No More Confessions

by Louise Rozett

  Right. The Deladdos and the Fortas live next door to each other, so there’s no point in my denying anything about what’s going on.

  “Jamie’s drinking at the bar and driving home,” I admit, though I feel like I’m betraying him—telling Conrad is somehow different than telling a class full of strangers. “He has a flask—”

  “And I see you still have that savior complex.” I feel my face get red. How could I have forgotten how good the Deladdos are at finding sore spots? “Jamie takes care of himself. He doesn’t let anybody do it for him. My sister and I have tried to save him from his self-destructive shit again and again but—well, you were there. You saw him walk away from the cops after that fight, knowing what would happen.”

  “He was mad at me—that was my fault,” I say.

  “Oh, come on. He knew exactly what he was doing—you just gave him an excuse to do it. Jamie only does what Jamie wants to do.”

  And again, I want to tell Conrad he’s wrong. But I can’t.

  “Time. Come on back,” Carlos calls as he walks by with Clifton, who slings an arm around Conrad’s shoulders and breathes his cigarette breath in Conrad’s face. Conrad makes a big show of ducking and twisting away from Clifton.

  “You’re disgusting. Call me later,” Conrad says. Then he takes a second to look me over from head to toe before he heads off down the hall. “You know what? The rocker look isn’t bad on you, Rose,” he calls over his shoulder.

  My head is spinning for more reasons than I can count.

  Right before I step back into Carlos’ room, my phone rings. It’s Vicky. On top of everything else I’m feeling, I’m hit with a wave of regret—I never called her back after she left me the message about Gabriel Ortiz when I was in New York. Everything was so crazy that weekend, it was easier to shut Vicky out and think of her as part of the problem than to be there for her.

  “Hi,” I answer, feeling ashamed.

  “Rosalita? That you?”

  “It’s me. Vic, I feel really bad—”

  She cuts me off before I can get my apology out. “Hon, you remember when I told you that Gabe got himself arrested by the military police, and he trashed a bar and tried to beat everybody up?” She sounds like she’s trying to hold it together, which makes me nervous.

  “Um, I thought you said he—”

  “He tried to kill himself last night. Now he’s in the VA hospital.”

  It’s only when Vicky starts to cry that I realize just how important Gabe is to her. Of course he is—he’s the only connection to Travis that she has left. I should have been nicer about her wanting to look out for him. I should have been nicer about everything. “Oh, Vic, I’m so sorry.”

  “I went to see him the day before, and I yelled at him—I don’t know what came over me. I knew he wasn’t well, and I just went ahead and did it anyway.”

  “Vic, you’re allowed to be mad. I’m mad, too.”

  “I’m not allowed to be mad like that,” she sniffles. “Let me tell ya, that is not the act of a good Christian woman, taking it out on some poor boy who loved my Travis like a brother and lost his mind in a war.”

  “Maybe if we knew why he did it, we’d feel better,” I say. As the words come out of my mouth, I get an idea—a crazy idea, but an idea.

  “Blue Hair,” Carlos calls from the doorway. “Time to face the music.”

  “Um, okay—be right there,” I tell Carlos. “Vic, I’m in a class right now so I have to go—I’m sorry. But I’m going to call you back later. I want to ask you something about Gabe, okay?”

  When I go back into the classroom, the other students are staring at their blank pages, or scratching through whatever they wrote down and starting over. But I’m lucky—my first line is right there the second I pick up my pen.

  He only does what he wants to do—if he breaks your heart, well, that’s on you…

  “(Get Your Kicks on) Route 66,”

  New Juke Box Hits, Chuck Berry

  _______________________

  Chapter 15

  I look out the window at flat, dusty, famous Route 66. My mom and I are in West Texas in Vicky’s car, heading east from the tiny town where Vicky lives to a city called Amarillo, where Gabriel Ortiz is in a special hospital for veterans.

  My mother’s plan for spring break was to take me on a college trip to Boston. When I asked her if we could go stay with Vicky in Texas first so I could talk to Gabriel Ortiz for Camber’s final project, I didn’t expect her to say yes so quickly. In fact, I didn’t expect her to say yes at all. But she said she’d talk to Gabe’s doctor to see what she thought of the idea.

