Page 112 of Intermission

A jagged inhalation betrays me. “Yeah. It’s me.”

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No. Yes. Noah—” My voice breaks on a sob.

“I’ll be right there. Hold on, Faith. I just got back to my car, so I’m still close. I’m heading back into the preserve now.” I hear Eliza’s door creak and slam. “Did you fall? Is anything broken?”

Yes!I want to scream.Everything is broken. Everything!

“I’ll be there as fast as I can. Reception will be bad once I go down into the gully. Can you give me a rough idea of where you are from the waterfall, in case I lose you?”

“Don’t. You don’t need to go—I’m at home.”

“At home?” he pauses. “Okay. I’ll go back to my car, and I’ll be there in ten minutes. Hold on.”

“Okay,” I say, but then his words register. “No! You can’t come here.”

Each breath is a little harder to grasp than the one before, thinner. The room tips, eerily. The light dims, keeps dimming, but when I glance at Mom—tipping—her arm is at her side, she isn’t anywhere near the dimmer switch.

My field of vision narrows. I pull at gasps of air, but there’s not enough. The room spins.

“Faith, tell me what’s wrong!” The same panic that’s closing my airway is in Noah’s voice, but I can’t catch a big enough breath to exhale a word.

“Oh, for the love of—You’re going to hyperventilate. Give me the phone, Faith. Now.” Mom wrenches it from my ear. She clears her throat. “This is Janet Prescott. Faith’s mother.” She pauses. “Don’t you dare ‘ma’am’ me, young man. No, you maynottalk to Faith.Ever.You will not be seeing her again. My daughter will be remaining at home until school starts. She will not be allowed tohave any contact with you. Ever. Again.” Mom takes a breath. “Do not interrupt me!”

Never have I seen my mother’s face so red. It borders on purple. A vein pulses at her temple.

“Mr. Spencer, let me make myself very clear. I will be filing a restraining order against you on Faith’s behalf. If she turns out pregnant, God forbid, you will be hearing from my lawyer, and whatever measly wages you earn will be garnished until this situation is resolved and your obligation is met. In the meantime, I give you fair warning that if you come within a hundred feet of my daughter, I will have you arrested for statutory rape.”

I lean against the built-in bookcase, cupping my hands in front of my mouth to catch my breath. There’s a pause in Mom’s tirade, but I can’t make out what Noah is saying on the other end of the line through my own respirations.

“Two years? Do not patronize me, Mr. Spencer. I’m not an idiot. I’ve heard your lies before.” Another pause. “Oh really? Well, I happen to remember interrupting a certain make-out session in my foyer when the two of you were supposedly ‘just friends.’ Enough! This conversation is over.”

As Mom pulls the phone from her ear, I hear Noah’s protestations.

Sudden indignation—righteousindignation—surges through my oxygen-deprived blood, propelling me forward.

Stealing the phone from Mom’s grasp, I press my left hand against her sternum and extend the reach of my right, holding the phone as far away from my mother as I can.

“Noah—I’m sorry!” I shout toward the mouthpiece. “Please, don’t try to come here before you leave. She’s serious. She’ll have you arrested!”

Adrenaline courses through my body, boiling my anger into strength and evasive agility as Mom tries to grab the phone away from me.

Time stalls and stretches as the agreement I made with Noah comes into clearer focus, and a faint, desperate hope sparks within the hollow coldness in my chest.

Hold on.

There it is again. But with Noah gone,truly gonefrom my life forthe next two years, it will be like holding a pause button down with a lead weight... or like waiting backstage for an absent orchestra to cue the end of an intermission.

I draw a quick, deep breath. Soon, she’ll find a way to break my hold, but with the right few words, Noah will understand.

“We can do this, Noah.” My throat is raw from hyperventilating, so I push the air harder, from my diaphragm, make my plea louder. “Eight, nine. Eight-seventeen. Hold on, Noah. Hold. On.”

There’s a pause of pure silence. Mom stares at me as if I’ve just crossed the border into crazy town. If I have, she’s the one driving the car.

“Eight, nine. Eight-seventeen,” Noah says. “I’m holding on, Madeleine Faith.” His voice is anguish... and hope. “For you, I’ll keep holding on.”

The heft of mom’s threats joins the weight of time. Both descend, threatening to destroy the little strength I have left. Still holding Mom at arm’s length, I close my eyes and bring the phone to my ear.