Forever Loved (The Forever Series)

by Roy, Deanna

  Bud leaned back in his oversized office chair, which tilted perilously under his ponderous weight. He wasn’t wearing overalls today, but a beige snap shirt and khakis. He must not have intended to pitch in with the grunt work today.

  He rubbed his chin, bristly with a five o’clock shadow that seemed to spring up by ten a.m., a source of jokes among the crew. “So, how long did you say you’ve known this girl?”

  “We grew up together.”

  “Ah. Makes sense. But when did you find her again?”

  I dropped my backpack off my shoulder and let it slide to the floor. “A few weeks ago.”

  “She the one who’s got you all distracted and out of sorts?”

  “Probably.”

  “Well, she’s the one then. You know it when you feel it.” He pushed away from the desk. “Rob turned in his notice.”

  “Really?” Rob had been the lead mechanic for over a decade.

  “His wife’s a nurse and she got a chance to move up at a hospital in LA.”

  “Rob in LA.” Rob was a redneck from his John Deere cap to his cowboy boots.

  “Yeah, hard to picture.” Bud chuckled. “But that means I’m doing some shuffling. Cade is moving up. So is Mario. I’ve had you doing mechanical already, so I’m officially putting you on the team. Pay goes up three dollars an hour, but you might end up here later than usual if a job goes long.” He reached into a drawer by his knee and tugged out a couple shirts wrapped in plastic. They were navy shirts the mechanics wore, and these had “Gavin” stitched on a patch on the pocket. The maintenance schmoes like I had been didn’t have personalized uniforms, only the crew.

  My mind whirred with what this meant. An extra $500 a month meant I could get a bigger place, move Corabelle in, and she could cut back her work hours if she wanted, or else avoid taking out as many loans. I realized I hadn’t said anything. “Thank you.”

  Bud handed me an envelope. “There’s papers with insurance stuff if you want to opt in. Just let me know if that hometown girl decides to traipse you off across the country.”

  “Will do.”

  I shoved the shirts and the forms under my arm and headed to the garage to change and stash my gear.

  When I came out, Mario whistled. “Look who’s got some real duds.” He clapped me on the back. “About time you got the chance to screw up something bigger than air filters.”

  “I hear the shit floated to the top yourself,” I said.

  Mario laughed. “It did indeed.” He unpacked a radiator hose from a box. “Now I get to tell you what the hell to do.”

  “And I’ll tell you where to go.” I moved down the row of bays. “Seems quiet for a Monday.”

  “Give it time. The cold this morning means everyone was too lazy to come in early. Every clunk from the weekend will be showing up here by lunch.” Mario stepped up to a Pathfinder and leaned over the radiator. “Someone brought in a Suzuki that cuts out at low RPMs. Why don’t you go take a look at it?”

  Huh, diagnostic. That was a first. In the few weeks I’d been doing more than tire rotations and oil changes, Bud had mostly handed me jobs that were already set. Motor mounts. Belts. Hoses. Radiator flush. Having to actually figure out a problem was a welcome change to sitting uselessly in those hospital chairs.

  I fired up the bike, noticing the difference in vibration and power from my Harley. Sure enough, no more than a few seconds in, it started missing. I revved it up and it smoothed out, but as it eased down, the motor hitched again.

  Rob came over, tugging on his cap. “You got a theory?”

  I killed the bike and stepped away to shake his hand. “I hear you’re heading out soon.”

  Rob shifted a meaty wad of tobacco along his gum. “Yup. The lady is moving up, and I’m going along for the ride.”

  “Good for her.” I turned back to the Suzuki. “Well, first I’d increase the idle. Maybe it got bumped. Then I’d say either the carb has crud, the petcock is clogged, or maybe the choke is stuck.”

  Rob sniffed. “All good ideas, but extra work. Start easy. Drain the gas and put in a gallon of fresh. I’ll come back around after you do that.”

  I shrugged and went to the wall to find a siphon.

