“Barbie butt!”
“Dog nose!”
“Girls!” roared Jacey’s dad, and Molly rushed over to help them work it out.
“Got any ear plugs?” Rakmen whispered to his dad, who winked at him and pulled two beers from the cooler, handing one to Ray and one to Jacey’s dad.
“By all that is holy, I wish those two had volume control,” he said, tipping back his beer.
Rakmen and the boys grabbed sodas and sat on the deck in the sun. Rakmen sat quietly nursing his Coke and trying to take stock. It was good to hear his dad talking about cars and the NBA draft. It was good to smell the lingering bite of lighter fluid over coals. Two more weeks, and he’d be done with school. One less thing for him to fail at. If he could get a job, earn some real money, there might be a way out after all.
An hour later, after the tamales had been steamed and the steaks charred, they were all crammed into the dining room around the regular table plus two more folding ones borrowed from a neighbor.
“Join hands,” said his mother. Molly was across from Rakmen between Jacey and D’Vareay. “Come on, boys,” his mom urged. With a groan, Rakmen reached toward Juan and D’Mareay. As far as he was concerned they were close enough already, but they clasped woodenly and bowed their heads.
“Dear Lord,” his mother began, “we are so grateful to be together, to be fed, to be sheltered. Today, on Memorial Day, we remember those who have died so that we might sit around this table.”
An ache rose in Rakmen’s chest. The familiar, weighty feel of the dead enveloped him. His lungs grew leaden, but a chorus of amens broke through the dark edges at his vision. The boys beside him dropped hands like they were on fire.
The mothers began to pass plates of steaming tamales, extra bowls of chili sauce, platters of steak, and salad, and in the flurry, Rakmen began to breathe again. As he piled his plate, he caught Molly looking at him.
She gave him a sad smile and tucked her head so that a wave of hair hid her scar. He knew she’d felt them too, the dead ones. He scanned the faces around the table. They were a mashed-up, weird kind of almost-family. Just not the one he wanted.
“How’s the job search going, Rakmen?” Jacey’s dad asked.
He shrugged. “Cross your fingers I don’t end up at Starbucks.”
Molly laughed. “You’d make a cute barista.”
“I’ve got some other options,” said Rakmen, trying to catch Ray’s eye.
His dad asked for the tamales. His mom passed the tray without looking at him. The twins’ mom served her sons unwanted piles of salad, which they picked at. Jacey fidgeted with her spoon until her mother took it away.
“So Molly,” his mom began, trying to fill in the empty spaces, “are you still playing soccer?”
Molly’s forehead creased, puckering her scar. Soccer was before the accident. This was now. Her father answered for her. “Not this season. The sport’s getting too rough. And we can’t risk another concussion.”
Methodically, Molly cut her steak in tiny bits.
She’d played defense, Rakmen knew, and she’d been good.
“How are things at the store?” his dad asked Ray.
“Fine. Can you pass the salt?”
A phone erupted into a series of chimes. The twins’ mom checked her messages, shot dagger eyes at her sons, then stared again at the screen of her phone like it was a rattlesnake.
Silent alarm bells were going off all over. Rakmen elbowed D’Mareay. Molly nudged D’Vareay. The brothers grew instantly cagey. Their mother rose to her feet, quelling all talk at the table. The boys set down their utensils and braced for it.
“Boys!” she boomed, holding out the phone. “What in God’s name is this?” Every eye in the room was fixed on the screen as the boys’ mom set it in the middle of the table with dangerous precision. Like the insistent gravity of a black hole, it tugged them forward. Rakmen rose so he could look down at the screen.
The picture of the Alberta Street overpass on Interstate 5 had been snapped from a moving car. He could see the edge of the windshield in the corner of the frame. The concrete wall of the overpass filled the rest of the phone. Every inch was a riot of Technicolor spray paint—a birthday message to D’Shawn.
Rakmen recognized the boys’ signature style instantly.
“It’s beautiful,” said Molly. Both boys flashed her a rare grin.
