Breathless

By Bertha Gonzalez-Morrow

Michael woke up from a dream, a dream that would turn his life around. Suddenly, he would go from being a millionaire bachelor surrounded by women and riches to being surrounded by death and the dying. What or who led him to this overpowering life-changing journey? Why does Michael dream of men and women he must find, only to watch them die? Michael spends his days and nights caring for the terminally ill he is guided to. Laura, a vicious, self-serving journalist, on the other hand, will do anything in her power to uncover his secret, his journey, and his connection to the dying. Specifically, Michael's latest "project," Jonathan, a sweet six-year-old terminally ill boy. Will Laura stop Michael's ultimate quest for breathless moments? Will she keep him from providing happiness with every detail, every moment, and every step? If she gets her way, Michael may never help another dying person again. Follow Michael's enigmatic life-changing journey as he battles with Laura and cares for Jonathan. Who will survive the journey in the end? Who will ultimately learn the lesson? And who was the one person that led Michael on this journey to begin with? The outcome will leave you Breathless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646704682

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I have found motivation in many people along the way, including my mom, Bertha, and dad, Jacinto. They are the core of my passion, my dreams, and my realization as a woman, mother, and human being. My entire life, I worked to make them proud and to reassure them that they made a good choice when moving us here. They are both gone now, and my only regret in life was not getting published before their passing. They somehow knew I would get there one day. Their unconditional support seeped through everything they did.

I had amazing mentors and role models as well. My very first teacher in the United States, Norma Caro, was my initial educational rock. Although there was a strong language barrier, she believed in me and guided me every step of the way. I started the school year crying every night, yet with her support, patience, and acceptance, by the end of the school year, I was able to speak English and communicate. I earned my first award with her for having the most Student of the Week recognitions during the school year. It was a small plastic figure of Little Foot from The Land Before Time. To this day, it still sits on my bookshelf as a reminder that hard work pays off.

Cindy Garcia was our neighbor. She was young and the prime example of a strong, hardworking, dedicated, and educated woman. She was the mother of two young children and was on her way to being successful in her career. She was the woman I looked up to. I want to be like her, I always said to myself when she came to my house after work to pick up her kids. My mom was their babysitter.

I had great mentors along the way as well. Luis Dovalina, my senior English AP teacher, opened up my mind to the unimaginable. His passion for literature, reading, and writing was inevitably contagious. He gave me the confidence to dream and write no matter how good or bad the outcome was. His guidance has remained with me till this day. He continues to play a very important role in my developing a passion for writing and the creation of a utopian world in which self-expression is the main character.

I have many books up my sleeve, but as I explain in my introduction, I decided to start with Breathless. I wrote this story ten years ago, and when I picked it back up, I realized there was a reason for the pause. I had learned the true meaning of moments, of life, of relationships, and the value of breathless moments. I had to live those ten years so that this book could benefit and reflect my learnings.

Now that I finally have taken a step toward being a published author, I want to thank my brothers, Luis and Kimo, for always believing in me and cheering me on. They have been there for me through thick and thin and have never doubted me. They have been my strength in moments of weakness and my knights in shining armor when I needed saving. Alex, Claudia, thank you for being my other brother and sister and always supporting my crazy ideas.

Monica and Carmina, thank you for being the best sisters-in-law anyone could wish for. My Comis Pack (Iris, Laura, and Gladys) and my high school BFFs (Myrna, Vero, Sonia, Bel, Norma, Fuffers, Roxy, Ofilia, and Brenda)—thank you, guys, for so many years of selfless friendship.

Pam, John, Carol, and Howard, thank you for all your support and patience.

Randy, thank you for loving me and the girls and for always jumping on board when we decide to take on a new ride. You are the true meaning of a fighter, and for that, I love and respect you.

Tios (Lety, Santiago, Blanca, Miguel, Meno, Vicky y Abuelita Tina), gracias por toda una vida de amor y apoyo.

Most importantly, again I thank my parents for showing me how to create breathless moments. For teaching me that love and hard work are what build character and ultimately lead to success. Thank you for showing me what determination, strength, and courage look like.

This will probably be the longest acknowledgment section I ever write, but being my first one, I wanted to make sure everyone knew how important they were to building this book.

Thank you, the reader, for taking the time to let me into your world. I know that life is measured by precious time; you gifting me some of it means the world to me.

