Pieces of Camden (Hole-Hearted #1)

by Yessi Smith

  After I spoke with the Chief of Police, Camden’s mom confessed to starting the fire in the building where Camden was squatting. Only she didn’t stop there. Because she’s a ruthless bitch, she went one step further and told Henry and everyone who could hear her that she wanted to press charges against me.

  I assaulted her. It’s true. I could’ve denied it, or better yet, I should’ve told them it was self-defense, but the truth is, I’d kill her without immediate cause. After speaking with the Chief, I was put me in a solitary prison cell while Henry called my dad.

  Hence all the screaming.

  Flushed, my dad charges into the room I’m being held in and growls when he sees me behind bars. My mom chuckles, shaking her head in bewilderment at my predicament.

  “Hey, Dad.” I wave and smile at my mom, who winks at me.

  “Henry,” my dad warns as he points at me.

  Henry lifts his arms in a sign of retreat and sighs. “My hands are tied, Santiago. The only way Maureen will drop the charges against Yanelys is if we drop the arson charges.”

  “No!” I shout. On weak knees, I run to the bars, bracing myself against them. “You can’t do that, Henry,” I plead with him. “She can’t get away with this.”

  “And what should we tell your daughter, Yanelys?” My dad turns his angry eyes on me.

  My heart pounds behind the thin fabric of my shirt and I cower.

  I hadn’t thought of Olivia.

  THIRTEEN

  YANELYS

  Muffled footsteps jolt me awake but disappear into the ensuing darkness. With my surroundings too quiet, I burrow myself deeper under my covers, bringing my knees closer to my chest. Movement from the corner of my cell catches my attention, but when my eyes scan in its direction, I find the space empty. The vision of ghosts rack my brain, so I shut my eyes and hide my face under the covers.

  Thanks to Henry putting me in a solitary cell, I don’t have to worry about inmates, but fear still drapes over me, making me shudder. Unreasonable or not, I hate ghosts, and damn Henry to hell and back for sharing so many ghost stories with me throughout the years.

  I’m not the first person to spend a night or two in jail. There have been millions before me. In this very prison, there have been hundreds of habitants. While I can’t see them, I take solace in believing that, just like me, they spent their first night just as scared.

  The food Henry brought me for dinner was awful, and I’m pretty sure he took great delight in seeing me struggle through a few bites before I put it to the side. This is one big funny joke to him, which makes it seem at least a little funny to me. My parents, on the other hand, are furious. I’m pretty sure my mom is, at this very moment, planning the perfect punishment for me rather than drifting off to sleep.

  But it’s worth it, knowing Maureen will pay for what she did to Camden. I’d spend a month in here if I had to. I hope I don’t though.

  My daughter needs her mother, and I need her. She’s the source of everything that’s good in my life. She’s my laughter, my joy, the very heart that beats in my chest.

  While she’s too young to understand, I want her to know, to take pride in knowing, that I’d do just about anything for what’s right. And me sleeping in this cold cell is right.

  It’s the only way I know I can ensure life is, for once, giving Maureen the hand she deserves. Just once, I want her to pay for the pain she’s caused Camden.

  Just once. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

  But fate has never been on Camden’s side. His parents got away with years of abuse and neglect. Not once did they ever think about Camden. About the little boy they tormented. About the man she tried to kill.

  Herb died, never knowing the backhand of Karma. Maureen has existed without ever showing the tiniest bit of remorse. I know because, in all the years I searched for Camden, I kept coming across Maureen. Her addiction has taken over every aspect of who she is that she’s barely recognizable anymore. The refined, bitter woman of my youth has been replaced with sunken, tired eyes and a worn body.

  Today, I made a decision and went against my parents. I stood up for Camden, for the boy who had left me, and the man who couldn’t look away from me when I walked into his hospital room.

  Familiar anger grounded me, but eventually, the pain bled through and made room for the love Camden and I have always shared. The bond we share is insane, incomprehensible. I should hate him. Hell, it’d be easier if I did.

