Breathe For Me

AS I WALK TO my locker on Wednesday morning, I notice more than a few sympathetic looks in my direction. A couple of people even awkwardly pat me on the shoulder, a gesture of comfort that isn’t lost on me.

Awareness blossoms in my chest, unfolds into glorious realization—they aren’t rejecting me. Maybe I’m not an outsider to them anymore.

Samantha makes her way through the hall toward me. Her face is etched with concern. “Are you okay?” she asks once she reaches my side. “I heard about what happened yesterday. So, how scary was that? Are you still freaking out?”

“I’m fine,” I say, offering her a smile. “I’m just glad Mr. Morris made it.”

“I heard you were a hero, that you got a teacher to help him out.” She pauses, pressing a hand to her chest. “I don’t know what I would have done. I probably would have just stared at him in horror. I tried to call you last night, but I think you were conked out.”

My brain is still whirring over her first sentence. A hero? People think I’m courageous? “But I couldn’t give him CPR,” I say. “He could have died because of it.” My throat closes up, and a swell of emotion sweeps over me.

I shouldn’t be happy—it took a near-tragedy for me to be fully welcomed in the school. It’s wrong for me to be so pleased about the consequences, given how deadly it could have turned out.

Alexis comes over, her face soft and eyes filled with empathy. “Hey, Isabel. I heard about Mr. Morris.” Her eyes are wide, earnest, and there’s none of the reservation that usually lingers in her interaction with me. “You shouldn’t even have to come to school today. You saved his life. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Samantha nods eagerly. “She’s right. Everyone knows you did what you could. And that you would have done more if you could have.”

Their words are a balm on my guilty soul. A tremulous smile breaks out over my face. I can’t stop the glow, the warmth that fills my heart and pierces to my inner core. “Thanks, you guys.”

I grab my stuff out of my locker and head to my first-period class. A new sense of resolve has taken over me. My bones become steel. My heart is solid, heavy, beating hard in my chest. My skin is strong and firm.

There’s no way I’m giving this place up. It’s time to come up with a plan, now. I will not go back to Sitri. One way or another, I will be my own person.

During lunch break, I eat quickly, then duck into the library, grabbing a random book off the shelf and pretending to read it so I can think without being disturbed. I spent most of the class periods today brainstorming a mental list of options on how to break the curse. Unfortunately, the list is scant.

—Force Sitri to release me (but how? What can I use against him?)

—Trick Sitri into releasing me (???)

—Ask Sitri to release me

“What are you doing?” Dominic asks as he slips into the seat in front of me.

“Oh, nothing.” I wish I could tell him the truth about me because he’s clever and could probably help me come up with alternate solutions. But I’m petrified he won’t believe me, and I don’t want to push him away, not when we’re getting close.

And even if he did believe me for some reason, I don’t want him to have to be around Sitri, who would make the rest of his life miserable if he even suspected Dominic knew my secret.

“What are you up to this evening?” he asks me. His eyes are bright, endless blue, and I am pulled to him.

I shrug, trying not to miss the intimacy of his touch from last night. “Not much—homework. Why?”

“Well, I’m just…” He drawls off and turns his gaze toward the table. His chest rises and falls quicker, causing his numbers to erratically drop. “I’m going to visit my grandpa at the nursing home, and… Well, you wanna come with me?”

It endears me to him even more to see him so nervous. He’s always so confident, so I can tell this visit is important to him. “I’m—I’d like to,” I reply. “But I’m afraid of—”

“He won’t touch you, I promise,” Dominic says, answering my concerns before I can even get them out. “I already told him on the phone about you being sick, so he knows.”

I swallow. It’s tempting fate to get tangled in Dominic’s life, even though I want to. I want to spend more time with him. But if my plan doesn’t work…

He smiles at me and in that moment, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of humility and awe. He wants to be with me. He wants to know me better, to open his life to me and share his vulnerabilities. I’m not alone in my attraction.

I dare to allow myself the smallest of hopes—maybe we can make it. Somehow. I want to have the dream, to believe in it.

Impulse compels me to add, “But after the visit, I’m taking you out to meet a friend of mine.”

I give him what I hope is a mysterious smile and recite his words from a few days ago back at him. “Wouldn’t you rather be surprised?”

Dominic rolls his eyes, and I can see disappointment on his face. The feeling is shared—I would rather spend all day talking with him in here. “Saved by the bell,” he says sarcastically. He gathers his stuff. “Okay, it’s a date. I’ll see you in English class.” He turns, then stops and spins around, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.

I bite my lower lip and swallow, unable to stop the feeling of utter glee that surges through me. I have a date with Dominic.

That evening, we press the glass double doors open and make our way into the nursing home. The strong antiseptic scent overwhelms me at first, and I force myself to relax. There are likely a lot of sick and elderly people here, ones with very low numbers, but I can’t give away my sadness about it in front of Dominic.