  The garage was quiet after the roar of the Suzuki. The fuel decanted into a jug, and I searched around for the gas container we kept on hand. It was pretty hilarious how often a car got towed in for repair when all it had was an empty tank, and sometimes, a faulty gas gauge.

  I dropped in enough to test it. Sure enough, the idle held for a full thirty seconds. I revved it up and let it fall, still good.

  Rob sauntered back up. “Take it for a ride around the block, but I’m betting there was water in the gas tank or some sort of crap additive that impacted performance. When he comes in, ask him if he had the gas cap open for an extended period or if he got gas someplace different than usual.”

  I jumped on the bike and took off through the parking lot. The air was cool, the sun completely stifled by cloud cover. I pulled up at the exit and the idle held perfect. A job like this might be blue-collar, but it taught me something every day. Honest work. I was happy to do it for a while, and this promotion meant I could easily find something in a year in some other town if we moved.

  The road cleared and I jetted across the lanes, taking the corner hard, then throttling high as I ripped down the straightaway. The motor handled perfectly, and I shook my head that the solution had been so simple. This guy was getting off easy, a cheap diagnostic fee and a little gas. He’d be happy.

  I cut through an alley, the vibrations rumbling in my hands from the rough terrain. If anything was in the carb or petcock, I’d force it to move and show itself. But I came out the other side with the same power and precision, and the idling at the end of it was as clean as before.

  As I approached the garage from the other side, a pair standing by the street made me slam on the brakes. A woman and a small boy.

  It couldn’t be.

  I eased forward, staring. Shit. It was.

  Rosa. And Manuelito.

  How the hell did she find me?

  Panic ripped through my chest. If she talked to the crew, if they believed her…

  This was way beyond a phone call and texting a picture. She had obviously taken the boy from Letty. Cops might be involved.

  My vision flashed black for a moment. Everything that seemed so easy just moments before was suddenly crashing in.

  As I approached the entrance to the lot, Rosa spotted me and waved. I had to keep her away from the garage. I pulled up next to her and killed the bike, hoping no one would look out at this moment.

  Rosa smiled, her hand gripping Manuelito’s tightly. He had on a heavy brown jacket that made him look small and stout. He held a green sucker in his hand, one of the big round kind that takes hours to eat. His lips were discolored from it.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She passed me a piece of paper. “I took this. I am sorry. But I knew you might leave. I needed to find you.”

  It was a pay stub, probably from my saddlebag. It had the name of the garage and the address right on it.

  “You went through my stuff?”

  “I am sorry, Gavinito. But I do this for Manuelito.”

  I tossed the pay stub on the ground. “He’s not mine.” I began to push the bike toward the garage.

  “I prove it. We will do test.”

  I halted. “What?”

  “I told Letty I will take him to California for test. She cried and is mad, but she cannot stop me. I have my name on his birth certificate.” She pulled a plastic Ziploc from her purse holding a blue document in Spanish and waved it.

  I took it from her. The words “Acta de Nacimiento” were large across the top. Below it, “Madre” was listed as “Rosa Jalindo.” Under “Padre” was only “Juan Juan.”

  “I can fix,” Rosa said. “After test. Your name.”

  I passed the certificate back. “Isn’t Letty going through enough?
Her husband’s gone, and you took her son away.”

  Rosa’s eyes filled with tears. “I know. But I will not let him go.”

  “He lived in a perfectly nice neighborhood.” I gripped the handlebars of the bike. “I don’t get why they couldn’t stay there.”

  “Let us go and test. You know a place where they do tests?” Her face was pleading and desperate.

  Cars were starting to pull up at the garage as the lunch hour approached. I needed to get back. “Rosa, I have to get to work. I can’t do this right now.”

  “You not answer me on phone. You cannot ignore.” Rosa’s face became fierce. “I will go in there. I tell your boss.”

  Shit. “Rosa, you can’t blackmail me. I won’t put up with it.”

  “You walk away from us.” She pulled Manuelito against her. “In Ensenada, you just drive away.”