Enjoy!

Introduction

It was August 1989. I crossed through the light blue double doors and into Kika de La Garza Elementary in Mission, Texas. It was unusually cold for me, not for them; they were used to having central air-conditioning. My school in Mexico only had wide open windows to provide a slight breeze during class time.

The long bright hallway was intimidating, and I can clearly remember holding my parents’ hands tighter as we got closer to the front office. We were late, as usual, and no kids walked in the hallways. They were empty and silent. I could almost hear my breath. I tried to get distracted by admiring the shiny slick floor. It didn’t work.

When we finally reached the counter, my parents were given information and instructions. They filled out some paperwork, signed here and there, and then they were gone. I was left there—all alone, in a strange school, without being able to understand or comprehend a single word—and they were gone.

I was placed in a room with all the late kids, then finally sent to the third-grade classroom that had space. It was an English speaking only class. I was mortified; I did not know what that meant. Surely, I would get by. Well, I didn’t. The first months were brutal. I would cry on a daily basis, begging my parents to take me back to Mexico to my life, to my school, to my friends. They sure knew what they were doing when they refused to listen to a mortified nine-year-old’s request.

That was the defining moment in my life and, I believe, in theirs as well. They sacrificed everything. A nice home, a comfortable living, their family and friends—all to give my two brothers and me a better life. I finally understand it now. They traded things for moments. Moments that meant something. Moments that would give us the foundation that we still feed off of till this day.

I started writing Breathless in 2008 and finished the skeletal outline of it in 2009. The last time I laid fingers on a keyboard to work on it was the day my father died. I had quit my job in San Antonio to care for him on his death bed. It was a decision that I had not thought twice about, despite the disapproval of many.

I had a chance to say goodbye. I was given that peculiar opportunity to be by his side during his last days. I could not let that pass me by. He was my hero, the most important man in my life. My biggest fan. I owed him that much. The day he passed, I sat at my computer, working on beefing up the manuscript. I took a break and walked over to his bed to check on him. He was fading. I held his hand and brushed my other hand over his forehead and on to his silver white hair. Within minutes, he took his last breath.

I knew right there and then I had made the right choice. I knew the essence of Breathless was real and was finally vindicated. I did not touch it again, though, for ten years. Not really sure why. I just didn’t. When I finally got real about publishing, the manuscript that I wanted to launch as a debut novel was lost during a heartbreaking chain of events worthy of another book. There I was, heartbroken, hopeless, and at a huge loss. So I made my way back to Breathless.

It is amazing what ten years can do in a person’s life. Although the soul of the novel had not changed, my maturity, life, experiences, and just simply living for ten years gave me so much more to pour into the novel. It was meant to be. I was meant to live before I could give Breathless that last touch of oxygen it needed.

I always knew I wanted to write. When I was sixteen years old, I promised myself that by the age of forty, I would be a published author. I cut it pretty close, but I made it! Somehow, life got in the way for so many years before allowing me to get to this point. I was entrapped and misguided by the idea that I had to work to pay bills and buy things I never really needed. I was living the way everyone is supposed to live. I worked 110 percent for many years in various jobs, which I loved by the way; but nonetheless, I lost sight of what really meant something for me.

I lost track of my dream. It was until I fully accepted that no matter how much I worked, how much success I attained, how many people were under me as a boss, or how much money I made or didn’t make, I was empty. Always empty. Things, people, jobs just didn’t fill the void that experiences and emotions could. So there I went. I started my journey to free my life from clutter, unnecessary things, and even people. I decided that it was time for me, for the real important things in my life—my family, my real friends, and my writing.

Larry Safir, my boss at one point, friend and mentor for the most part, taught me so much about life. I was a young, green, and naïve journalist when I met him. He took a chance on me by giving me my first on-air reporter position at the age of twenty. I really do not think he is fully aware of how much I learned from him, mainly from observation. Just watching him was a lesson in itself.

He taught me never to give up or lose sight of what is real and important. He is a man of great success, yet his heart, mind, and character go way beyond his workday. He taught me to be honest, ethical, and hardworking. From him, I learned that no matter how many times you fail, you have to get back up and try even harder the next time. His teachings were effortless.

