“Get out!”
“It’s okay, Tyson,” Izzie says. “I’ve got your address and—”
Ah, kid. You should’ve kept your mouth shut.
She holds up the scrap of paper. Julie takes it from her. Looks down at it. Lets Izzie go. Tears the paper. It falls to the floor. “If you ever try to contact my daughter,” she says, voice low, “I will make sure the police know you broke into my house and tried to take her from me. You came here when I wasn’t home. For all I know, you touched her in a way no little girl should be touched.”
“Mom!” Izzie cries, sounding shocked. “That’s not—”
“Not now, Isabelle. Go to your room. Now.”
She looks at me. I shake my head as I struggle to keep my rage in check.
“Now!”
Izzie looks like she’s going to say something, anything, but then a look of such defeat comes over her that I almost can’t stand it. Her shoulders slump and tears fill her eyes, angry tears. She wipes at them furiously and walks toward me. She walks toward me and then stops at my side. Tugs on my hand. Gently. Playing with my fingers, really. Just like… like….
Before Julie can say anything, I scoop Izzie up and hug her tight. Her little arms go up and her little hands go into my hair and her face is in my neck. She’s breathing heavily, and I know she’s trying not to lose control in front of her mother. In front of me. Julie looks like she’s about to speak, but the look I shoot her makes her subside. For once.
“It’ll be okay,” I tell Izzie quietly. “One day.”
“You promise?” she whispers, her voice muffled.
My heart breaks. “I promise, kid.”
“It hurts,” she says. “Can’t breathe.”
“With me, okay?”
She nods, her hands digging into my back.
“In. Okay? Breathe in. Just breathe.”
She does.
“Good. Hold.”
She does.
“One,” I whisper to her. “Two. Three. Exhale.”
She does.
“Hold. One. Two. Three.”
She takes another breath, and it’s easier this time. “It’s a secret,” I tell her. “This art of breathing. It’s yours now. Keep it safe.”
“Don’t forget me, okay?” she asks, voice breaking. “Don’t forget me.”
My eyes burn. “Never. Never in your life.”
She nods against me. We stay that way. For a time. Eventually, it can go no further.
I set her down. And then she’s gone. I hear the door slam down the hall.
I’m still looking after her when I say, “Any harm comes to her, I’ll know. Anything happens to her, I’ll know. And I can promise you that you’ll never see her again.”
“I’ve never touched her,” my mother says, sounding horrified. “I would never do that!”