Broken but Breathing (Jinx Tattoos 2)

“I don’t think she knows—”

“Ba— ba—” She coughed and choked.

“I’m so, so sorry, my love. Emma didn’t make it.”

No. She can’t be gone. I can’t be here without my little girl. Time froze. The world burned away around her, leaving her in hell on Earth. She thrashed as she shook from side to side. Tears burned her eyes and ran down her face onto her cracked lips. I died in the tornado and this is purgatory. My punishment for all the sins I committed. She pulled out the wires running from her to machines. A heavy weight rested on her chest. She needed to get out of here.

“Stop, you’ll hurt yourself,” her mother cried, throwing herself over the bed. She pinned Estelle’s arms down.

“Ev— Ev—” she called desperately for her husband. He’d lost something precious, too.

“He-he’s gone, too.”

She opened her mouth and let out a barking, broken, bleeding cry. Unable to stop, she continued until the nurse shot something into her IV and sleep stole her.

CHAPTER ONE

Estelle

Two Years Later

Survivor’s guilt was a bitch. While she hadn’t been suicidal, she’d certainly lost the will to live. Broken, bleeding, and lost, she crawled from the darkness into the light. Now she wasn’t sure how to behave in the blinding illumination. Doctor Nimoy said she was ready to step out of the cocoon she’d created for safety. For two years, she’d slugged it out with inner demons and a mind which had turned against her.

Life had been measured one day at a time with no vision of the future. Friends were shut out, and the weight of being the sole survivor had pressed in on her from all sides. She’d been lost in the inky black until she began counseling. Then slowly, like a vampire adjusting to the sunlight, she’d crept out of her cave a bit more each day. Now, what remained was an empty shell she needed to mold into some semblance of a person.

It was daunting; it was a monster to battle. The denial and rage had been easier. That alone kept her engaged and consistent. Anger held less pain than regret, loneliness, and displacement. She had no purpose or place. Going back to teaching kids was out. The very thought left her gutted, shaking, and sweating. It was something she and the doc were still working on. Old friends peered at her like she had a scarlet A on her chest. They could never see past the tragedy, so she’d cut them out of her life. It was the only way to have a chance for normalcy. The one person who stuck like glue was Everett’s older sister, Jolene.

Jolene dropped by occasionally and kept in touch via phone calls, but she’d learned just how fickle people could be. In the end, she stood alone, sans her family who thought the answer was her returning to England with them. Survival had meant placing an impenetrable shell around her heart. Dr. Nimoy insisted Estelle have support, a person to help her be accountable as she made the next step in their therapy plan. What that meant, she wasn’t sure. It was the purpose of this visit. She shifted her weight on the cushion of the soft white chair. Black and white photos mounted on thick white frames offset the dark grey walls.

She focused on the picture-perfect family represented—mother, father, and children; a boy and a girl, no older than five or six. That had once been her dream. Now at thirty-seven, getting out of the house and resisting falling back into the pit of depression she’d crawled out of over the last year was her primary goal. Without Dr. Nimoy, she’d still be living like a hermit in her show box one-bedroom apartment. Part of her felt she didn’t deserve anything good when her family was buried six feet under.

The door opened, and Dr. Nimoy appeared. His face was wizened by time, but kind, and his brown eyes held a deep compassion. He honestly believed in what he did. She’d been through enough shrinks at this point to spot the ones who’d grown disenchanted with their lively hood.

“How are you today, Estelle?” Nimoy asked.

“I’m surviving,” she replied, moving into the office and taking a seat on the brown leather couch. Seated, she admired the comforting aesthetics. The dark cherry wood desk and matching bookshelf created a homey vibe she appreciated. She sank onto the cushion, and Jolene sat in a matching chair with silver studs. Dr. Nimoy sat across from her.

“Why only surviving?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I have my good days and bad days, but mostly they’re just blah.”

“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You’re waking up. The blah is you becoming dissatisfied with your current situation. We spent a lot of time last year working toward healing and looking toward the future. I think we’re ready to take more proactive steps.”

She tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean by proactive?”

“You need to get out of your home and become more active. This is what we’ve been working toward. I believe in talking to people who’ve experienced the same things. There’s a grief support group I think would be good for you. It’s once a week, and I think you’d benefit from it greatly.”

“I don’t know about going and spilling my guts, Doc. It’s not my style.”

“You don’t have to go until you’re ready. It’s about being around others who’ve experienced great loss. You need a community.”

The word made her scowl. People let you down. They abandoned the ship when it started to sink and never looked back. B

efore the tornado, she’d been the type of friend who’d bend over backward to help someone in need. She couldn’t keep track of the times she’d taken phone calls in the middle of the night, driven a friend home who had too much to drink, or babysat a pet or a child. Seeing each one of them turn away had broken something inside of her.