Free Unbreathed Memories by Marcia Talley Page B

or she’ll be too weak for the surgery.”
    His lips brushed her cheek. “Don’t worry, Lois, I will.” Paul’s arm snaked around my waist. “And Lois?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re a damn fine shopper.”
    Mother looked from Paul to me, a half smile brightening her face. “Be forewarned,” she said, shaking an index finger. “It’s in the genes.”
    Once we pulled the front door shut behind us, I stood on the porch, sick with dismay. I wanted Paul to bundle me into his arms and get me out of there. I wanted to snuggle against him as he drove me home, and the hell with mandatory seat-belt laws. I wanted a hot bath. A warm bed. But both his car and mine were parked out front.
    I must have moaned, because Paul squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll drive,” he said, instantly in tune with my mood. “We’ll come back in the morning to pick up your car.”
    I stared up into his eyes. “You are a prince, Mr. Ives.”
    He kissed my forehead. “Just an overachieving frog, my dear.”
    I thought I could wait until we got home to tell him about Daddy, but once in the car with the key already in the ignition, I reached out to touch Paul’s hand before he could start the engine. “Honey, I need to tell you something.”
    He faced me then, his cheeks a sallow yellow in the light from the street lamp overhead. I struggled for the words. I didn’t want to cry, but a combination of worry and anger made my eyes overflow. I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I brushed it away with my fingers.
    Paul took my chin in his hand and turned my face gently toward his. “Hannah, something’s been eating you all evening. What is it?”
    I sputtered, gasped, then broke down, sobbing against his chest with my cheek resting against the soft flannel of his shirt, smelling freshly of Tide. I told Paul about Daddy’s interview with the police and about Scott’s crazy conspiracy theory.
    “God, Hannah. Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse.” We sat there while I blubbered, Paul stroking my hair.
    After a few minutes I straightened, wiped my face with an old napkin Paul had scrounged out of the glove compartment, and said, “Take me home.”
    Paul started the engine and drove home cautiously, making attentive noises as I ranted. As we waited for the traffic light at the intersection of College and King George, he put a comforting hand on my knee and squeezed gently. In the darkened car, his handsome profile reflected red in the light from the turn signal of the car just ahead of us, blinking to turn left.
    Ten minutes later, back at the house, I stood in the entrance hall like a zombie with my coat still on.
    Paul unwound the scarf from my neck and unbuttoned my top button. “I’ll see what I can do, Hannah. I’ll talk to Iris Templeton at the Navy clinic. She’s been in the therapy business for ages; I’m sure she’s had to deal with this kind of stuff before.”
    “And I’ll talk to Ruth. If there was ever anything funny going on, surely she’d have known about it.” While Paul pawed through the closet looking for a hanger for my coat, I sat on the carpeted steps that led upstairs. “I just can’t get my mind around this! Tell me I’m going to wake up and find out that I’ve been dreaming.”
    Much later that night I found my escape. Paul and I made slow, gentle love and I fell asleep in the crook of his arm, dreaming of sunny days and soft breezes and the warm waters of a Caribbean lagoon sliding over my naked body, which, in the way of dreams, was once again perfectly whole.

chapter
6
    Ruth had a casual policy about opening up on Sundays—if you asked her, she’d say “noonish.” I had been cooling my heels outside Mother Earth for ten minutes before she appeared at the intersection of Main and Conduit carrying a bag of bagels from Chick ’n’ Ruth’s deli. I caught sight of her strolling down the street, munching on half a bagel, window-shopping as if she were a tourist with all the time in the