“Shut up,” their mom snapped. She grabbed D’Vareay, who had the bad luck to be closest, and hoisted him out of his seat. Then she proceeded to nab D’Mareay. “Say thank you for dinner,” she commanded, retrieving the phone.
“Thanks,” they mumbled.
Rakmen half expected her to clap the boys in cuffs, and he stifled the urge to tell them to run for it.
“Tricia,” said Rakmen’s mom, “don’t leave.”
She turned stiffly in the doorway. “We really appreciate being included, but I really must take my hoodlums home.”
“I know that’s bad behavior...” His mom faltered underneath a withering glare. “Really bad, but it’s good that they’re expressing themselves. Grieving people need to talk.” Rakmen’s mom shot a pointed look at his dad, who rose and left the table without a word.
Tricia propelled the boys through the front door. It slammed shut behind them and broke the hush in the room. Suddenly everyone was in a hurry to go.
“Come on, Molly,” said her mom, bustling toward the door.
Mrs. Tatlas pulled Jacey out of her chair. “Us too, sweetie.”
“I’m not done!” the girl wailed. Her dad picked her up and headed for the front hall. Rakmen’s mom trailed them out, stammering assurances that they didn’t have to leave. Everyone said good-bye and thanks and wasn’t this nice and see you again soon. They said the things they were supposed to say.
Rakmen caught up with Ray as he was shrugging into his coat. “Hey, school’s out in two weeks.”
“Yeah? Good. You must be psyched.”
“I’ll be ready to go to work right away. I don’t need any time off or anything.”
Ray avoided his eyes. “About that...”
Rakmen shoved his hands into his pockets and wrapped the tattered notebook in a stranglehold. This morning, he’d scribbled headlines. Contaminated mud from Willamette River superfund site shifting into main channel. Unexploded WWII ordnance unearthed by children in McMinnville. “Look, man, I’m sorry,” said Ray, rubbing his temples. “Things aren’t so good at the store.”
Rakmen’s limbs felt impossibly heavy. “But you said it was fine. The junkyard is always busy.”
His mom came up beside them. “What’s going on, Ray?”
“One of my guys at the junkyard got hurt on the job. He’s got some ambulance chaser suing me.”
“But I need that job,” said Rakmen, more loudly than he meant to. Jacey’s family stopped halfway out of the door.
Ray held up his hands and shrugged. “I know it sucks. I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to hire you.”
Rakmen pressed his fists against his thighs to keep them from bashing holes in the walls.
“Thanks for dinner, Mercedes,” said Ray before escaping past the Tatlases. The family congealed around Jacey, who was having some kind of shoe malfunction.
His mother turned from the door, looking stunned. “What are you going to do all summer?”
“I don’t know,” said Rakmen, his voice acid. “Sit around and listen to you and Dad fight, I guess.”
“Rakmen—” his mom warned.
“Assuming you ever stay in the same room together for longer than two seconds.”
Her whole body tensed, and her face went rigid. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and pinched like the words were extracted against her will. “This isn’t about your dad and me. You need to stay out of trouble.”
“Well, I can’t!” he snarled, throwing up his arms. She flinched, and he knew that he was an asshole. The sick feeling in his gut rose into his throat. “Look—” he said, flat and col
d. “There’s no point trying to make things like they were.”
They stared at each other. Different planets a million miles apart.
“Hey, you two,” said Mrs. Tatlas, putting a hand on his mom’s arm. “It’s not my business, I know, but can I throw a crazy idea out there?”
Rakmen and his mom broke their stare-down.
“Sure, Leah,” said his mom, regaining her composure. “He probably needs summer school, right?”
Rakmen’s eyes narrowed.
His teacher shook her head. “He did okay on that last assignment. If he keeps it up, he’ll be fine.” The tension in his mother eased a sliver. “So here’s the deal. I need a change of scenery.” Rakmen’s hackles rose, remembering what Jacey had said about her mom wanting to take off. “Jacey and I are going to spend July and August up at my Uncle Leroy’s cabin in Canada. It’s on a lake in the woods. It’ll be nice.”