  My mother explained the unusual circumstances to the doctor, who then asked to speak to me. I told the doctor about the project, changing the part about interviewing someone who’d had a “negative impact” on me to someone who’d had a “profound impact” because I thought that would increase the chances that the doctor would say yes. She said she’d discuss it with Gabe.

  The next day, we got an email from her telling me to send my questions so she could approve them all. She also gave us a message from Gabe, who said he’d like to meet us because “Al was a great guy.”

  I was not expecting that. Neither was my mom. After all the craziness with the video, I think we both assumed that Gabe was a horrible person. Neither of us had even bothered to wonder how well he knew my dad, or how he felt about him.

  She bought us tickets that night.

  When Vicky picked us up at the airport in Amarillo, I spotted her and her big hair—which I’m sure she teased a few inches higher than normal for my benefit—instantly. I started waving and as soon as she saw me, she burst into tears. “Tears of joy, gals, tears of joy,” she called across baggage claim. “I’m just so thrilled to finally meet you two!” she said, fanning her face with her hands as she hurried forward and pulled us into a group hug. It doesn’t surprise me at all that Vicky is a hugger. “Oh, Kathleen, aren’t you as pretty as a pie supper,” she gushed, hanging onto us for a long time.

  We spent last night in her tiny house, and she made us something called chicken-fried steak with cream gravy, and pecan pie for dessert. I don’t think my mother has eaten anything fried since before I was born, but she told Vicky she loved it, and I think she really did. Vicky insisted that my mother and I sleep in her bedroom, which my mother felt terrible about, but then Vicky explained about Texas hospitality and how we’d be insulting her if we didn’t, and my mother finally caved.

  Vicky pulled out some photos of Travis, and she told us a story about how he and Gabe used to play with plastic army men in the backyard until it was too dark to see, and then they’d raid the house for flashlights. It’s been almost three years and Vicky still sometimes talks about Travis in the present tense before she catches herself and switches to the past.

  This morning, we were up and on the road to the hospital in Amarillo to see Gabe bright and early.

  “Look out the window, girls,” Vicky says from the driver’s seat. “That’s Cadillac Ranch. Y’all heard of that up north? Somebody made it in the 70s. You oughta take a photo and send it to that boyfriend of yours, Rosalita. I bet he’d like it.”

  Out the window is a line of real Cadillacs, painted in crazy colors, front ends buried in the ground, tailfins sticking straight up—it’s like Stonehenge but with cars. I take a picture and text it to Jamie with a message that says, “Greetings from a foreign land. Miss you.”

  I want to say more, but I don’t.

  I’m waiting on Jamie to tell me whether or not he’s going to come with us to Boston in a few days to see the Museum School. I told Mom I wanted him to come because it might inspire him to reconsider his decision about the GED. She liked the idea so I invited him. He said he’d think about it.

  As we get closer to Amarillo, the traffic gets heavier and it feels like we’re in a city again, not out in the middle of the flat, dry land on Route 66. There’s a beauty to that land—it’s a lonely beauty, but it’s beauty jus
t the same. I’ve heard people talk about the great stretches of flat land in the middle of the country as if it’s there’s nothing to see there. But I disagree. It’s amazing to look across uninterrupted land until it blends with the sky and you don’t know what you’re seeing anymore. It’s wide-open space, full of potential or danger or both. It makes me feel like I can inhale all the air I want.

  When the flat land finally gives way to buildings, we arrive at the hospital. It’s a big, busy place—there are lots of older men in baseball hats and vests covered in pins that declare what branch of service they were in. Behind us in line at the reception desk is a seriously buff guy in a Marines T-shirt with a prosthetic leg and a prosthetic arm. I’m trying not to look at him, but I can’t help it. It’s not just his prosthetics—it’s his eyes. His face and body look young—he can’t be more than three or four years older than me—but his eyes are dead. He’s seen too much.

  I think this is what sets apart people who have been to war, and what makes it so hard for them to find their way back into their lives again. I wonder what it would have been like for my dad, if he’d made it back—would he have had a tough time, even though he wasn’t a soldier and hadn’t had to do horrible things?

