Breathe Me || Completed

17.3

17.3 - Call

We do a few things before eleven o'clock.

Samantha disappears into the bathroom with her backpack. I try not to speculate about what she's doing in there.

But Chris and I take inventory of everything he has and everything he needs. Chris has seven t shirts, one pair of jeans, two pairs of cargo shorts, two pairs of athletic shorts, two flannels, one pair of sneakers, one pair of flip-flops, seven pairs of socks, ten pairs of underwear, three sports bras and one sweatshirt. He also has a toothbrush, toothpaste, a container of floss, three travel shampoos, a stick of deodorant, a tube of sunscreen and a packet of tissues. He has a one-piece bathing suit and a towel. There's a journal and an ipod nano, a flashlight, and five extra batteries.

"That's not bad," I tell him. Chris and I grin at the strangeness of this all and get to ransacking Sydney's house.

He takes another sweatshirt from her closet and another pair of sneakers. They fit if he ties them extra tight. We also take the clippers and a bottle of face soap from the main bathroom. We'll have to look in the master bathroom later, since Samantha is still inside with the door closed, water running.

We take food, of course. It's all nonperishable since the family is all out of the house. We take a few packets of chips and a box of oatmeal squares, a bag of pretzels and a box of twelve "protein packed" granola bars. We feel bad, but not too bad.

Just as we manage to fit the box into Chris's duffle bag, the landline begins to ring. We both jump, looking around us as if we don't know where the noise is coming from.

Chris takes a deep breath and steps toward the phone. He picks it up and reads the numbers on the dull green screen. "I . . .I think that's Mae's number," he says. We stare at each other. And Chris presses talk.

"Hello?" he says, a tremor running through his voice.

"Hello?" says a staticky voice. Not Mae, certainly.

Chris frowns and puts the phone on speaker so I can hear. "Who is this?" he asks.

"It's Lyn," says Lyn. "Jesus Christ, I was hoping you guys wouldn't still be there."

My heart jumps into my throat. My pulse is everywhere, fingertips, feet, head, stomach. "Why?" I demand. "Should we leave."

"No, no, no," says another voice. Kayla, I think. "Don't leave. It's too risky. The police are on their way."

Chris and I go still as if we have been turned to stone. I can't swallow. The world flashes in pulsing bursts of light. I feel Chris's arm around my waist, supporting me as my legs give out and I drop to the floor. He takes the phone with us as we sit down on the linoleum floor of the kitchen.

"You there?" Kayla says.

"Yeah," says Chris. "I think you just gave Sally a heart attack, though. She's hyperventilating."

"Sally? You there?" says Lyn's voice.

I squeak.

Chris's hand is shaking as he holds the phone between us, breathing hard. "So you don't want us to leave," he says. "Then what do we do?" As if on an afterthought, he adds, "And how'd they figure out where we are?"

At this point, the phone is shuffled around a bit and Mae's voice is the next one to speak. "Christina?" she says. Her voice is high, verging on hysterical. "Baby, I'm so sorry, please just come home. Just let the police bring you back. I promise--"

Kayla grabs the phone back. "Krystal spilled," she says. "When they questioned her she broke down in sobs and told them Syd gave you a house key. So now they're on their way. And no, don't leave, don't even go in the fucking woods or whatever. Look, here's what you need to do: go to the basement. Move the washing machine out of the way, and there's a door to the crawlspace. Okay?"

"Okay," says Chris.

"Stay there until you're sure the police are gone."

"How will we know?" asks Chris.

"Syd went with the police," says Kayla. "She said she'd call you guys when the coast is clear."

Maybe I am having a heart attack. I can't breathe. My heart feels like a shaken soda can, swelled with intense pressure that will eventually explode into a million bits of aluminum. I hear them talking as if from the other end of a long tunnel.

"Alright," Chris says. "We will. I'm gonna hang up now."

So they say goodbye and good luck.

Chris offers me his hands and pulls me to my feet, eyes darting around the room like the police might be hiding in the wallpaper. "Sam!" he calls. "Samantha! We're going to the basement. Come out of there!" Chris shoulders my backpack and his duffle bag and we start toward the basement door, my heart thumping like dinosaur footsteps. Each beat slams into me, shaking me all through my body.

Chris shoes me into the basement. "I'll get Sam," he says.

So I stumble down the wooden staircase into the unfinished basement by myself, vision whited out with anxiety. My breath is ragged and my stomach is twisted up with great swirls like a satellite image of a hurricane brewing. The basement is bathed in a weak bluish light from the tiny rectangular windows set into the opposite walls, thick glass warping the sight of the outside world.

And in the corner are two dingy white machines: a washer and a dryer.

I guess my adrenaline kicks in, because I toss the washing machine aside like it's an empty cardboard box. The tiny door behind it is dusty and cobwebbed, but I wrench it open and shove myself inside without another thought.