by Amber Hart
Us eating mi mamá’s home-cooked food, mostly grown in her kitchen garden, slim as the portions may have been. She could make something out of nothing, that woman.
Us as children barely tall enough to reach the counter, grabbing a piece of candy from the local store whenever they gave it away for free on holidays. Because we couldn’t afford much. No, that’s a lie. We couldn’t afford anything. But we were together, always together.
I walk to the parking lot, carrying my sandals in my hand. I welcome the burn of scorching hot pavement on the pads of my feet. Welcome the pain because it’s all that I know now.
My brother follows. I hop in my truck. Close my eyes.
“Give me a sec,” I say through the open window. Though I know there’s no way that’ll happen.
“What’s with that girl?” Eduardo hops in the truck with me.
“Chica I used to know.”
A chica I didn’t bother to date since mi mamá has never been okay with her boys dating girls who aren’t Latina. Family bonds and all. She’s old school. Thinking that I need someone who knows the culture and food and ways of our people.
I close my eyes and recall the night that reminded us all.
“¿Quién es ella?” mi mamá asks in Spanish, wondering about the girl Pedro’s brought home for dinner.
I watch the girl, brown hair and the lightest shade of gray eyes. She’s pretty, I find myself thinking. But white. Mi mamá’s rules are clear when it comes to white girls.
“My girlfriend, Teresa,” Pedro answers.
“¿Tu novia?” she asks. “No. Imposible.”
“It’s not impossible, Mamá,” Pedro replies.
Mi mamá’s eyes narrow. I know this look. We all do. Her temper is hotter than the spices she’s setting on the table.
“You,” she says, looking at Teresa, “get out of my house.”
She’s not yelling. Her voice is frighteningly calm. A harsh breeze laced with the coldest chill of winter.
“You have no place here,” she tells Teresa. “And you”—she points to Pedro—“know better.”
Teresa looks scared. Pedro stands his ground.
“Now,” mi mamá says.
I can’t stand to see the look on Pedro’s face so I leave the room. But not before hearing arguments from Pedro, and sobs from Teresa.
Eduardo kicks my leg and I open my eyes. He watches me.
“This has to do with Diego, doesn’t it?”
And Melissa. “No.”
Melissa encouraged Faith and Diego’s relationship. Which meant I saw her often. We were the best friends who tagged along with the couple enamorados.
Melissa makes me remember him. I don’t do well with surprise reminders.
But Melissa also makes me think of the water. Of that day. Of a time when I wasn’t walking in a minefield, watching my every step. Diego’s murder has taught me that one wrong move, one slight shift . . .
one step,
two steps,
BANG . . .
and an entire world can be blown to bits. Earthquakes can rumble the ground and split open the earth and swallow all that was once good.
It can make you see things in a different light. It can open your eyes to a new tomorrow. One filled with darkness and sorrow and so much anger.
“Liar.”
My brother’s voice disrupts my thoughts.
I am a liar.
Everything has been about Diego’s death. Almost eight agonizing months ago.
“You have to let him go.”
I clench my fists. “Cállate la boca.” It’s the nicest warning I’ll give. And I’m only giving it because he’s my brother.
“He was my cousin, too, you know.”
“It’s not the same.”
And he knows it. Diego and I did everything together. We were the same age, eighteen, unlike my brother, who’s older by almost three years. It’s not like I lost a wingman. It’s not like he moved away. He’s gone. Permanently.
The night my cousin died was a normal night at La Plazita, a few blocks of street dedicated to Latino cuisine, culture, markets, dancing, and more. I know that because I’m the one who dropped Diego off there to meet Faith. A final destination, it turns out.
Diego wanted to surprise Faith that night. I think he planned on showing her a glimpse of our Cubano heritage. Faith was good for Diego in a way that nothing had been for a long time. I liked the change I’d been seeing in him.
No more cartel.
He’d left Cuba and the drug cartel he belonged to. On the run. Even though Diego was hassled by the MS-13 gang, who wanted to recruit him, he never joined. Diego went to high school and made good grades. Turns out none of it mattered because the cartel found him at La Plazita that night. One shot, and Diego was gone. Ripped and shredded and torn to bits, his heart
was
finished....
Now I get it, why it tortured Diego not to get revenge on the men who killed his mamá. Now I know the need.
But I can’t walk away as easily.
I never realized that I’d be dropping him off at his final resting place. I didn’t know that I’d never get a chance to say good-bye.
If I had only . . .
If I had only . . .
But I can’t.
Time won’t stop for me. I’ve offered it everything, anything, but Time refuses to slow. To rewind enough, to give me a chance to do something different. Instead, I’m left with botched retellings of a memory I don’t have. I didn’t see it happen. I didn’t actually hear the bullet pop from the barrel. I didn’t watch it spin a perfect path, cutting through a crowd of people until it hit its target, slicing apart a heart. But mi tío, Diego’s papá, told me the details, which were told to him by Faith. Because she was there to see it all.
My mind creates pictures for me. Diego bloodied. Nothing anybody can do to help him. Diego in a black bag. An identification tag like a price sticker attached to him, because this is the cost of a life on the run. One heart.