He walks to the front desk. The large black nurse behind the counter gives him a broad smile, moving around to envelop him in a massive hug. “Well, I’ll be. Where you been, boy? Your grandpa’s been asking ‘bout you—better hustle up there!” She looks over his shoulder at me. “You brought a lady friend with you, huh?”

I bite my lower lip to keep from giggling. “I’m Isabel. Dominic’s friend.”

She looks me up and down with piercing brown eyes, and I find myself actually flushing under her scrutiny. Finally, she nods. “Humph. A bit on the skinny side. Make my boy here take you out to dinner more.”

His cheeks flame red, and he pulls away from her. “We’re gonna head back now, Margo.”

We swing down the hallway on the left, walking by elderly people resting in wheelchairs along the outer edges. They all gesture to Dominic, their frail hands and gnarled fingers waving lightly in the air.

He shrugs. “I try to visit as much as I can. Some of the people here don’t have family. Or they’re deserted and don’t ever get visitors, so I talk to them.”

My heart twists at the lonely thought. How hard that must be. “It’s nice of you to hang out with them.”

We turn right down another hallway and come to the second door on the right. Dominic knocks, opens the door. “Grandpa, I’m here.” He goes in, carefully hugging the small, impossibly slender man on the bed.

I hang in the doorway, not wanting to interfere in their family moment. But Dominic notices and pulls me inside.

“This is my friend Isabel,” he continues. “Isabel, this is my grandfather, Amos.”

“Hi, Amos,” I say softly, trying to smile as casually as I can. Even if I couldn’t see the numbers above his head, I can tell from his narrow frame that he doesn’t have much longer to live. I wonder if Dominic knows.

Amos lifts his hand toward me. It’s paper-thin, and I can see his thick blue veins on the surface. I give him a handshake, surprised at the strength in his grasp.

“Pleased to meet ya, Isabel,” he says. His voice is low, gravelly, with a light, raspy edge to his words. There’s a warmth that makes me feel instantly welcome. “Dom’s told me all about you.”

Dominic sits in the seat on the other side of Amos’s bed. “You comfortable? Need something to drink?”

I slip into a seat in the corner and watch the two of them together. Dominic looks like his grandfather—they both have the same straight nose and blue eyes. Amos’s hair is also a bit messy, with grey bits tufting all over his head. I grin, now seeing where Dominic gets it from.

Amos sits straight up in his bed, wagging a finger at the door. “Spaghetti and meatballs. It was atrocious—so bland. No spices at all. Those people don’t know how to make a good meal. And they won’t let me in the kitchen to show them the right way. Bah,” he says, waving his hand in a dismissive manner.

Dominic winks at me. “Grandpa was a chef,” he explains. “I always loved going to his house to eat dinner. I’d come back five pounds heavier and in a food coma, but happier than I’d been in days.”

I chuckle. “No wonder he’s so passionate about it. It sounds amazing.” Yet another thing I love about New Orleans—the food is astounding.

Amos looks at me, his bright eyes lucid. “My restaurant had the best Creole food in the Garden District. I prided myself on the authenticity of the recipes. My jambalaya was award-winning.”

A pang of jealousy hits me. Not the resentful kind—more of a longing for that type of relationship with family. The only things I have left of my parents are snippets of words by my father, a few bars of some old song my mother used to sing. Jane’s silly dancing as she did her chores.

I sit back and quietly observe, letting Dominic spend time with his grandfather. They talk among themselves for a few minutes, their heads dipped close together as they exchange words back and forth.

“Come closer,” Amos says as he lifts a hand toward me and waves me over. “Can’t talk from all the way over there.”

I hesitantly rise from my chair and go to the one on Dominic’s left, closer to the man’s feet. “I was just giving you guys some space.”

“I see him all the time,” Amos says, ruffling Dominic’s hair. His eyes are warm as he looks at his grandson. “Glad to finally talk to you, though. Dom told me you’re sick. Most everyone in here catches a cold quickly. Immune systems aren’t what they used to be when you’re old. We’re careful around each other. We’ll be careful with you too.”

The corners of my mouth curve in a grateful smile. “Thanks. You just learn to live with how things are, I guess.”

Amos nods, suddenly grimacing. He settles back into his bed and exhales a low sigh. “Sorry, kids. Bones are achy today.”

Dominic tugs the blanket up to his grandfather’s neck, tucking in the sides. “Take a nap, Grandpa. I’ll come visit you again soon.”

We tiptoe out of the room and close the door quietly behind us, making our way to the front doors.

“He’s sweet,” I say as we walk back down the hallway. “And he obviously loves you a lot.”

Dominic reaches over and takes my hand. I swallow, relishing the feel of his strong fingers woven through mine. “He’s a good man. The cancer causes him a lot of pain, much more than he’ll admit to. I hate seeing him like that. The medication they give him dulls it a bit, but he’s not happy living like that.”

I think about the numbers above his head, and my throat closes up in sorrow. He has less than a few months left. How sad. “I’m glad I got to meet him. Wish I could have tried some of his food. I never seem to get enough of good Creole dishes.”

