Author’s Note: As a musician, I always was fascinated by the role and concept of breath in the making of music—for singers or wind and brass players whose sound is produced literally via breath; for string players, in the changing of the bow’s direction across the strings between down-stroke and up-stroke; and then the phrasing of the music itself. It made me wonder about the role of breath in speech and story in conveying ideas and memories, which come from the mind, which ostensibly requires breath to exist, of course, but whose thoughts and visions, unlike speech, don’t ride on the waves of breath. And so, regarding the age-old question of whether there’s consciousness after death, my imagination posed a slightly different version: supposing there were consciousness after death, what would speech be like if there were consciousness without breath? This musical-literary story, as I call it, is, among other things, an experimentation with a possible answer.
…school out early straight home poured a glass of milk drank it down a loud thump startled me seemed to come from one of the bedrooms palms sweated started down the hall almost tripped over one of Dad’s white dress shirts crumpled Must’ve fallen out of Magda’s laundry basket only it smelled of cologne different cologne black leather belt M.P.L. engraved on the buckle wondered why whose initials crash sounded from Mom and Dad’s bedroom door ajar drew closer head throbbed heard muffled scratchings squeaking springs gripped doorknob dared to look lightning flash clothes strewn underwear blouse slacks coiled snake-like pillows scattered wedding photograph face down ceiling fan circled like an innocent merry-go-round sight stabbed by mom’s naked back her hair loose fingers clutched a not-Dad’s chest like claws claws pinned him to bare mattress violent writhing grunts moans gasps claws dropped shirt belt ran from the apartment down the stairs across the lobby pushed past Nicholas burst out onto the sidewalk ran sneakers pounded cement ran tires screeched horns bellowed people leapt aside ran to the East River stopped slumped against the railing gulped air freezing rain pelted my back Dad Dad what about Dad ran to the hospital ran upstairs bright lights doctors nurses traffic sterile smell elevator opened Dad emerged spotted me grinned introduced me to his colleagues so happy so proud This is Josef, my oldest beaming his arm around my shoulder a top student, poet, and fisherman—look how tall he is, only thirteen the surgeons smiled shook my hand He’ll be as big a bull as you, Martin all laughed I followed Dad to his office Why aren’t you in school? he squeezed my shoulder We got out early today, just the middle school, Stefan’s still in school awed by the man at my side our Dad this is our Dad Dr. Martin Milenkovich look how he fills the room towers over everyone full of jokes eyes sparkling beard so thick and white against his tanned skin so charismatic kind awards cover the wall good man great man can’t tell him can’t do it he’ll break Is something the matter, Josef? square in my eye No, Dad he smiled handed me umbrella some cab money Dad? voice choked I love you eyes met I love you, too, son—are you sure everything’s all right? am I sure everything’s all right no Dad no everything is not all right it’s all wrong Dad all wrong falling apart can’t you see you Mom our family and I’m the only one who knows Mom on your bed your wife with a man not you because you’re not there Dad you’ve slipped out of reach and this man this man I see here where is this man who what has claimed my father what pain I’m sure I told him I’m glad you came by, son he said and I left him there not knowing He must never know outside it poured walked to Dalton met you hailed us a cab wondered what home would be now wished I’d used cab money for two train tickets to some far-away woods where we’d manage on our own but I could not leave Dad alone like it was any other day after school we entered the lobby you ran ahead Nicholas stopped me hand on my shoulder looked me in the eyes said Listen, son—if you’re in trouble, you can talk to me, understand? nodded broke free chased you upstairs our usual game but all I thought about was did she clean the bedroom entered apartment Mom’s smiling face smell of vanilla sugar baking sweet perfect reeking lie nauseous faint clung to the wall in the entry hall frozen mad and broken You’re drenched she said Take off your shoes she said I have a surprise she said voice sweet light with love chest pounded vomit surged squeezed eyes shut felt her approach swallowed swallowed Rough day at school, sweetheart? came closer smelled like soap not her usual perfume not like that cologne hand smoothed back my wet hair hand hand that claw I shivered I pulled away I’m fine I said I’m fine I said again to convince myself you peered into the oven Mom smiled I baked sugar cookies, I finished work early looked like Mom her hands were hands arranged cookies on a plate on kitchen table poured two glasses of milk you sat she sat she smiled expecting I would sit I just stared behind her smile I saw her naked back her claws behind her voice I heard those sounds shooting pains in my head the bedroom the bedroom everything immaculate bedspread smooth sheets fresh corners mitered pillows fluffed floor swept chairs straightened clothes put away wedding photograph upright silver frame sparkling overhead the fan continued its calm revolutions the only other witness searched for signs felt along the floor peered under bed in the closets the drawers sniffed air for cologne traces She must be a witch to make truth disappear then doubted what I’d seen doubted everything maybe I imagined it wished it caused it Are you looking for something? Mom loomed I faced her white-hot whisper words escaped Are YOU, Mom? glowered her gaze faltered Why did you finish work early? she blanched my lip trembled you hummed unaware in the kitchen Both my afternoon patients cancelled, Josef, why are you doing this? you approached the spell broke Mom feigned lightness Are you ready to practice, Stefan? your Juilliard Pre-College audition was in a month you and Mom your room collapsed on my bed my room my haven closed eyes clutched head then did what I’d done countless useless times invaded Dad’s study searched drawers cabinets uncovered the vodka whiskey scotch crammed bottles in my backpack ran downstairs Nicholas watched questioning eyes ran out back hurled bottles in dumpster hurried upstairs tried to study fell asleep to your cello you were good even then Joseph, son, time for dinner Dad in doorway collar unbuttoned eyes dull shoulders slumped the nighttime Dad our Dad Mom made meatballs we sat around the table ignored my pounding heart pretended Mom and Dad were happy in love flashing secretive smiles pretended this was a dinner like all other dinners pretended all other dinners were not spent playing cheer-up-Dad because the way I pretended it Dad was not slouched over looking at us with vacant watery eyes Dad was not waiting for dinner to end so he could escape to his study to drink and drink Dad was the surgeon at the hospital so charismatic smiling full of humor Dad was the man I’d fish with patient wise who showed me toadstools beaver dams breathed beside me as we drifted on the lake pretended pretended and for a moment it felt real happiness then dinner ended Dad to his study you to bed that night late found Mom in darkness crying at kitchen table saw me opened her arms could not reject embrace shuddered almost cried at her hands’ touch hands to claws to hands to claws to hands her tears dampened my shirt I love our family very much I nodded I love you, Josef, you know that, don’t you? nodded Dad… a choked whisper Mom stood We’ve lost him, Josef and she walked down the hall closed the bedroom door behind her…
Mary Catherine La Mar (she/her) studied literature and psychology at Bennington College and received a master’s degree in the English from the University of Chicago. She is a graduate of the Lighthouse Writers Workshop’s two-year Book Project and currently is at work on a literary memoir about music, legacy, and suicide and a series of children’s stories for adults. A conservatory-trained violinist, she has a keen interest in parallels between musical and literary expression and juxtaposing them in her writing. She can be reached on Twitter (“X”) at @LaMarchinaMC.
JMWW 