Breathing by Cheryl Renee Herbsman Page B

money’ll be good.” He sounds like somebody done up and stole his puppy.
    “What about maybe painting houses?” I suggest, all gentlelike. He doesn’t answer. “There must be house painters in Greenville!” I can hear him smiling. “You just take that telephone and call every painting company out there and tell ’em what they’ll be missing out on if they don’t hire you. Jiminy Crickets, boy. Don’t make me come out there and explain it all to your mama myself.”
    “You are one crazy-ass girl, Savannah as in Georgia.”
    “I miss you something terrible, Jackson as in Mississippi.”
    “I’ll call you soon,” he says.
    “Love you,” I say, sounding too hopeful.
    “Back at you, baby.” And then he’s gone and I feel even worse than I did before.

11
    I can’t breathe. I just woke up from a dream where my daddy was sitting on my chest watching me struggle for air. But even though I’m awake, I still can’t get a good breath. I’m shivering even though it’s hot.
    My asthma’s been acting up the last few days. Mama says it’s the pollen. She’d like to keep me indoors all day long if I’d let her. She ain’t even close to right. Even though I know in my heart that Jackson wouldn’t have left me if he’d had his druthers, my asthma doesn’t know that. Alls it knows is that somebody done up and went.
    I’ve been coughing myself awake on and off all night. But now I feel it coming on for true. I hate to wake Mama, but I expect I best hurry before I can’t get up at all. I’m leaning forward, trying to gulp down some air.
    “Dog.” Why am I whispering when I’m trying to wake him up?
    “Dog!” I yell-cough.
    “Ungh,” he grunts.
    Now I’m sweating, feeling panicky. “Dog,” I wheeze again, and I am fighting for air.
    He picks his head up off the pillow. “D’you use your inhaler?”
    “Yeah,” I croak, grateful he’s awake and comprehending the situation.
    “Mama!” Dog yells, sitting full up in the bed and staring at me like my head might just pop off. “Mama! Vannah can’t breathe!” And to my surprise, he sounds right concerned.
    Mama comes bolting in, her jammie top falling off the edge of her shoulder. Her hair’s all a wreck, and her face doesn’t look too good neither. She tears over to the bed and starts shaking me real hard, then yells at Dog to move his ass and call 911. Only thing I can’t figure is why I feel like I’m hovering up on the ceiling looking down at myself, unless, holy s-h-i-t! Am I dead?
    I’m too young to die. I ain’t even had a chance to find out what all everybody is so durn excited about when it comes to, well, you know, the birds and the bees and all that mess. I didn’t even get to say good-bye to Jackson. Now that ain’t hardly fair.
    Oh man, Mama is freaking out. “It’s okay. I’m all right,” I try to tell her. But even though I can hear the words in my head up here, they don’t come out of the mouth she’s looking at down below.
    “Has she been taking her medicine?” she barks at Dog.
    “How should I know?” he yells back.
    “Did she use her inhaler?” she cries.
    “Yes!” he yells, triumphant. “I asked her right before I called you in. She said she did.”
    “Y’all calm down!” I try to say. But when I look at myself, I can see I’m not saying a word. “Lord, it’s gonn’ be all right.” Except then I notice how my lips are looking blue.
    “Where is that G.D. ambulance?” Mama shouts. “I’ma give them one more minute, then I’m toting her off to the hospital myself.”
    Meanwhile, my poor body is passed out and struggling for air. Mama’s holding me all tenderlike and telling me to hold on. Aw, Mama, don’t cry.
    She’s on the phone telling Gina to meet us at the hospital. She’s got one arm around my body with her hand on my chest, like she’s feeling my heartbeat. Dog looks like he’s fixing to be sick himself.
    I’ve got to say, it is nice to know they care.
    It’s strange being out here