m sure I hate Trent. I’m
sure I have to hate him because he’s Cole and hatred for Cole is
all that I know.

I look up at Carter, imagining this man pull
his son’s limp body from his car, and it’s not hatred that I feel
right now, though. It’s pity. For him, and for Trent, because I’m
intimately familiar with the level of pain that would drive a
person to do that. It’s an end that has danced through my own
thoughts once or twice in the years.

“No. No charges. No police. It won’t change
anything. It never has.”

Carter squeezes his eyelids shut for a
moment. “Thank you.” The words are hoarse and full of emotion. He
clears his throat. With a look at Livie, he adds, “I understand
there is a matter of Livie’s custody.”

“No, there’s no matter. She’s under my
custody.” I turn to glare at Livie. Why did she tell him?

“I called Aunt Darla,” she explained softly.
“I didn’t know if you were going to make it for a while. She said
she could take me home with her and—”

“No! No! You can’t leave me,” I yell
suddenly, my heart rate spiking.

“She’s not going anywhere, Kacey,” Carter
promises. “Except back to Miami to go to school. My firm will
ensure all the legal custody paperwork is drawn up. Custody may
need to go to Ms. Matthews for now, until you’re better or Livie is
old enough.”

I nod numbly. “Th … thanks.” He’s helping us.
Why is he helping us?

He gives me a firm smile. “I’ve also had a
conversation with your uncle.” His eyes turn cold and hard. “There
is still insurance money left, Kacey. He didn’t squander it all.
I’ll see to it that it is all transferred into yours and you
sister’s name.” He pulls something from his inside coat pocket.
“Here’s my business card, should you ever need anything. Ever,
Kacey. Livie. Anything. I will help in any way that I can.” He
places it on a side table.

With a nod to Dr. Stayner, he heads toward
the door, his shoulders slouched as if carrying a terrible burden.
And I suppose he is, after what his son has done. He stops with a
hand on the doorknob. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen Trent
as happy as he’s been while with you. Never.”

***

I stare at the clinic’s large oak doors. They
contrast so greatly to the sterile white stucco exterior. Still,
it’s a nice building.

My home for the next little while.

A tiny hand slips inside mine and I don’t
recoil. “Don’t worry. It’s not so bad and, if you’re good, when you
get out, we’ll go get ice cream,” Mia says with a somber face. She
and Dan spent their time visiting Chicago’s zoos and parks while
Storm stayed with me. Now, they’re here to see me off. She raises
her free hand with two fingers held high. “Three scoops!”

Storm slides up behind her with Dan hanging
onto her arm, laughing. “That’s right, Mia.” She winks at me.

“Ready?” Livie asks, hooking her arm through
mine.

Inhaling deeply, I look at the place again.
“It looks a little posh.”

“Don’t worry. I know a guy who knows a guy …
who knows a guy.” Dan grins. For some reason, I don’t believe him.
I have a feeling that Carter Reynolds’s manicured hands are somehow
in the mix. Maybe I’m a
buy one get one free
offer for
Stayner not curing his son in the first place. For once though, I
don’t fight it.

Livie and I walk forward, our steps mirroring
each other. “Thank you for doing this, Kacey,” she whispers, wiping
away the tear that rolls down her cheek.

A man in a light blue uniform opens the door
and reaches forward, offering to take my bag.

“I’ll call as often as they let me,” Livie
calls out, giving my forearm one last squeeze before letting
go.

I wink, putting on a brave face for her. “See
you above water.”

I won’t survive this.

I can’t survive this.

All they want me to do is
talk. Talk and talk and talk. About my feelings, my nightmares, the
almost assault on Storm’s attacker, my dead parents, Jenny, Billy,
Trent.
Every time I shove it all back into that dark,
cramped closet where it belongs, Dr. Stayner barges in and drags it
back out like a madman on a mission, with me kicking and screaming
as I hang onto his coattails.

None of this will help me.

Neither will the anti-anxiety meds. They make
me feel tired and nauseous. Dr. Stayner tells me they take time to
work.

I tell him I’m going to punch him in the
face.

I hate his guts.

And when I close my eyes at night, Trent is
there to greet me, laughing. Always laughing.

I tell that to Dr. Stayner one day in his
office, during my daily private session. “Do you think he’s
laughing, Kacey?” he asks.

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

“No, you told me you had a dream about him
laughing at you. But do you believe that he’s laughing?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?”

I glare at him. This conversation has gone on
far longer than I expected. This is what I get for opening my big
mouth. Normally, I stay quiet and give simple “yes” and “no”
answers. Those have worked well for me so far. I don’t know why I
thought this would be an innocuous topic.

“Let’s think about this a moment, shall we,
Kacey?” He leans back in his chair and he just sits there, watching
me. Is he thinking about this? Does he think I’m thinking? This is
unnerving. I let my focus roam around his office as a distraction
from the awkwardness. It’s small and clinical. He has walls upon
walls of books just like any normal shrink should have. But he’s
not like any other shrink that I’ve met. I don’t know how to
describe him. His voice, his mannerisms, they’re all unusual.

“Trent is a young college guy who drank too
much one night—like most college students. Then he made a horrible,
stupid mistake.”

My hands clench and I lean forward in my
chair, imagining myself spurting acid from my teeth to melt
Stayner’s skin. “Mistake?” I hiss. I hate that word. I hate when
they use that word to describe that night. “My parents are
dead.”

Dr. Stayner’s finger pokes the air. “That’s
the
result
of his horrible, stupid mistake. That’s not his
horrible, stupid mistake, though is it?” When I don’t answer, too
busy glaring at the navy blue checker carpet on the ground, I feel
something pelt my forehead. I look down to see a paperclip on my
lap.

“Did you just throw a paperclip at me?” I ask
with complete sincere shock.

“Answer the question.”