La-ti-da for you, thought Rakmen. Suddenly, Jacey was pressing against his side like a dog wanting its head scratched. He stepped away, but she glommed on, sliding her hand into his.
“That sounds nice for you, Leah.” His mom wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping irritation out of her voice.
“I bring it up,” Mrs. Tatlas continued, looking a little embarrassed, “because Jacey’s being a bit stubborn.” Rakmen shook his hand free of Jacey’s grasp. “She doesn’t want to go—”
Jacey wrapped her arms around herself, hunching over so she seemed even smaller than usual. Of course she didn’t want to go, and for the same reason that he really needed that job with Ray. Neither wanted to spend the summer with mothers like theirs.
“I don’t understand what you’re telling me, Leah,” said his mom, sounding way beyond tired.
“Jacey wants Rakmen to go with us.”
He jerked to his full height.
“What?” his mom asked.
“George can’t get the time off,” said Mrs. Tatlas, gesturing to her husband, who was halfway out the door and clearly wanted to get all the way out. “Jacey’s got it in her head that Rakmen’s her own personal Superman or something.” She laughed nervously. “It’s a little weird, but we’d love to have him, especially since he’s got the time now.”
“Someone’s got to take care of me,” Jacey muttered.
A mask fell over Mrs. Tatlas’s face, turning her features corpse-like.
“Jacey. Out. Now,” said her dad.
The girl skittered past her mother and down the front steps.
“Thanks for the offer, Leah. We’ll think about it,” said his mom.
Rakmen swallowed back his rising nausea.
The thinking was done. A cabin in the woods with the two of them wasn’t a vacation; it was a prison sentence, and besides, he couldn’t be trusted to take care of anyone.
CHAPTER 7
After helping his mom clean up, Rakmen retreated to his room and flopped on the bed. The fading smell of charcoal from the grill curled up from the backyard, and the party at the neighbor’s was still going strong. He wanted to sleep, but it was only a few weeks from the longest day of the year and still light outside. Besides, a tight ball of unease rattled inside his ribcage.
His dad had not come home.
A few days ago, while thumbing through one of his mom’s books on surviving the loss of a child, he’d come up with a statistic, which he’d carefully penciled into the notebook. In the majority of cases, the marriage does not survive the loss.
And the walls in this house were thin. Overhearing was something Rakmen couldn’t escape. His dad wanted space. He wanted to be left alone. His mom wanted to talk and talk and talk as if words alone could bring back babies.
He opened the notebook and wrote ‘Til death do us part.
He crumpled the book in one hand, straining to tell if the rumbling engine noise outside was his dad’s truck or the neighbor’s. A minute later he heard the front door open and close. He waited for his mother to speak. She was there. He’d left her on the couch, re-reading that book, the one about grief.
Instead, the TV blared SportsCenter. The familiar buzz of the broadcast filled him with relief. He pushed off the bed. He could catch the game with Dad and forget about how Memorial Day had gone down in flames, but as he opened the door, the TV voice cut off mid-sentence.
“I was watching that,” said his dad.
Rakmen froze with his hand on the doorknob.
“You can’t keep pretending that nothing has happened,” said his mom.
“That’s not what I’m doing.” His dad’s voice was gravelly and tired. Rakmen crept to the top of the stairs, drawn unwillingly to watch the coming disaster.
His mother was shrill. “You won’t talk or go to therapy, so what are you doing?”
“There’s nothing to do, Mercedes. She died. Talking doesn’t change that.”
Rakmen could fill every line of every page in his notebook with she died, she died, she died, and it would never be enough.
She died in my arms.
He edged down the stairs like a guilty man to the gallows.
“If you don’t talk about it, how do you expect our son to work through this?”
They should know everything that happened the night Dora died. He felt like he might explode with it.
“Rakmen’s fine,” his dad growled as Rakmen reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Fine? He’s about as far from fine as you can get. He’s almost flunking out of school. He’s depressed. He’s volatile. You’d know if you paid any attention at all to your kids—”
“Kids?”
From the shadow of the hall, Rakmen could see the dangerous currents swirling on his father’s face.