  Instead, now that he’s back, my emotions run rampant in all different directions, including hate, but mostly love and gratitude. I’ve missed him. I’ve worried about him. I’ve prayed for his return while wishing he’d never entered my life.

  Sweat builds at the base of my neck, saliva thickening, as these controversial feelings continue to swim and swirl and torment me. Abruptly, I push the sheets away from me and stand up on weak knees that carry me to a nearby trash bin. Tears cloud my vision, bile rising inch by intolerable inch, and I empty the anxiety thrashing in my stomach into the trash. My limbs shake, and I crouch down onto the cold floor, my fingers grasping the sides of the bin. I wait for the nausea to subside, but instead, I dry-heave into the dense air. More unwelcome tears fall, and my knuckles turn white as my grip tightens.

  And I know, I know, I know I can’t do this. I can’t see Camden when I get out of here, although he’ll want to see me. I can’t face him, knowing he abandoned me. Knowing he’ll look at my daughter and wonder. Knowing he’ll flee again and break me even further.

  Because, even though I can’t do this again, I know I will, just on the off chance that he’ll stay.

  Camden is my weakness. My kryptonite of sorts. And no matter how angry and hurt and scared of him I am, I can’t turn away. I just hope my parents buy me some time before they bring him to my house. Not that it’d matter because I’d never be ready to see him again, to let him back into my life.

  Wiping my mouth with the back of my trembling hand, I stand up and shuffle my tired feet to the hard bed where I lie down and send out a silent prayer for an impenetrable heart.

  FOURTEEN

  CAMDEN

  Each day, I’ve put on my masks and played my role in the dramatic piece that is my life. I’ve smiled on cue, laughed and eaten when I was supposed to. The only time I’ve been true to myself has been when I helped Pastor Floyd with the church. I cleaned the floors and painted the exterior of the run-down trailers that house his church as well as the office that has been my home for years. I mowed the lawn and pulled out weeds. I made sure the volunteers ate and had plenty of coffee to fuel them. I felt useful during those times.

  But night inevitably creeps in and morning follows. And those periods in between morning and night, my sins become more obvious. The masks melt away as unsealed wounds continue to tear open, hatred and anger heating through my veins.

  In front of my bed, the clock hanging on the dull wall ticks loudly, each second hitting my wasted heart like a hammer. My fingers twitch by my sides, and when the pulsing in my head magnifies, I reach for the morphine and hit the button. Unsatisfied, I open the bottle I’ve hidden under my pillow and take two pills, needing my mind to rest. To not scream reminders of my pathetic life at me.

  I manage a smile when a nurse opens my door.

  “You’re awake,” she says, stating the obvious.

  My fake smile grows, and I look back at the clock, realizing it isn’t even four in the morning yet. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Hospitals are noisy. Lucky for you, you’re going home today.”

  My head bobs up and down a couple of times, not really caring. I extend my arm for her while she takes my blood pressure, but I pull away when she tries to remove the tape holding my IV in place.

  “What are you doing?” I bark, my eyes narrowing into slits.

  An amicable smile spreads across her face, making my jumbled nerves somersault toward hysteria.

  “You were very fortunate, Mr. Riley.” She grips my arm, and with one quic
k tear, she strips the tape off my skin and removes the IV, quickly putting a Band-Aid in its place. “Your burns aren’t anywhere near as bad as they should’ve been, so the doctor ordered us to remove your morphine drip.”

  “But I’m in pain.” Even to my own ears, I sound desperate.

  She pats my shoulder, sympathy washing over her face. “I know, honey. I’ll bring you some ibuprofen after I clean your burns and put on new bandages.”

  Meticulously, she cleans each burn and chatters softly in my ear. I bite the inside of my cheek, not listening to her. All I hear, all I understand, is that I’ll no longer be getting morphine.

  Fuck.

  My brain buzzes with the new information, and bile rises to my throat, but I swallow it down. I close my eyes and count the seconds as they tick off the clock.

  One.

  Two.