We pause at the glass doors. Dominic smiles at me, and his eyes fix on mine. “Thanks for coming with me today.”

I squeeze his hand, and we head out the doors toward his car. I slip into the passenger seat, eyeing him with interest as he turns on the car and pulls out onto the road. Yet another regret I have—I’ve never learned how to drive. At least, not that I remember. Just another small reason out of thousands to not let Sitri take me from here.

I blink, forcing my attention back in the present. “Head to the French Quarter.”

Dominic nods and navigates the car down the road. We remain in comfortable silence for a long stretch of time while he weaves in and out of traffic. I watch his strong hands as they turn the steering wheel and adjust various knobs in the car. Everything he does is with a precise movement; no gesture is wasted. It’s almost soothing to observe him, to see the control he exercises in his life.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” he says, turning onto one of the side streets in the French Quarter. Luckily, I see an open spot on the street near our destination, so he deftly pulls the car in and parks.

We get out. I stop for a moment and breathe in the air, laden with spices and heat. Saxophone music floats to us from the corner of the street across the way as a black man pours his heart and soul into the piece he performs.

“Come with me,” I say, reaching for his hand. Funny how it feels like second nature now to draw him closer. Funny how I can’t seem to get enough of his fingers wrapped closely with mine. I feel selfish, since I know my life is so up in the air right now, but he’s like a drug, and I can’t get enough.

I lead him toward my favorite store, The Voodoo Express. The bell jingles when I open the door, the pungent scent of incense wafting toward me. Aggie, the store owner, strolls toward me, her grin revealing bright white teeth that contrast against her smooth dark skin. I don’t know how old Aggie is; something about her seems timeless and indefinable, and her numbers are almost absurdly high. Maybe it’s one of the reasons we clicked so quickly when we first met—seeing her reminds me of the vibrancy of life.

“Oh, you’ve come back, Isabel! I haven’t seen you in a while.” She looks at Dominic. “And you brought a boy. That’s a first.” She hugs him, her long purple skirt flowing around his legs.

“This is Dominic,” I say. “Dominic, this is my friend Aggie. She runs this store, and she knows everything about everyone in New Orleans.”

Aggie rolls her eyes and waves a thick hand at me as if to shoo me off. “Take your time and look around. And if you’re finally ready for a readin’, come find me.” With that, she vanishes behind a beaded curtain to our left.

His grin spreads to my face. I feel so light, so free, sharing with him the people who are the closest thing I have to family in this city. It’s glorious.

“I know. I love coming here. She has everything.” I reach over and pick up a voodoo doll, dancing it in front of him. “Tourists shop here for souvenirs. But the good stuff is in the back.”

I put the doll down and guide him through a narrow doorway in the back of the room. The walls are covered in voodoo shrines, where people can offer gifts and leave prayers for the spirits to answer. Scattered across the rows and rows of shelves are an eclectic variety of offerings—candy, gum, packs of cigarettes, candles, coins spilling alongside Bibles and rosaries. Photos of happy families are tucked in here too, propped up by full bottles of rum and other liquor.

When I first explored the French Quarter several months ago, I wandered by this shop. Aggie plucked me right off the street, leading me back here and pointing me toward the room with the voodoo shrines. “Offer one a gift,” she said, “and write your greatest wish on a scrap of paper. He’ll help you.”

Though I was startled, I did as she’d instructed, hoping against hope that she was right. I still pop by regularly to offer up gifts and requests, but I spend most of my time talking with Aggie.

“You can put in your own request here,” I tell Dominic, pointing to the pile of scratch paper and pen. “Just leave a gift for whichever voodoo spirit suits your needs best—the name cards in front of them tell you what their specialty is. Even giving something small shows gratitude.” I dig into my pocket for a dollar and tuck it underneath my favorite statue.

“What did she mean by a reading?” he asks. His eyes are strange, intensely fixed on me. “Can we do that instead?”

I swallow. I haven’t been brave enough to get a palm reading from Aggie. I’m afraid of what she’ll tell me. Or what she won’t. Not to mention the fact that she can’t touch my bare skin. “I’d rather not,” I say.

“Money’s not the issue. I’m just…” I pause. “I’m afraid of what she’ll read in my fortune.” Besides, before Dominic, no one else here has even seen my gloveless hand, much less touched it.

He steps closer to me, peering down into my eyes. “Remember our poetry topic on destiny? Maybe this can play into that. Regardless of what she tells you, you make your own future.”

I make my own future. He’s right. That’s what I’m trying to do—not live my life in fear, in subjugation to Sitri. But to take ownership and make things happen for me.

“How about next time?” I say, my heart fluttering beneath my ribcage like a trapped bird. I don’t want to ruin today, which is as close to perfection as I’ll ever get. The truth can be spoken later, when I’ve had a chance to steel myself against it. “So we’ll have a reason to come back, together. We can go in there and make an appointment…for a tarot card reading.”