Learning to Breathe Page 2

  She disappeared behind a beaded curtain, the long ropes gyrating in her wake. Brenna took another sip of coffee as she waited, then casually turned on her stool to see who else was in the store with them. She could hear whoever it was rustling about in one of the shelves, so she knew they hadn’t left. But it was unusual for a customer not to call a greeting when they walked in.

  Her attention was distracted by Mary Margaret’s reappearance.

  “Got it! It’s a mask, so we need to smear it on and then let it sit for about ten minutes.”

  Brenna eyed the squat, unlabeled glass jar filled with what seemed to be a white petroleum jelly. “I’ve got to be at the theater by ten to place my concessions order. Can you have me cleaned up in time?”

  Mary Margaret’s smile didn’t dim. “Not a problem. I’ve been told by more than one person that I’m a miracle worker.” She twisted the lid open.

  Brenna screwed up her nose. “What is it?”

  Mary Margaret stuck a finger in the jar. “To be honest, I’m not really sure—mainly flower extracts and distilled seeds, I guess. I did try it on my own skin and it didn’t turn me the color of a chili pepper, so I figure it’s okay.”

  “Wonderful. That’s very encouraging. I guess if nobody comes to my theater to watch the movie, they can at least come to see the human chili pepper.” Instead of moving away, Brenna stayed where she was, ready for yet another onslaught of a sister’s mission to change her. As the youngest of five girls, she had long since grown used to it.

  Mary Margaret reached over to spread the white cream across Brenna’s cheeks and nose. It was cold and slimy and smelled surprisingly like marigolds. Her sister smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Brenn—I’ve got something for rashes, too.”

  Brenna sat frozen, unable to retreat any farther without falling off the stool. “How comforting.” Her sister pulled back Brenna’s hair and began spreading the cream on her forehead. Closing her eyes in resignation, Brenna said, “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this to me. You’d think I’d learned my lesson after Claire’s vitamin incident.” She tried not to shudder as she recalled another sister’s run-in with one of Mary Margaret’s vitamin concoctions. It had made Claire so energetic and refreshed that it had led to late-in-life twins.

  Mary Margaret’s warm breath brushed the top of Brenna’s head as she leaned forward to make sure the cream was spread evenly. “And Claire thanks me every day for Mary Sanford and Peyton Charles. It just took her a while to get used to the idea, that’s all.”

  Brenna smothered a laugh as she felt a cold glob of the cream on the end of her nose, threatening to drip. “Just don’t ever do that to me. If I ever wake up in bed next to Chester Anderson, I might have to kill you.”

  They both started laughing and stopped only when they heard a soft cough behind them. A deep voice, with only remnants of a Southern accent still clinging to it, said, “Excuse me. Can you tell me where I can pay for these?”

  The two sisters turned in unison to face a tall man with a day’s worth of dark beard stubble on his cheeks. He held a bag of disposable razors and a can of shaving cream, the current edition of the Indianola Post crunched under an arm.

  Brenna blinked twice, feeling the air leave her lungs like a rapidly deflating balloon. Oh, Lord. It really was him. She blinked again just to make sure, staring at the once-familiar features and feeling the heartburn congeal in her chest again.

  He hadn’t changed at all. His dark brown hair carried a few gray strands around the temples, and laugh lines framed blue eyes in a deeply tanned face, but he was still the same. He had lost any hint of boyhood in those narrow cheeks, and his eyes most certainly didn’t stare out at the world with unbridled enthusiasm as they once had. They were guarded now, and darker, as if a curtain had been drawn down over them.

  He gave her a reluctant smile. “Hello, Brenna.”

  Mary Margaret tilted her head as she looked at the man. “Do we know you?”

  He turned to Mary Margaret. “Brenna and I went to high school together.” He juggled the items in his arms and stretched a hand out to her. “I’m Pierce McGovern.”

  Mary Margaret’s eyes widened in recognition as she pumped his hand up and down. “Oh! Of course I remember you! You and Brenna, well . . .” She looked at Brenna, then stopped. “You’re Dr. McGovern’s son, then. I heard you were coming back in town to move him into the nursing home. He’s a dear man—delivered my two oldest.”