  Three…

  “You have someone looking out for you,” the nurse says when she finishes dressing my burns. Once again, she pats my shoulder before she leaves.

  The very idea that some holy being is out there, looking out for me, is laughable, but I don’t bother telling her. I’d rather let her live out her life in blissful denial than tell her the truth. I’m not lucky. If I were lucky, the fire would’ve consumed me and left me for dead.

  When she returns and offers me ibuprofen and apple juice, I take the two pills and swallow them.

  “Now, try to get some rest,” she advises.

  Alone again, I close my eyes and let the drugs coursing through my system take effect.

  FIFTEEN

  CAMDEN

  Like a terminal disease, I’m draining the life out of the very people I wanted to save when I left seven years ago. But Santiago and Carmen won’t let me go, not for a second time. Although I know my existence will eventually debilitate them, I follow them out of the hospital and back into their home.

  They are my peace in this cruel and unapologetic world. They are my one hope of becoming the man they see.

  They are the parents God mocked me with, dangled in front of my face, making me believe I could have them for my own. But they aren’t mine to keep.

  I belong to my own parents, to their vices that I all too happily obliterate myself with.

  Shortly after Santiago and Carmen left to see what Yanelys had done to get herself imprisoned, Pastor Floyd gave me two bottles—one full with anti-anxiety pills and the other with two different types of opiates. I ignored Pastor Floyd’s disapproval as I placed the time-release pill on my tray and smashed it into powder.

  “Camden.” Pastor Floyd’s voice was distant, but I could taste his bitter disappointment in the back of my throat just after I snorted the powder.

  Leaning into my uncomfortable pillow, I closed my eyes and thought of nothing. Longing for the indifference I found at the bottom of a bottle, I waited for the pill to take effect.

  Emptied by the world, I held hands with destruction and opened my eyes just in time to watch Pastor Floyd’s tired body turn and leave.

  Every day, Santiago and Carmen would come to see me at the hospital, never once speaking of Yanelys or the trouble she’d gotten herself into. Carmen stayed by my side and held my hand when my doctor ordered my first skin graft.

  Yanelys, on the other hand, stayed away. Every day, I’d look at the door whenever it swung open, and every day, when she didn’t walk through it, disappointment would run over my face. It hung on my shoulders, weighing me down, as I waited for the girl who had finally given up on me.

  Growing up, I held on to the idea that, one day, my parents would love me with the same ferocity they hated. I watched them, I silently pleaded with them, and I waited for them to be parents, but I loved them, no matter what they had done to me.

  Now, that energy and affection is focused on Yanelys. She controls my heartbeat. Every thump is for her.

  I have no right to ask her to see me, to beg her to love me, but as I sit in Santiago’s car and listen to Carmen talk, I know that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Yanelys touches me. Her warmth wraps itself around me, despite the days or years that have passed since I last saw her.

  Tired lungs breathe in a sigh, and I try to remember what it was like not to live in tragedy. I was granted five years of peace with the people who still call themselves my family.

  Carmen’s hand rests on Santiago’s as he drives, their love filling the empty space around us. I want that. I want to experience it for myself.

  “I want to see Yan,” I say from the backseat, interrupting whatever Carmen was saying. I cough. “I mean, can you drop me off at her place, so I can speak to her?”

  “Not today, Cam.” Carmen turns around and squeezes my knee. “There’s so much about her you don’t know.”

  “Is she seeing someone?” Fear grips my heart like a vise.

  Carmen laughs a humorless laugh and shakes her head. Still, the tension in the car rises, and I wonder what they aren’t sharing with me.

  “Please?” I ask again, turning my attention to Santiago.

  Santiago sighs and glances over at Carmen. Her lips form a thin, straight line, but she doesn’t reply to his unspoken question.

  “I’ll call her,” Carmen offers. “If she says no, then you’ll wait until she’s ready.”

  I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  “He wants to see you,” Carmen whispers into the phone in place of a greeting.