His mother took a step back. “You know what I meant.”
“Yeah, I do,” said his father. “You mean it’s my fault she’s dead.”
Rakmen wanted to scream it was me but the words stuck in his throat.
“I didn’t say that. But—”
“But what?!” his dad said, each word an attack.
Tears poured down his mother’s face. “You’re the nurse,” she shouted. “You should’ve known something was wrong.”
Over her head, Rakmen could see Dora’s picture on the mantel. Her dark eyes pierced his body. And suddenly he was running. Out the front door, down the steps. He slammed his feet into the sidewalk and pumped his arms until he was an engine, incapable of feeling anything but the urge to go and never come back. He half-slid around the corner, darting through traffic, sprinting past pedestrians. Running trumped thinking and memory and all the things that kept him up at night.
Rakmen ran until he was a few blocks from Pier Park. His lungs screamed for air and explosions of black dotted his peripheral vision. Sweat dripped into his stinging eyes. He swiped at it with his sleeve, ducked into the shade of the huge firs on either side of the bike path, and collapsed on an empty bench.
The energy that had propelled him drained away until Rakmen was empty, an old tin can, worthless for anything but target practice. It shouldn’t have been Dora. It should have been him. Then his parents would have held joy between them instead of the hollow space that was Rakmen.
Minutes passed. Rakmen’s breath slowed and his pulse returned to normal. The steady thump of dribbled basketballs came from the courts up a set of stairs to his left. There were birds chittering up high. A splinter from the rough wooden bench jabbed him in the back of the thigh. He couldn’t move to save his life.
He couldn’t go home.
He had no job.
No family.
Stuck. He was always stuck.
Rakmen scuffed the toe of his sneaker in the gravel below the bench and watched an old Hispanic guy in a Parks Department uniform empty the trash can at the base of the stairs. That’d be him in fifty years, hauling bags of other people’s castoffs. Rakmen closed his eyes and dropped his head to his chest.
A second later, an ear-splitting screech of wood against metal jolted him to his feet. The groundskeep
er was still bent over the trash can, but a skateboarder had jumped the stair rail and was skidding down in a blur.
The old man dove out of the way, the metal trash can lid went flying, and the boarder skidded to a stop.
Rakmen took the stairs two at a time and knelt beside the groundskeeper. “Are you alright?”
“Dios mío, que gabacho loco,” he said as Rakmen helped him up.
The skater, a gaunt-faced white guy in his twenties, flipped up his board and pulled his knit cap nearly down to his eyes. “Man, I nailed that. You okay?”
Rakmen wanted to rip his face off.
“Young man,” said the groundskeeper, brushing dirt and pine needles off his coveralls, “There is a skate park over there.” He pointed through the trees in the direction of the baseball diamonds. “These rails are off-limits.”
“Off-limits for who?” sneered the skater, lighting a cigarette. “Sneak back over the border, old man. I’ll skate where I like.”
Roaring filled Rakmen’s ears, obliterating the sounds from the basketball court and the distant hum of traffic. An outsized savagery bloomed in his belly and raged through his limbs. Face first. Arms second. He lurched forward, fists clenched.
The groundskeeper tried to stop him, but Rakmen swung hard from underneath and took the skater in the jaw. The impact ricocheted up his arm, the man’s chin rocketed back, and the cigarette whirligigged in the air.
Specks of saliva clung to the corners of the skater’s crooked lips. Surprise, then anger, then disgust flashed through his eyes as if he was above fighting someone so worthless. Rakmen’s fists curled again. He wanted to erase that sneer. He threw a wild punch, but this time the skater was ready. He swung his board up hard, connecting with the side of Rakmen’s head and throwing him off-balance.
Through the reverberations in his skull, Rakmen heard a guttural roar coming from somewhere, his own throat maybe. He lurched forward, plowing his head into the skater’s stomach. Together they crashed to the ground. For a split second, they were chest-to-chest, too close and strangely intimate. Then the skater was digging his hands into the sides of Rakmen’s face, scraping flesh, inching toward his eyes.
The Way Back from Broken Page 5