  Her words pierced me, but the rage was faster than the remorse. “I stayed there for hours, waiting. What the hell was I supposed to do?”

  Manuelito turned his face into Rosa’s skirt, the sucker forgotten. Damn it. Damn it to hell.

  “I can’t just leave work. And I have a girlfriend. What do you want from me?”

  The wind kicked up, blowing her hair all around. “I want to show you your son,” she said calmly. “I want you to know him.”

  I looked down at the boy, his expression hidden in the folds of denim. His dark hair blended into the shadows, but his grubby hand clutched the stick of the sucker.

  I couldn’t ignore this. Whether or not the boy was mine, I’d engaged with Rosa too many times to ignore my responsibility to her. “Can you meet me in four hours, when I get off work? I’ll figure something out.”

  “Yes, Gavin.”

  “Don’t come here.” I looked down the street. “There’s a restaurant down the block. Tony’s. You see it?”

  She turned her face in the direction I pointed. “Yes.”

  “Meet me there. Four o’clock.”

  “Yes, Gavin.”

  Manuelito peeked out then as if he knew the conflict was over. I remembered Rosa saying he understood English, and I wondered how much he could figure out. The boy had to be traumatized, his father disappearing, getting snatched from his home. How much damage would that cause?

  But he looked at me with sober eyes. After a few seconds, he put the sucker back in his mouth. As Rosa turned away, he glanced back at me, curious, serious.

  Mario waited by the door of one of the bays. “That did not look good.”

  I parked the bike behind him. “It wasn’t.”

  He shot around, as if just realizing something. “Is she one of your hookers?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, I don’t know.” Rosa said she wasn’t, but I didn’t know the truth anymore.

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Yeah. It’s trouble.” I tugged the keys out of the Suzuki and pulled the clipboard down with the paperwork on it to make note of the problem.

  He wouldn’t let things go. “What’s the deal with the kid?”

  I was tempted to slam the clipboard against the wall, but I reined it in. “For fuck’s sake, Mario, it’s just a situation. I’ll deal with it.”

  But Mario just laughed. “Gavin, you get in the most ridiculous predicaments.”

  I glanced around the garage. Rob was in the pit. Two other mechanics were way down in the other bays. The service guys were rapidly changing filters and oil. “One question. If you cross over from Mexico, how long can you stay? Like when your cousins come.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “She’s a national?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, if she has a border crossing card, she can come and go as she likes, but she has to go back within 72 hours. Otherwise she has to get a tourist visa, which is expensive, and if her income is, well, undocumented, then they’ll turn her down. You have to prove you’re coming back.”

  “She has an apartment.”

  “That will help.”

  “It’s owned by her brother, though.”

  He shrugged. “Depends on who looks at her papers then.”

  “It was sort of last minute, I think.”

  “Then she probably had a card.” He gripped my shoulder. “She won’t trouble you long, my friend.”

  “Thanks.” I scrawled a couple words on the work order and headed to the office to turn it in to Bud. I wasn’t sure which I wanted more, for the hours to speed by or for the end of the day to never come.

  20: Corabelle

  Tina came back by later that afternoon. I was doing better, despite using up half the box of paper towels. Breakfast had gone down okay. I was hoping to get the catheter out again, but hadn’t asked about it due to my parents’ cloying presence in the room.

  “You look better,” Tina said. “These your parents?”

  “Yes. Mom, Dad, this is Tina. She runs the art therapy program here. I met her at school.” That was enough background. No need to bring up the suicide part.

  “It’s so nice to meet some of Corabelle’s friends,” Mom said, her eyes resting on the striped stockings. “What do you do in your art therapy?”

  “I just started today. We’re drawing.” Tina sat in Gavin’s empty chair. “I’m actually here on official business.” She rummaged through a satchel and pulled out a clipboard. “Do your parents maybe want to grab a cup of coffee downstairs?”

  My stomach quavered a little. “That’s a good idea. I’ll see you guys in a bit, okay?”