I may have been too young to understand it or even realize it back then, but now I do. He was part of my formation, just like my parents were. Although from opposite backgrounds and economic status, all three of them had something in common—they treated people kindly when needed and were stern and firm when the time came. They had unbreakable work ethic and passion for everything they set their mind to and was important to them. For Larry, it may have been business; for my parents, it was their family and always ensuring our happiness. Nonetheless, the lesson was clear. Always pour your heart out for what really matters.

That is the essence of Breathless, one lifetime in the making.

1

The sorrow in her light hazel, almost green eyes turned to hope. The droplets forming effortlessly in them opened a clear window to her heart. Like a frail butterfly undergoing metamorphosis, her entire aura transformed. The long forgotten and ever longing feelings of love, happiness, and hope filled her entire body. She was at ease now.

Since she had use of memory, she had feared death; a type of fear that resulted in that almost painful empty feeling in your soul. An unpleasant mixture of anxiety, uneasiness, uncertainty. She had always imagined the end as a painful life-jerking episode. She never wanted to die. She avoided the thought, the topic, and the idea. She had not experienced death much either.

Her mother died before she could remember, and her father perished during a business trip when she was thirty-two years old. She had not seen either of them die, and therefore continued with the self-taught stigma of the life-jerking experience. She always wondered what they felt, how they looked seconds before their last breath. She wondered but, in reality, did not want to know. She wanted to avoid any connection with death and everything it meant and represented.

Today was different. This moment was different; she felt different. The almost electric wave that she felt circulating in her veins, dancing with her blood and messing with her brain, gave her a new outlook to the previously unspoken topic. She now embraced it, welcomed it. She now was not afraid of facing it; she was not afraid of death. She was no longer afraid of dying. She had the certainty that everything was okay. She was well-aware that her end would be slow, maybe too slow for her own preference. However, it would be painless, comfortable, and not an abrupt jerk of life from her being like she had always imagined.

She finally understood that one of the main outliers of her fear was not simply dying but instead to die alone. She never considered another option. Her parents were long gone, and she had been an only child. Never married and had never bore children. So what was her final judgment? Solitude. There was no way around it, and she had learned to accept it. She could not think of other options or any other way.

Yet now, as she felt his warm fingers embrace her own, she felt the almost magical strength that they transmitted. Not the strength one feels when they are bench-pressing a heavy set of weights. Or the one you feel after you have finished running a marathon. It was a different type of strength. An emotional one. Like the type you feel when you stand up to a bully at school for the first time. Or the type a young girl feels after they have broken up with an abusive boyfriend.

It was empowering. She was sure that it was the type of force a woman feels after giving birth. If she did not know her terminal condition, she could almost assure that it was healing. It was too late for that, though. Her end was near. She tried to avoid blinking. Not because she was embarrassed by the tears awaiting to escape, but instead because she was uncertain whether her eyes would open again. The desire to look at him one more time gave her the strength to blink and regain her focus.

She stared into his dark brown eyes and thought to herself, If only I could have met him twenty years ago. The thought made her smile. She closed her eyes to the touch of his other hand running gently down her face.

He whispered softly into her ear, Don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay. His voice was soft and gentle, yet manly and reassuring.

She took a deep soft breath. A breath so deep and long, it allowed her to flash back through all her memories and emotions. She took them in one last time. The deep breath filled her with peace and tranquility, a breath that she somehow knew would be her last.

He removed his hand gently and slowly from her face and unlocked his fingers from hers carefully. He reached into the inside pocket of his gray coat for his cell phone.

Nine-one-one, what is your emergency? the operator said on the other end of the line.

Nonemergency, he said.

Let me transfer you.

He provided the next person to come on the line the necessary information to send a medical unit to the residence.

Is she breathing? the woman asked.

No, he responded.

So she does need medical attention? I will send a crew out there to do everything possible, the woman said with a slightly confused tone in her voice.

That will not be necessary, he said as he pressed the end button on the phone without providing any additional information. They had enough to send a crew and arrive at the location.

He sat on the third step of the front porch and lit a cigarette. As he puffed, he looked down at his closed right hand. He held a small object tight, very tight. A tear rolled down the left side of his face without notice. A bizarre contradicting feeling of satisfaction, gratitude, and sadness circled in his gut. He always assumed that the overwhelming never-ending feeling of guilt left no space for other emotions inside him. Yet, he was wrong.