  The receptionist waves us forward. Vicky pulls us out of line, pretends she’s looking for something in her purse and tells the buff Marine to go ahead of us.

  Once we sign in and show our IDs, the receptionist directs us to the mental health building, and Vicky leads the way. We pass more people with prosthetics, and a woman with terrible scars on her face, maybe from a fire. She studies my scar-free face without looking in my eyes, and then turns away.

  Gabe’s doctor is waiting for us in the lobby of the mental health building.

  “Hi, Vicky,” she says.

  Vicky hugs the doctor, who looks tentative but endures it. “Dr. Corning, this is Kathleen Zarelli and her daughter Rose. Y’all spoke on the phone, isn’t that right?”

  “We did,” Dr. Corning says. “Gabe is waiting for us in a conference room. I’ve told him you’ll only be visiting for a few minutes. Have you made any changes to the questions you sent me, Rose?”

  “No,” I say, starting to feel a little nervous. “But I have a question. What if he says something that makes me want to ask something else—am I allowed to do that?”

  “Sure,” the doctor says. “If I think it’s going to be problematic, I’ll just ask you to move on. How does that sound?”

  My mother cuts in. “What do you mean by problematic?”

  “Anything that agitates him, I’m going to want to avoid. But I’ll be honest with you, he’s been looking forward to your visit. I think getting the chance to apologize to you is going to be very helpful for him.”

  I realize then and there that I didn’t think this through.

  I look around at the people waiting for their appointments, all with that same look in their eyes as the guy who was behind us in line at reception. I don’t want Gabe to apologize to me. What he did doesn’t seem that terrible anymore. The anger I felt toward him for so long has somehow turned into regret—regret that he is now on the mental health ward of a VA hospital after a suicide attempt, worrying about my feelings.

  I look at my mother, who reads me like a book. She squeezes my hand. “Just stick to your questions and it’ll be fine.”

  We walk into the conference room, and there he is. He does not look like a monster, or a bad person, or even someone who would want to hurt other people. He looks like a guy who’s a few years older than me with dark circles under his eyes and a big, beefy hospital orderly standing guard next to him. I’m not sure if the orderly is for our protection or Gabe’s. Maybe both.

  He doesn’t have bandages on his wrists, which makes me wonder how he tried to do it. And then I wonder why I want to know.

  Gabe’s eyes light up at the sight of Vicky. He stands up to hug her, and he is huge—he’s way over 6 feet tall and bulging with gigantic muscles. The orderly looks like a kid next to him, and Vicky disappears into his arms. “How’re you feelin’ today, Gabey?” Her voice is muffled against his solid chest.

  “All right, ma’am, thank you,” Gabriel says softly. His words sound practiced, like someone recently taught him how to talk and he’s reciting what he learned. “It’s always good to see you.”

  “I want you to meet some friends of mine. This is Kathleen and Rose Zarelli, Alfonso’s family.”

  Gabe turns his gaze to us, and his eyes are already full of tears. I take a step back, fighting an impulse to actually hide behind my mother, afraid of the raw pain that is coming off him. It’s too much—it’s too familiar.

  Dr. Corning steps in right away.

  “Gabe? Everyone will understand if you don’t want to talk today.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m fine, ma’am,” he assures the doctor. He lumbers toward us and reaches for my mother’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am, and you, too, miss,” he says to me in that soft voice that doesn’t match the way he looks. “Al was a helluva guy—excuse my language—and I’m real sorry he died. I still don’t know why God took a man like that—with a family and so smart and all—and left me behind.” He gives his head a shake, like he’s trying to make something come loose. “Sorry. There’s a light or two burned out on my string right now and I just say whatever the hell—sorry—comes into my mind.”

  “We understand,” my mother says, still shaking his hand. I can tell that she is touched by this giant, broken teddy bear of a man who has such nice things to say about my father. She’s always wanted to protect me from strangers’ memories of my dad, but the truth is, it’s amazing to hear someone we don’t know talk about him—it brings him back to us.