Stopped.
“Why are you holdin’ on so tight?” Eduardo asks.
How could I possibly let go?
“Because nothing makes sense.” I clench my fists. “How did the gang member get away?”
Wink, that was his name. Diego didn’t join Wink’s gang, so Wink led the cartel straight to Diego, their runaway member. Punishment. Join us or else, was the message, lethally delivered.
“What’s it matter? Doesn’t bring him back.”
The watery, wobbly edge to my brother’s voice tells me that he hurts over it, too, but he’s dealing better than me.
“I have to find Wink.”
I’ve said this before.
“Bad idea.”
And that’s his usual response.
But mi familia doesn’t get it. I can’t—won’t—rest until Wink’s found. Which means my life will consist of getting to know the streets and the gangs who run them. The exact thing I once wanted Diego to walk away from. But that’s where Wink is, I’m sure. Hidden in a pack of wolves who are protecting their alpha.
That’s where I need to find him.
Wink didn’t pull the trigger that stopped Diego’s heart. But he might as well have. It’s because of Wink that Diego’s gone. I can’t let him get away. And if I knew the faces of the cartel members, I wouldn’t let them get away either.
I know Wink’s face. A memory.
Rain starts to fall. A quick drizzle. And then something more. The rain is speaking to us, becoming louder and louder. Heavier and stronger. Warning. Diego is lifting his girlfriend. Cradling her in his arms. Kissing her expectant lips. Melissa is staring at me. I’m thinking I wanna pick her up like that; taste her and not stop because those teasing kisses at the beach were not enough.
But I don’t have time because someone speaks.
“Thought I recognized this car,” he says, taking a step towards us.
Wink. Waiting in the parking lot for us as we exit the club after a night’s wo
rth of exhausting dancing. Suddenly, I’m not tired anymore. Suddenly, I can’t think about kissing Melissa because she needs to run, and kissing her would keep her here. In the line of fire.
Wink isn’t alone. He’s the block of anger in the center of other gang members who flank him. He pulls a gun. Diego yells for Faith and Melissa to leave. Wink pulls the trigger.
And I’m bleeding.
I force the pain of a bullet ripping through my flesh out of my mind and concentrate on fighting, on helping Diego. I can’t leave him alone to take the heat.
The cost of our fight that day is a permanent, almost perfectly circular scar near my right shoulder. The cost is Wink getting away. But more importantly, Diego making it through. It was worth it to help my cousin. He’d do the same for me.
This is the only memory I have of Wink. I hold on to it with a vise grip. So tight, so consuming. I’m determined not to let this be the last memory. I’m determined to find Wink once more.
I wish there were a way for me to talk to Faith, to get a description of the man who pulled the trigger, but she lives out of the country now. I wish it were easier to contact her. I wish I could get in my truck and drive minutes away and have a conversation face to face. But I can’t. I don’t blame Faith for removing herself from all that reminds her of Diego.
I wish I knew how to remove my memories. Things didn’t used to be like this. Before Diego’s death, I made better grades. I studied harder. I actually gave a shit about school. I didn’t have the wrath of hell coursing through me. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to be, but I wanted it to be something great. I had started to believe that life could be better for someone like me in the United States. Away from Cuba. Removed from constant turmoil.
I was wrong.
Cuba found a way to catch up to me.
And now, so has Melissa.
My mind is a slippery thing, sliding toward Melissa. Blond hair and tight body. Bright smile. Layers of confidence that she wears like clothes. The swell of her red lips.
Melissa is a catch-22. She is fun and good memories. But she is also a reminder that neither of us has that carefree existence anymore. I see it in her. I see the way her eyes trip over me and fall into what once was. I see the conflicted feelings in her stare, and I recognize them because I feel them, too.
Maybe there is a way to make this better. Maybe Melissa has Faith’s number. Maybe Melissa can give me Faith’s address. I’d hop on the next flight. I need to hear the details from Faith. I need to know what the guys looked like.
Because I will find them. And they will pay.
Seeing Melissa has reminded me that I cannot put this off much longer. This is the motivation I need to track down MS-13. I will hunt them. Infiltrate their gang. It’s a stimulant to my already overactive thoughts.
“Gonna go for a drive,” I tell Eduardo, hoping he won’t want to come with.
He watches me for a moment. Then says, as he’s hopping out of the truck, “Cuidado. Some things aren’t worth it, okay?”
I understand that, as my brother, he has to say that. But he’s wrong. It is every bit worth it.
It takes me twenty minutes to arrive in Diego’s old neighborhood. The one his papá still lives in, a neighborhood not far from my own. I think for a moment about stopping by, saying hey to tío Adolfo, but decide not to. I don’t want my truck to be seen there. I don’t want anyone to know I had a connection to Diego.
If this is going to work, I have to cover all tracks.
My past must be a ghost to them, invisible.
I park in a convenience store lot. Wait. Watch people hustle on the streets. I check my watch. Keep checking.
Seconds, minutes, hours.
It takes a while, but eventually I see it. Three guys with blue-and-white bandanas around their heads. The colors signify exactly what I’m looking for. Mara Salvatrucha 13 Gang, or MS-13.
