Hold My Breath by Ginger Scott Page A

and I finally convinced her to let me buy some of the things she so desperately needs. As far as this takes her, though, she still has so many hurdles to overcome. The more times we practice with the lift, the more the weight of it all hits my chest, and the more guilt I feel for letting her do this alone.
    We get Dylan back inside. He watches television in the living room, and I sit with Tanya at the table, finishing the pot of coffee she brewed. I slide my empty cup on the table and pry hers from her hand, holding on to her small fingers.
    “We could make this work. Let me stay here. We’ll just see how it goes,” I say, my eyes pleading with her.
    She runs her thumb across my knuckles and turns my palm over in both of hers, running her fingers along the lines tattooed on my wrist.
    “I count twelve here, Will. That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you,” she says. I look down at my skin, the last line still pink around the edges.
    “I got that last one a little early,” I grimace.
    “You could put a hundred on your arm now. I know you’ll make it,” she says, her eyes tired, and her smile struggling to stick around. If she believes in me so much, I don’t understand why she won’t let me help her now.
    “So then, let me stay,” I say.
    She stares at me for several seconds, maybe considering it. But just as she always does, she cuts me off.
    “We both know it wouldn’t work,” she says. “You’ve got big things to accomplish, Will Hollister. And I’m the one who decided to be a mom.”
    Her words cut, and the taste is bad.
    “You weren’t alone in that,” I say, standing and following her to the sink with my cup. She laughs lightly, turning into me and taking my cup with one hand, patting my chest twice with the other.
    “Sure am now,” she says.
    I step in beside her, taking my cup back from her hand and rinsing it before lifting up a few of the other things piling up in the sink. She wraps her hands around mine and mouths “stop.”
    “At least let me do the damn dishes, Tanya,” I sigh.
    She shakes her head no, cuts the water, and hands me a towel to dry my hands with.
    “I have to do this on my own, Will. You won’t be here all of the time to pick up the slack when I get tired…”
    I start to protest, but she holds up a hand.
    “And I don’t want you to be. I want to know I can claw my way out of holes on my own. And it’s nice to get the practice in while you’re just a phone call away,” she says.
    I hold her gaze, daring her to budge, but I know she won’t.
    “Okay,” I finally say, tossing the dishtowel on the only open counter space nearby and pulling her in for a hug. Despite how exhausted I know she is, she never once broke down in front of me. The only thing that makes her cry is pride in watching her son achieve something.
    “Go make that team, Will,” she says against my chest, her hands patting around me. “And when Dylan learns to talk, he’ll bring his gold-medal winning uncle in for show and tell one day.”
    I roll my eyes at her and laugh, backing toward the kitchen door to leave through the carport.
    “I’ll settle for a participation ribbon,” I say.
    “Dylan would be just as proud,” she says.
    I nod, because she’s right. He would. He’s probably the best Hollister who ever lived.

    * * *
    I am walking the path of a series of bad ideas. If there is a wrong call to make, I seem to be powerless against taking it. It’s a sign of how unready I am—yet another thought that I’m conveniently ignoring. I can hear the voices of every counselor I’ve had over the last four years all collectively screaming at me to stop, not to swim in temptations, not to add weight to my already drowning soul.
    It was eight thirty by the time I got back from helping Tanya, and my uncle was sleeping in the old, beat-up lounge chair in front of the television—some History Channel show about the first modern irrigation ducts built in the West on loud enough to hear the