by Kylie Key
"All his things? Will he be needing them?" He pointed to a door to the left of the television.
"In here?" Damon asked, as he stepped away from me.
"Yeah, that's his room," Mr Keneally growled, now impatient with us.
Damon opened the door. It wasn't a room, but a closet. I moved closer to take a look. Malachi's letterman jacket hung next to a denim jacket. Below that was a shelf with folded clothes on it, jeans, t-shirts, underwear, socks. At the bottom was a cardboard box. I stooped down to go through the contents, a pair of black sneakers, some X-box games, old controllers, chargers, school books, a football.
I took his letterman jacket off the hanger and picked up the football and a laminated photo of his football team.
"What about his room? Is there anything else in his room?" Damon asked.
"That is his room." He pulled a packet of cigarettes from the side of his chair and fumbled with a lighter.
"His bedroom?"
Mr Keneally nodded to the couch we'd been sitting on. I felt numb. Malachi slept on a couch. Malachi didn't have a room of his own. His total belongings barely filled a small closet. He hardly had two or three changes of clothes. I started to feel physically ill as wafts of smoke filled the room.
We tried to exit in a hurry with a wave and a goodbye, but Malachi's Grandpa called as we opened the screen door.
"Tell him I miss his mac'n'cheese." We both stopped sharply.
"His mac'n'cheese?" Damon asked.
"Yeah." Mr Keneally leaned forward in his seat, his voice cracking with an unexpected vulnerability. "I miss his cooking. He's a good cook. 'Cept for the green things he puts in it."
"Green things?"
"Yeah, small round green things."
"You mean peas?" Damon tried to suppress a laugh.
"Yeah, peas," his Grandpa scowled. "He's always sneaking those green things in it."
Damon and I smiled at each other. We both offered another wave.
"Tell him..." Mr Keneally wobbled as he stood, fighting to control his hand tremor. "Tell the boy I..." he croaked, clearing his throat loudly. "Tell him..." We waited in anticipation, as he squashed the butt of the cigarette into an upside down jar lid. He looked up and muttered, "Tell him to get well soon."
Damon and I glanced at each other, both of us realizing that was the most affection he would likely show. It brought instant pain to my heart.
"We will," Damon said, ushering me out and closing the door.
Mr Keneally was just an old man, an old man who drank and smoked and had ketchup stains on his shirt. An old man who missed his grandson.
We were quiet as I put the musty, smoky smelling jacket in the trunk. It wasn't until we were back on the main road that Damon spoke.
"Malachi must've made sure his Grandpa was eating his veggies," he said with a chuckle. "I feel like we should take him some groceries, he literally had no food in his house."
I was sitting there holding Malachi's football, staring at the photo. Malachi was standing at the end of the fourth row, his head semi bowed, his shoulder-length hair concealing his marked cheek, his body language screaming Don't look at me. My heartbeat was manic as I tried to absorb that Malachi's mother had abandoned him, that he slept on a couch, that he lived in a dump, that he had nothing.
I hadn't realized that Damon had pulled up to a store. He told me to wait and returned with a couple of bags of groceries, fruit, chips, crackers, ready-made meals, juice, donuts, cleaning products. He delivered it back to Mr Keneally's, racing in and out within seconds.
"What did he say?" I asked.
"Any beer?" Damon laughed.
"You're joking, aren't you? Did he really? Didn't he thank you?"
"He said thank you," Damon said, though I wasn't convinced he was telling the truth.
We talked the whole trip, trying to make sense of what had happened to Malachi on the day of the accident. We pieced together that Malachi must have gone home at lunch time, had the altercation with his Grandpa, gone back to work in a highly strung state, and crashed his car on the way to football.
We didn’t know whether Malachi’s car had accidentally skidded on a slippery road or if he’d been angry with his Grandpa and lost control.
Whatever the case, it seemed a blessing that Malachi had no memory of it.
I didn't want to take away from Damon's first day at college, so I made him promise that we wouldn't discuss Malachi's situation when Mom and Dad arrived. I told him I'd fill them in on our trip back.
Though, when the time came, I couldn't. Mom was having a meltdown about leaving Damon, a perfectly capable eighteen year old, and even Dad had gotten all teary eyed in the final hugs. Lumbering them with news of Malachi's life would be inappropriate.
It was after midnight when we arrived home and as tired as I was, sleep wouldn't come. Impulsively, I jumped out of bed and went to my walk-in wardrobe. I counted 15 pairs of jeans, 37 pairs of shoes and eight caps. And I never ever wore caps!
The next morning I texted my friends: How many pairs of jeans do you have?
Ainsley: 22, but I think one is yours or Tree's?
Ella: 6, why? Do you wanna borrow?
Selina: 11
Trieste: 24, and I ordered a new pair online last night.
It was a revelation that rocked me to my core - 78 pairs of jeans between five girls.
But I didn't have time to ponder it, as I yawned my way through school and then raced up to the hospital to see Malachi. He was asleep. Jill said they'd put in an IV line for nourishment, as he hadn't eaten and barely woken in two days. I knew it wasn't a good sign, but I'd been told infections were commonplace for burns patients, and in theory, Malachi had passed the most dangerous phase of his condition. This was supposedly a minor setback.
I sat for awhile, my heart physically aching. I hated that Malachi had lived such a terrible life. I pictured a young Malachi trying to cut at his own skin, trying to remove the tattoo that branded him, that had given his life a path that he had never asked for. Thin white scars on his cheek, a reminder of an upbringing so sad, so messed up that I had trouble comprehending it.