There was always space. No matter how little or how much he refused to feel, he felt. Guilt never needed space, never required an invitation. It was always present and refused to vacate no matter how many eviction notices the heart sent. He opened his hand and looked at the silver dollar in the middle of his palm. He smirked between a sigh. He flipped it, caught it, and placed it back into his pocket without a second look. He knew he would see it again soon. He would hold it in his hand once again, over and over, like he had done for the past ten years of his life. This was the hand he was dealt. This was his life now. Although he still didn’t understand the reasoning, he was beginning to get used to it.

The emergency crews arrived. Michael still sat on the porch, smoking yet another cigarette. It was not nerves he was feeling. It was the overwhelming thought of wanting to get the entire situation over with so that he could be on his way. For the most part, just like his life, he could not explain his own feelings. They came and went as if they had a life of their own as if he was not in control and could not tame them. It was a force that he could not shake off. He knew the inevitable questions were coming; this was not his first rodeo. He could already see the puzzled look on the medical tech’s faces when the expected sorrow and suffering did not show up. He knew they expected a weeping, inconsolable family member, tears pouring out with grief. They would get none of that. Just Michael sitting on the porch, holding a manila folder with all the necessary documents for the morgue pickup, medical examiner report, and for the funeral director to make arrangements.

It was just him sitting there, ready to fill out paperwork and go about his way. He was always prepared usually, to his continuous dislike, more prepared than the medical staff that showed up. It never failed. They always seemed to be hesitant to enter the home, weary of what to expect, almost afraid of the circumstances. Michael assumed that no matter how much one dealt with death, it was always an uncomfortable scenario. These medics were used to falls, accidents, heart attacks, seizures, and things of that sort.

Death, Michael figured, was not an every day ordeal in their job description. Unlike himself. Death had become his norm, and there was no longer anything unusual about it. He was always ready and expectant of the process. They didn’t know that, and when he made sure they did, it always seemed to throw them off a bit.

A young man in his mid-twenties approached him. Michael extended his right arm, handing him the folder. It was crisp and looked untouched. Michael was very neat. Borderline OCD, he had been told by some. He always ensured that things were ready and that not a single thing or detail was missing or incomplete.

The idea was to be efficient. He did not want to be there longer than he needed to be. The last two weeks he spent with her had given him ample time to prepare and have everything in order just like he liked it.

So how are you related to her? one of the paramedics asked.

I’m not, Michael answered firmly.

The paramedic followed with the next question. Okay. How do you know her?

I don’t, Michael answered. I didn’t, he quickly reworded.

The expression on the paramedic’s face turned from sympathy to confusion, just like Michael expected.

So why were you here? he asked.

Michael did not hesitate. Because she needed me. He stretched his hand and gave him a business card. My contact information is on here. Feel free to call me if you need anything else. Tell the funeral home to contact my secretary if they have any questions. The funeral arrangements are taken care of and completely paid for. The details are in the folder. But if any questions arise, please contact her directly. Have a nice day.

The paramedic did not say a word; he couldn’t. Michael had started walking away. The young man was still trying to process what had just happened. He stared at Michael, whose back was now facing him. He did not move nor say a word. He just watched as the strange man slowly took something out of his pocket, looked at it, flipped it in the air, caught it, and placed it back in the pocket it came from.

The young man looked at his colleague and quickly asked, Should we call the cops? before Michael walked any further.

We should, but looks like a natural death to me, the other medic answered.

Either way, the police were called, following the protocol of a residential death. They arrived shortly thereafter. The young medic explained the strange ordeal. Speaking rapidly, he summarized the conversation and handed Michael’s business card to the officer. Keep it, we already took down his information. He said to call his office for funeral arrangements, the medic told the officer.

The officer looked at the card and quickly recognized the name and smiled.

You gonna call him? the medic asked.

No, I’m going to send him a thank you card, the officer answered.

* * * * *

Michael walked toward the park where he usually worked. He walked directly to his usual bench. It was early enough in the morning to be sure it wasn’t taken. He disliked walking around, looking for a place to sit. He was a creature of habit, and this bench was his norm, his comfort zone; and today, he needed that.

He sat down and crossed his right leg over his left. He reached inside his briefcase for his phone to check his messages and e-mails, part of them at least. He had not been to the office in four months. The crew that he hired was magnificent and self-sufficient. He had ensured that they were hired that way. The entire staff was very qualified and trustworthy, and although he was not there, everything functioned exactly the way it should.