The ones who gave up Diego to his old cartel.
The ones who will know where to find Wink.
Diego’s run-in with MS-13 has taught me what I need to know about their gang. They recruit guys that they think will be strong members. They do everything as a so-called family, watching each other’s backs. Dealing in drugs, carjackings, robberies, initiation crimes, murders, anything that will gain them respect or money. The crazier the crime, the more respect earned.
I get out of the truck. Act as though I’m about to enter the store. Walk up to them. No hesitation.
Just like their members, every time they pull the trigger.
I knock into one hard enough to throw him off balance.
“Watch it,” I growl.
He plays right into my hand.
His sneer comes first. Then his right hook. I block it easily. Throw a punch that lands in his ribs, hard enough to knock air out of his lungs and into my face. Another punch snaps his head backwards. He wobbles. Stumbles.
The guy next to him comes for me. I let him land one punch to my stomach. Then I drop him to his knees with a hit to the temple.
Easy, so easy.
I try not to think about the streets that taught me to fight like this. I try not to picture Diego’s face. I need every ounce of concentration because the third guy is swinging at me. It’s a good swing, one I barely escape. One that clips my jaw. Strong enough to maybe do damage had it met its target. But I’m behind him before he realizes what’s happened. His forehead smacks the concrete. He doesn’t get back up.
I walk to the one that’s struggling to his feet. Make sure he sees my face.
Remember, remember, remember. Me.
And then I hop in the truck and drive out of sight.
I’ve shown them how well I can fight. They’ll be watching for me. The next time I show up there, I’ll be on their list.
For recruitment.
3
melissa
The small house I call home smells of roasted vegetables and chicken with rosemary. If I close my eyes, I can even smell my childhood. Scent is like that sometimes. Triggering. One minute I’m working at the beach, talking to Javier, and the next minute I’m walking through my front door, suddenly young again.
What I smell now is our usual choice for family dinner.
Family.
Six letters packed into one word that means everything. Sometimes the people are linked by blood, a lot of times by choice.
But family is tricky. Family has split personalities. Sometimes it goes by the name Love. Every now and again, by the name Betrayal.
We don’t have a lot of family dinners now that everyone has grown up. Now that we all have responsibilities.
Childhood is the best time of your life, people always told me as a kid. What they didn’t tell me was that it could also be the worst. My childhood was shadowed by panic attacks and nearly constant worry when Dad left. I worried about everything. School, family, what I would wear that day. Nerves made me feel withdrawn around other people. Like maybe I’d say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing, and then what if they laughed at me? It was Faith who taught me to let go.
“Talk to him,” Faith says, pointing to a crush of mine.
We’re thirteen. I don’t know how to talk to boys. I’ve never talked to boys.
“What do I say?” I ask.
Faith laughs. “How should I know?”
We’re both new at this.
“If I talk to that boy, you have to talk to his friend,” I wager.
“Deal,” Faith says, grabbing me by the hand.
Both of our palms are sweaty. Slick residue of fear. I’m not the only one nervous. That’s what makes it okay. The fact that this is what normal feels like. I can finally learn to disable nerves. They don’t have to control me. If only I take chances.
I took a lot of chances after that. That’s how I became the extroverted me. That’s what helped me to see the world differently. I loosened my grip on control and learned how to let life happen.
Because when life happens on its own terms, I am free.
One memory of two people split by a third.
My tiny piece of this world is decorated with dark, licorice-black leather couches. Twinned vases of flowers stand like living columns on either side of the television. Frames with memories stuck in them. I pass a few on my way through the front door.
I’m being told, “Smile at the camera!” by some overly excited photographer. What they don’t understand is that the girl next to me, my sister Megan, is pinching me. I’m seven. She’s ten. This is how it goes with us, Megan picking on me in a way that I will later understand as being what sisters do to one another. I hated it then, or so says the scowl on my face, captured for all time. Paper caged behind a glass prison.
Funny how I miss that now. The scowl. The pinching. A time when my sisters were here and I didn’t yet know the depths of Dad’s betrayal.
Next. A series of photos.
My sisters and me having a water balloon fight. I turned nine today, though I don’t feel any older. My hand is a cannon launching the balloon inside of it at the back of my sister Monica’s head. Bull’s-eye. The balloon breaks, drenching her in cold liquid. I’m laughing and turning to run and not realizing that my sister May is aiming a balloon directly at my face.
There’s a blurry cake in the background of the center photo; it’s dizzying to look at because the focus is on me, crystal clear. Pieces of broken balloon thrown by May float around my head like confetti. My mouth is open in shock, eyes squeezed tight, at the burst of water over my face.
I didn’t realize Mom was taking pictures. I’m glad she did.
And that makes me wonder. Would I hold as many memories if the pictures didn’t remind me? I’m not sure that I’d know as much about my childhood if there weren’t these souvenirs of what once was. Are memories copied to mind, instead of paper, enough?
I’ve blocked a lot of them out.
What I don’t see are photos of Dad. Better that way. He’s not here anymore, so his ghost shouldn’t be, either. He doesn’t belong here. Hasn’t for some time. And if I’m being honest, he never really did.