  “We’re happy to meet you, Gabriel.” My mother gives him a genuine smile and pats his hand before she lets go. “Shall we get started?” she asks Dr. Corning.

  Dr. Corning checks in with Gabriel one last time, and he nods. We all sit at the table, except for the guard, who continues standing by Gabriel’s side. I guess we’re just supposed to pretend that we don’t see him.

  “You go ahead, miss. I’m ready for your questions,” Gabe says, folding his hands and lowering his eyes like he’s preparing to be punished.

  I look down at my piece of paper and the words start to blur. Why am I doing this to him? My pain and sorrow are real, but they’re a tiny part of this war. This man sitting across from me was there, he was in the truck that was blown up and he saw with his own eyes things he might never be able to talk about. And I’m here to demand answers about a video he posted online?

  Who the hell do I think I am?

  I look up at his big brown eyes that are so earnest and warm. “I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t waste anyone’s time, but I’m not going to ask you these questions. You—you don’t deserve to be interrogated.”

  Gabe looks at Vicky and his doctor before his eyes come back to me. “Well, that’s real kind and all, but I have an explanation for what I did, and I’d kinda like to give it to you, if you don’t mind.”

  “You don’t owe me—”

  My mother interrupts. “Rose, let’s let Gabriel say what he wants to say.” Gabe looks at Dr. Corning, who looks at me.

  I nod. “Yes. Sorry.”

  Gabe shifts in the chair that can barely contain him, trying to get comfortable. “After a while, I wasn’t in my right mind over there, but I didn’t know that. I took videos of everythin’—I got kinda obsessed, I guess they call it. When I got home, I dreamed those videos—they played in my head all damn night—sorry—and I needed ’em to stop. I put ’em up on the Internet because I thought that might help, you know, sendin’ ’em out into the world and all.” He leans forward and then leans back, and then leans forward again. I’m listening so carefully I’m not even breathing. “I gotta tell you and your momma that I didn’t think about you at all and I’m sorry for that. Very, very sorry. I don’t know how those TV show people found out about that video, and I don’t kn
ow how they got my name, but I sure as shit—sorry—didn’t send it to ’em. Anyway, I’m hopin’ you can forgive me and that when I get outta here, I can make it up to you both, and to Miss Vicky.”

  My mother and I are too overwhelmed to speak. Fortunately, Vicky takes over for us. “Of course we forgive you, honey, and you don’t have to do a single thing to make it up to us besides gettin’ yourself well enough to get out of this place. No offense, Dr. Corning.”

  “That’s exactly what I want, too,” the doctor nods.

  “I’m sad or mad these days, and there’s nothin’ in between. I don’t know why I trashed that bar and beat up those guys. The brain doc says sometimes I make bad decisions because I feel like I’m always gonna be sad or mad and that’s all there’s ever gonna be.”

  “I know how that feels,” I say. “It sucks.”

  Everyone in the room looks at me, including the guard.

  Gabe grins. “You’re right about that, miss. It sure does suck.”

  Dr. Corning checks her watch. “Is there anything else you want to say, Gabe?”

  Gabe stands and takes my hand. I think he’s going to shake it but he just holds it. “Your daddy was a good man, and funny too—made everybody laugh. And he was real proud of you and your brother. He showed pictures of you to anyone who would look at ’em. Said you were both smart as whips. And you were goin’ places. Big places.”

  I can’t reply—I’m afraid I’ll cry, and that might be a bad thing to do to Gabe. I nod and smile as best I can. I can feel my mother trying to hold it together next to me. Vicky comes to the rescue again.

  “Thank you for talking to us, Gabriel,” Vicky says. “I’ll be back to check on ya tomorrow, okay, hon?”

  Gabe says goodbye, and the guard and Dr. Corning lead him out of the room.

  “Did you get what you needed for your project, Rosalita?” Vicky asks quietly once they’re gone.

  I lean forward, put my head on the table and cry for all of us.

  *

  Later, back at Vicky’s, after my mom has gone to bed, Vicky is doing my hair in the middle of her living room. This is something she’s been waiting to do for a while now, since the first time she sent me a picture of big Texas hair and I said I didn’t think my hair could do that. She told me she could set me right in a heartbeat.