  “Yes, well. It’s good to see you. Both of you.” He indicated the items in his hand. “I just took the red-eye from San Francisco and drove in from Houston, so I’m a bit bushed. If I could just pay for these . . .”

  “Of course! The cash register’s over here.” Mary Margaret led the way to the far end of the counter.

  Brenna stared after them, trying to find her breath before she passed out and slid off the vinyl stool. She concentrated on the back of his shirt, rumpled and travel-weary like its wearer, and suddenly smelled Polo cologne and the crushed velvet upholstery of the backseat of Dr. McGovern’s Buick.

  Mary Margaret placed Pierce’s purchases in a small brown paper bag and slid it across the counter with a wide smile. “It sure is good to see you, Pierce. Please tell your daddy I said hey—and we’d love to have you both over for Sunday dinner. The whole family gathers every Sunday after eleven-o’clock Mass at Kathleen’s house—that’s our oldest sister—and we’d love to have you join us.” She gave her youngest sister a pointed look. “And Brenna will be there, too, so you can catch up on old times. They’re at six-fifteen Shelby Street, right next to the fire station.” She waved at the air. “But you probably already know that. We’d love to see you.” She winked. “Just bring your sneakers. The fellows always end up playing a game of touch football in the front yard, so I want you to be prepared.”

  Pierce cleared his throat and lifted the sack. “As much as I’d love to catch up with Brenna, I really don’t know what my schedule’s going to be. . . .”

  Brenna wondered if her sister could hear the desperation in his voice.

  Mary Margaret stopped him by putting a hand on his forearm. “Nothing’s ever going on around here on Sunday, I promise. We’ll just set out a couple extra plates, no problem. So y’all come on by, you hear?”

  With a weak smile, he nodded, offered his thanks again, and then turned away. He caught sight of Brenna and stopped. As if of its own accord, the corner of his mouth twitched. He pointed to his own nose and said, “You’re dripping.”

  A large clump of mask chose that moment to loosen its hold on her nose and fall to her lap. A full-fledged smile spread over his lips as he turned away. Brenna sat, unmoving, until she heard the tinkle of the bell over the door. In horror, she reached her hands to her face, belatedly realizing what she must look like.

  Slowly but deliberately, she leaned forward until her masked forehead touched the cool laminate. Her Saint Jude medal slipped out of her collar, clinking against the counter as Brenna began to laugh until she cried.

  CHAPTER 2

  As soon as the door shut behind him, Pierce reluctantly allowed a laugh to escape. He didn’t want to, but there had always been something about Brenna O’Brien that made his ears tingle in a completely involuntary reaction to her smile. But that had been when he was young and stupid and still believed the best of people—especially women. Cynicism had come early and cheap for him, brought to him on the smooth, trim heels of a younger Brenna O’Brien.

  He tossed his package onto the empty passenger seat of the rental car, then slid behind the wheel. After starting the engine, he looked back at the large plate-glass window of the store. He should have left the second he recognized her voice. But like quicksand, it had pulled at him, sucking him into an encounter he had studiously avoided for almost sixteen years. Steering away from the curb, he gunned the engine, eager to put it all behind him, almost glad it was finally over. That done, he wouldn’t have to think about her or see her until his dad’s affairs were s
ettled and he was completely immersed in the plans for his company’s new multiplex theater.

  Slowly, he drove around Indianola, passing the World War II memorial in the main square, then pausing in front of the house where he’d grown up. Because he was an only child, the neighborhood children had been his siblings, their mothers his surrogates in the absence of his own, who had left him and his father when he was eight. He stared at the fat oak tree in the corner of the property, grown taller and wider since he had last seen it, the thick roots pushing through the grass toward the sidewalk. He felt a special affinity with the old tree. They had both grown, shifting their roots to accommodate a new maturity. But seeing the roots meet the unyielding cement of the sidewalk, Pierce wondered if he, too, had found an insurmountable barrier in his life.