  The silence in the car grows thick, and I fidget with the single pill in my pocket. With the bottle hidden in the bag the hospital gave me to keep the few items I own, I have only this one companion to comfort me.

  “I know, sweetie. It’s up to you,” Carmen finally replies.

  The pill in my pocket grows heavy, its secret screaming louder than the silence. My jaw tightens as I wait for an answer.

  “Okay.” Carmen sighs. “I love you.”

  The complexity of my situation slams itself into my stomach. Overflowing with confessions I’m not ready to share, I avert my eyes when Carmen turns around in her seat and looks back at me.

  “Okay.” She smiles a watery smile. “Yan said you could come over.”

  Relief. Joy. I haven’t felt those emotions in a long time. I hardly recognize them.

  “There are some things you should know first.” Carmen eyes Santiago, and he nods.

  “What?” I ask, preparing myself for the worst.

  “We’ll talk about it over doughnuts,” Santiago says.

  Although he smiles back at me through the rearview mirror, apprehension glosses over his eyes.

  “Tell me now,” I push.

  Santiago lifts an eyebrow. “Son, when you walked out on your family, you lost the right to demand things from us.” His grip on the steering wheel tightens, making his knuckles whiten. “We’ll talk at the doughnut store. And, Cam”—his voice is laced with warning—“you weren’t here. You don’t know what Yan went through. You can be upset with what you missed out on, just like she has every right to be disappointed with your decisions, but these emotions aren’t going to get either of you anywhere.”

  “What do you mean, Yan has a daughter?”

  Anger poisons my heart, and without thinking, I take the pill from my pocket and swallow it dry in front of Santiago and Carmen. I pretend not to see their quick exchange or the worry creasing their foreheads.

  I see red.

  And a baby who isn’t mine.

  “How old is she?”

  “Six,” Carmen replies.

  “Six?” I laugh, bitterness slicing through me. “Didn’t take her long to get over me,” I spit, “and get under someone else.”

  “Listen here!” Santiago roars, slamming the palms of his hands on the table.

  Carmen flinches and sends an apologetic look to the patrons in the shop, but my eyes remain on the man I’ve loved since I was a boy.

  “You will not disrespect my daughter.” Santiago keeps his voice dangerously low. “I don’t care what you think or how hurt you are,
you will respect her, Camden.”

  Rage spreads throughout my body, destroying common sense, and for once, I don’t want to love the man and woman before me.

  I want to hate them. As much as I hate myself. As much as I hate loving Yanelys.

  When I stand to leave, Santiago’s hand grips my arm and holds me there. I stare back at him, unflinching.

  “Whose is she?” I ask, ready to kill the man who thought he was worthy of touching Yanelys.

  “She’s Yan’s,” Carmen answers while Santiago and I continue to stare at each other.

  My eyes flit over to Carmen, and after registering the fear behind her eyes, I release the tension in my body and sit down, scraping the bottom of the chair over the floor.

  “Who’s the dad?”

  “Cam”—Carmen places a hand on my wrist—“you left her. You were gone so long.”

  “I’m disappointed in you,” Santiago interjects, taking his seat in front of me again. “You of all people should stand by Yanelys and not tear her down.”

  The sound of Santiago’s words grate on my chest and will haunt me to my grave. But I’ve only begun disappointing him. I hate the looks in both their eyes, and I know I’m the only one to blame.

  “I’m sorry.” The threat of tears blurs my vision so I stare at the table.

  My bandaged hands run over my face over and over again. But still, the condemnation of her forgotten love remains, alienating me even further.

  “Her name is Olivia,” Carmen says, her eyes brimming with pride. “She is a beautiful little girl, looks just like her mom.”

  The idea of Olivia looking like her mom brings me a hint of joy. Yanelys’s beauty should be shared, and there’s no better tribute than with a little girl who looks just like her.

  “She has Yanelys’s oomph for life.” Carmen laughs, and despite myself, I join her.

  How I’ve missed the oomph Yanelys brought me.

  “And her dad’s intensity,” Carmen adds.