The topic of the daily e-mails and messages was usually approvals, monetary decisions, and PTO requests. Not a single line item was out of place, and for him, that was enough. As long as he continued to see deposits in his bank account, he knew they were working, and so was he. He liked his new work space. He preferred to work outside in the open with the fresh air hitting his face and the random interruption—a bird chirping, a ball bouncing around his feet, a child crying or laughing, and the occasional working adult walking past him talking loudly on his cell phone. He did not mind those kinds of interruptions. It was life, and he enjoyed being surrounded by it.

His breaks now involved looking up at the sky to admire the natural beauty of the clouds, instead of walking to the breakroom and staring at the bland white cabinets while he waited for his coffee to brew. The sound of leaves brushing up against each other was like music to his ears. He never wanted to feel secluded or captive in his office again. He had been there too many years to go back.

He looked around and observed the children playing, the young woman walking her small furry white Maltese, and the snow cone vendor yawning, already tired from an expected long day under the sun. There was life all around him, and that is what he wanted to be surrounded by.

He finished his e-mails and got up. The day was young, and his next duty awaited. His next stop, downtown.

2

Michael walked into the Shining Star Coffee Shop and asked the waiter for a table near the window. The clock had just struck nine thirty, and Frank would be coming soon, surely within the next ten minutes, according to Michael’s calculations. He ordered a non-fat triple latte at 120 degrees and just continued to watch life happening. This time, from the other side of the window.

He often stopped to think how long he had previously ignored life, people, relationships, family. The normalcy of everyday occurrences meant nothing to him for a very long time. Now they did. Now every detail, every moment, every encounter meant something more than ever before. Today was different, though. He did not have the energy to observe them; he just watched. He did not look at clothing or faces or even body language. Today, he just watched. His focus was elsewhere.

Before he took the second sip of his coffee, he noticed a middle-aged man, probably around fifty-six. He was medium built, and his hair was a shiny silver gray, worthy of a shampoo commercial. He followed the man as he turned the corner and stopped at the crosswalk. He patiently waited for the light to turn green and his walking signal to light up, giving him unspoken permission to walk across the street. He walked in a slow yet consistent pace as if in no hurry to get anywhere.

Michael wished his own pace would have mimicked this pace in his prior years. The man’s strides, long and firm, revealed his strong and determined persona. After what seemed an eternity, he finally made his grand entrance into the coffee shop. As the door opened, the small gold bell above it rang, announcing to all that a new customer had entered. For Michael, it was not the announcement of a new customer, it was the start of yet another last journey. The beginning of someone else’s end.

Frank approached the bar and ordered his usual drink. He waited patiently, standing in front of the bulletin board, reading the flyers that people left behind.

Mr. Rand, your drink is ready, the barista announced.

Thank you, Liz. He grabbed the drink with a smile on his face, slipping the young girl a five-dollar bill.

Have a great day, Mr. Rand, she said smiling.

* * * * *

Frank was a very generous man. He had constructed a pretty comfortable life working his entire adult years in real estate. He did not own a fortune, but his nest egg was certainly enough to get by. He was well-known in the community and had always made it a habit to help those less fortunate. One of the tales in the coffee shop was that once, he had gifted one of the waitresses $5,000 to help her raise money for her little brother’s cancer treatment. It had now almost become a folktale, because he did not like to talk about it. It was never brought up again, and eventually, no one really knew if it had really happened. But the coffee shop waitress and her sibling knew. They knew that it was thanks to him that they had been able to afford the treatment that had saved the boy’s life. It was his nature to help. As long as he knew it would be put to good use, he was all for it.

Liz, the waitress, for example. Mr. Rand did not know much about her. Actually, he knew nothing at all; just the daily ritual of purchasing his coffee and short friendly cross talk. He assumed, though, by her age and work schedule that she was a college student, probably a night one. She looked bright and honest. It was Wednesday, so almost the end of the pay period. He remembered his days in college working at a tire shop. Those last couple of days before payday were brutal. No food in the refrigerator, no gas in the car, and no money for cigarettes; he was a smoker in his younger years.

So for Liz, he was happy to give her five dollars. They would surely be put to good use. Maybe that was her dinner or her ride home on the bus. He did it happily and with a smile. His motto was and had always been "How can I make someone’s day better today?" He looked back at Liz as he headed toward the door. He sure hoped he had made her day better.

As he