  Pierce moved his gaze to the house. Despite new owners and a new shade of paint on the shutters, the house was the same. If he closed his eyes he could almost see a cluster of children playing kickball on the sparse grass of the front yard, and a younger, barefoot Brenna O’Brien fleeing across the grass, terrorized by a butterfly.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he pressed down on the accelerator and drove to the nearby town of Greenwood, where his father had moved shortly after Pierce had left for college. It had been closer to the hospital, making the commute less of a burden on the aging doctor. Pierce hadn’t imagined that leaving the house where the only memories of his mother lived would hurt as much as it had. But at least the move also meant that he wouldn’t have to spend any time in Indianola on his rare visits home.

  Pulling into the covered carport of his dad’s house, he shut the engine off and paused, listening to the high-pitched screech of the cicadas growing in intensity with the steady rise of the day’s heat. This was a hard trip. Moving his father into a nursing home was an admission of the old doctor’s growing frailty and inevitable mortality. His father was the last hold on his youth, and one that Pierce had thought he’d never have to let go.

  When nobody answered his knock on the front door, Pierce opened it himself and walked into the foyer. He had hired a full-time house-keeper, but she wasn’t expected until eleven. Following the sound of the TV, Pierce found his father asleep in his recliner, his head tilted back and his breathing coming in intermittent snores.

  Pierce walked over to the television and flipped it off. His father stirred and opened his eyes, his face warming into a smile as he recognized his son. With shaking arms, he lowered the foot of the recliner and struggled to stand before embracing Pierce.

  Pierce towered over his father, shocked at how small and brittle the once powerful man with a soldier’s build had become. For the first time, Pierce noticed the walker on the other side of the recliner and the lamp table covered with pill bottles. A wave of guilt and anxiety washed over him when he realized how long it had really been since his last visit.

  “It’s good to see you, Dad.”

  The old man sat back gratefully in his chair. “Good to see you, too, son. Sorry I didn’t get the door, but I sat down to catch the news and I guess I fell asleep.”

  Pierce looked at his father with concern. “Have you had breakfast?”

  He squinted for a moment as if thinking hard, then said, “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

  Moving the walker in front of the chair, Pierce said, “I’ll go make us something to eat and then we can talk.”

  The old man nodded as Pierce retreated into the surprisingly well-stocked kitchen and began making grits and bacon. The smell reminded him of Saturdays when his father would get up early to make him breakfast, and Pierce would lie in bed letting the aroma pull him out from under the covers.

  They sat down at the small kitchen table that still bore the marks of his childhood—dents from falling blocks, number two pencils, and skateboard wheels.

  Pierce tried his best to inject a cheerful tone. “Dr. Fitz told me Liberty Village is a great place. Lots of activities and excursions. And a library. I knew you’d like that.”

  His father nodded and put a forkful of grits in his mouth.

  “They have shuttle services to the mall and a movie theater, too.”

  Again, his father nodded and continued to chew without saying anything.

  Pierce took a few bites and they ate in silence for a few moments. Finally, his father said, “I’m sorry to hear about you and Diana.”

  Pierce looked closer at the older man, wondering if he’d see any “I told you so” in his eyes. Instead, all he saw was true compassion. “Yeah, well, thanks. I guess I’m not very good with relationships.”

  “What happened?”

  Pierce shrugged. “Just . . . nothing. Everything.” He looked at his father and didn’t think either one of them really had the energy to listen to the truth. Shaking his head, he said, “It didn’t work out.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t the one for you.”

  Pierce took a bite and took his time chewing and avoiding his father’s gaze. “Maybe.”

  The doctor leaned back in his chair, his eyes discerning but kind. “Did you make it easy for her to go?”

  Pushing back from the table, Pierce avoided looking at the older man, knowing they both recognized the truth. “I don’t think I’d end a marriage just to prove a point, Dad. I don’t think that was it at all. We were just . . . incompatible.”

  His father looked at him with steely eyes, and Pierce knew he hadn’t fooled him a bit. “I see.”

  Standing, Pierce began to clear the table. “I guess our first order of business is to visit your apartment at the Village to determine how much space you’ll have. Then we’ll know better what we can keep and what we’ll need to get rid of.”