  Mom rolled up her knitting and stuck it in a bag. “Come on, Arthur. Nice to meet you.” She led Dad out of the room. He looked back like I was about to be taken away or something. Poor Dad.

  “I didn’t expect for you to be one of my first referrals,” Tina said. “But given our shared history, the social worker — shoot, I forgot her name, the one with the vintage glasses—”

  “Sabrina,” I said.

  She snapped her fingers. “Yes, Sabrina. I’ve learned too many names today. She thought I might get more out of you than she did.”

  “I didn’t want to be sent to psych.”

  “I don’t think they’d do that. The ward rarely has an empty bed, from what I gather.”

  “But they might keep me here.”

  “Maybe. Here’s the thing. Your case is open for possible mental health issues. And you and I both know they are there. They asked me to just chat with you, only because we are friends, but I can decide what to tell them. I’m not a therapist and they know that. All I’m supposed to do is say whether or not to enroll you in my therapy once you are up and about.”

  I felt wary. I liked Tina, but now she was here officially. And she already knew more than I would have liked. I had assumed I would be out by the time she started.

  I fingered the white sheet on my lap. “I told Gavin about the marijuana. And the professor.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “He had a secret of his own.” My chest tightened, and I had to grip the rails to breathe, sucking in air.

  Tina leaned forward and squeezed my arm. “Maybe we should do this another time. I can put a note in that you aren’t medically well enough.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll be okay. It’s just like the upset goes straight to my lungs right now.”

  She nodded. “I hope I get the hang of how the therapy part affects the physical. I feel so unqualified for this job.”

  I breathed in and out slowly until I had a handle on my airflow. “You’ll be fine. It’s just the art stuff, right?”

  “Sorta. I still have to, you know, talk to the patients. I’m afraid they will tell me things I can’t handle.”

  “Probably some of them will be lying.”

  “What did Gavin say?”

  “He had a vasectomy.”

  “What? He’s like — twenty!”

  “He found a place in Mexico that would do it.”

  “Holy shit.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Probably not an officially sanctioned response.”

  I
managed a small laugh. “Probably not.”

  “Well, hell. That’s got to be tough. You think he can get it reversed? You still want kids, right?”

  “Maybe. We’ll have to see. We’re both in school. We can’t exactly do anything about it right now.”

  Tina tugged on one of her pigtails. “So, how did you go from confessions to swim time?”

  My breath was fine now, but I placed my hand on my chest anyway to give me a second to decide on my answer. “I overreacted.”

  “What was your goal? To get him to save you?”

  I thought back. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t think I thought about it. I just went.”

  Tina sat back in the chair. “Well, the real therapists might not buy that, but I do. When I cut my wrists, it had nothing to do with dying.” She pushed at the sleeve of her sweater, revealing the scars, white and pale pink but still visible. “I felt like I should be marked. Damaged. Scarred. So I did it.”

  “Did you ever get therapy?”

  “Are you kidding? Once my parents decided to step in, I spent half my life in shrink-quack offices.” She clapped her hand over her mouth again. “Probably not an officially sanctioned description of mental health professionals either.”

  Tina made me laugh. She would be a good fit for Jenny. The two of them were so quirky and colorful. Between Tina’s stockings and Jenny’s hair, they could command the attention of any room.

  “Will you be happy here?” I asked. “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “I’m at some extended-stay hotel for the moment. It’s hard to find an apartment for such a short time. I might be able to find a sublet.”

  “You should stay at my place.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

  “No, I’m serious. I’m going to be here for who knows how long, and then I may just stay with Gavin. He’ll want to watch me every minute.”

  “As he should.”

  “Come by later. Gavin has my keys. He can show you around. I don’t have anything valuable. Not even a TV. I’m not worried. Someone should be there anyway.”

  Tina stood up. “That’s very generous of you. I’ll give it some thought.” She lifted the clipboard. “So what do you think? Art therapy or no art therapy? We could heckle the other patients.”