  The old doctor sat back in his chair with a mug of coffee and continued watching his son, the gray eyes missing nothing and making Pierce feel five years old again.

  Brenna unlocked the sliding gate in front of the Royal Majestic Theater and tugged hard to open it. It was getting rusty and needed painting, and she made a mental note to add it to the growing list of things she couldn’t afford to fix.

  Still, when she had slid the wrought-iron gate and chained it open, she couldn’t help but smile. The gleaming mahogany of the ticket office and the wainscoting in the foyer smelled of fresh polish, and the black-and-white tiled floor, though chipped in places, gave the small theater a decidedly elegant air. She touched the large brick on the wall with reverence, as she had done every day for the last five years she’d been the manager and owner. It read 1939, the year the first film shown in the theater had been released. Glancing around at the towering ceilings and brass chandeliers, Brenna knew that her little theater had been grand enough to host even Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable.

  “Good morning, Miss O’Brien.”

  Startled, Brenna swung around and spotted Beau Ward, the tall, skinny teenager who worked as her assistant manager whenever he wasn’t in school. “I thought we’d agreed that you’d call me Brenna.” She continued on inside, unlocking the double glass doors that led into the carpeted lobby and concession area.

  She faced him again in time to see his cheeks coloring, accentuating the patches of acne on his high cheekbones. “Well, on account of you being unmarried and kinda old, my mama said I needed to be more formal and call you Miss O’Brien. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  Staring at him a moment, she decided against the long speech she’d whipped up about how she wasn’t so old or how being unmarried in no way meant that she was ready for the glue factory. With a sigh, she said, “That’s fine, Beau. I’m sure your mama is right.”

  Brenna stepped behind the counter and grabbed two Nestlé Crunch bars and handed one to Beau. “Want one?”

  The boy’s face brightened as he reached for it. “Thanks.” He ripped open the candy bar and took a bite, lopping it nearly in half. “If it’s any help, Miss O’Brien, my mama can’t understand why you’re not married. She says you’re real pretty.” He held up the candy bar. “And you’re nice, too. You know
, my mama was talking about maybe setting up a date with you and my uncle. . . .”

  Brenna held up her hand, trying to keep the look of horror out of her eyes. “I’m only nice while I’m here. At home I collect heads and shrink them in a big pot on my stove.”

  Beau looked startled for a moment, then gave her a tentative smile. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Sure,” Brenna said, throwing a meaningful look over her shoulder. “I’ve got a bunch of boxes that need to be opened, and this counter restocked. When you’re done, bring me a list of things we’ll need to order. We’ve been pretty busy, and they cleaned us out of Junior Mints last weekend.”

  Plopping the rest of the candy bar in his mouth, Beau nodded and disappeared into the storeroom behind the counter. As Brenna began to walk across the lobby to her office, she heard a car pull up outside and recognized her sister Claire’s white Cadillac. Claire stepped out and waved, her white nurse’s shoes padding quietly across the marble floor. The second oldest in the O’Brien clan, Claire stood about a head shorter than Brenna’s five-five and wore her hair in a perfect French twist. Even though her ash blond hair came from a bottle, she still referred to herself as the only blonde in the family.

  Claire kissed her younger sister on both cheeks, European-style. “I can’t chat. I’m on my way to the hospital.” She stared closely at Brenna, squinting at something on her forehead near her hairline. “You’ve got something in your hair.”

  Brenna’s hand went up and she felt the crustiness of the dry facial mask. “That would be Mary Margaret’s mask. Does my skin at least look better?”

  Claire scrutinized her younger sister again. Finally she said, “I think so. Maybe your crusty hair is just throwing my judgment a bit.”

  Scraping her hair with her fingernails, Brenna said, “I need to get to work. Is there anything you need?”

  “Yes—I wanted to remind you that the scrapbooking party is at my house on Monday at seven, and I wanted to ask if you could bring a salty snack. I know it’s early, but Buzz and I are going away this weekend while Kathleen takes the kids, and I’m just crossing things off my to-do list. We’ll be back in time for Sunday supper.”