I was exhausted by the time I got home, but I needed to find the truth. I went online, pulling articles about Malachi’s father. Travis Keneally was a longtime member of a motorcycle club called Web Warriors. They were based in the north of the state, a gang steeped in criminal activity. Travis Keneally had been tried and convicted for the murders of two members of a rival motorcycle gang. There were head shots of the victims, and one of Travis Keneally, his head shaved, the familiar web tattoo over his neck. Why on earth had he tattooed his son's face? I longed for some clarity and sense.
The men had been shot in the front of a suburban house in a drive-by shooting. It said there had been gang tensions between the two groups, that they were a retaliation for the death of a Web Warriors member. It shocked me. Malachi's father had murdered two people as a payback. It sounded like something out of a mafia movie. This had happened up north, so I wondered whether Malachi and his grandparents had moved down to be closer to the prison. It was the only logical conclusion I could draw.
Travis Keneally had been sentenced to two consecutive life sentences. He wasn't entitled to parole for twenty years, which was at least nine years away.
My heart felt heavy, like a giant weight pulling me down, my chest tight like I was suffocating. Malachi's life had been one of such horror and hardship, yet he now had to endure more pain and suffering. Why had this happened to him? Where was the fairness, the justice in that?
It was well after midnight and I was wide awake. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs. As I stood against the counter sipping on a glass of water, I noticed the light in Dad's office. It wasn't unusual for him to work late, especially if he had deadlines. He often said silence and zero distractions was when his creativity came alive.
It would be easy to climb back up the stairs and hope sleep would take me. I didn't want to interrupt Dad but as I stood
outside his door, the pain in my heart was so excruciating that I wondered if Malachi lived every moment like this, every second, with a pain that made you want to die.
I tapped and poked my head in. Dad's face startled; he'd clearly not heard me in the kitchen. My tears were flowing before I reached him, his arms opening as I threw myself onto him, my sobs uncontainable. And in his embrace I cherished every ounce of his smothering love and overprotective, fastidious parenting.
Because there were worse things, far worse things in this life.
CHAPTER 12
Spilling out my heart and soul to Dad felt like a burden taken away. I was no longer hiding the grisly facts that was Malachi's life. And then, as if things couldn't get any worse, Malachi's condition unexpectedly worsened.
He had spent most of the weekend asleep and sedated to keep the pain at bay. I'd watched over him, catching up on my school work. No one had been overly concerned at that stage and it was only the next afternoon, when I was at gymnastics, that alarm bells started ringing.
Lucy and I were stretching, catching up on each other's weekend. I was going to do some light conditioning with the girls and then help the coaches with some of the younger gymnasts.
My phone rang. I checked to see who it was, ready to decline it if it was any of my friends. Seeing Cassian's name flash on screen made me wonder if he needed a babysitter at late notice.
"Hello?"
"Hey Dominique, how's it going?" Even from that I could feel something wasn't quite right.
"I'm good," I said, "how are you? Are the kids okay?"
"Kids are fine, I'm fine." He paused, drawing in an audible breath. "Dominique, Malachi's not doing too well."
His words threw me, it took a moment to absorb what he had said, what he was implying. My feeble response was, "What? But?"
"His infection is worse," Cash's voice had turned soft and soothing while delivering the worst of news, "it's turned into pneumonia.”
My eyes watered. Pneumonia, from what I knew, wasn't fatal. It could be treated with antibiotics. "He's going to be all right?"
"I think you should come and see him," Cash said, his words sending a chill through my whole body.
"Okay," I said, about to explain that my training finished in ninety minutes.
"Can you come now?" My heart started thumping, the urgency in his voice terrifying.
"Yes," I said, "I'll come right now."
I threw my backpack over my shoulder and raced out in my leotard, waving at Lucy and telling the coach I had an emergency. I ran out to my car, ran, the first time since my injury, and I felt no pain, no buckling, no clicking. That alone should have been a cause of celebration, but all I could think about was Cassian's tone, Can you come now, the inference that time was of the essence.
My eyes were streaming as I got to the hospital, the forty minute drive a lifetime, my mind racing through every worst case scenario. That Malachi would be in a coma, that he wouldn't survive, that his foot was being amputated. Getting out of the car, I pulled on a pair of leggings and ran through the parking lot. I climbed stairs and bolted down the corridors, forgetting that my knee was in rehab.
Jill was next to Malachi's bed, which was surrounded by more machines than usual. Upon seeing me she hurried out, hugging me tightly, making me feel frightened. She exhaled in relief and patted my back, saying, "It's so good to see you sweetheart, so good."
She helped me into a gown, an extra precaution because of Malachi's infection, and double checked my mask was in position correctly. That's when Cassian arrived. He was already suited up. He too pulled me into a hug and my fears escalated.
The person lying on the bed in no way resembled the Malachi I had seen forty eight hours ago. I gasped, the shock impossible to conceal. Malachi had been slowly gaining weight but now he can't have been much more than a hundred pounds. He looked skeletal, like he was starving. His cheeks were sunken, making his spider web tattoo look distorted. His beanie looked a size too big. There was an oxygen tube in his nose and cannulas in his arm. Jill ushered me in beside the bed, while Cassian checked the monitors.
"Malachi," he said, "how are you doing?" It was obvious he didn't expect a reply. He pried open Malachi's eyes, one at a time and shone a torch in them. "I've got a visitor for you. I think you've been wanting to see her. Dominique is here."
Hope soared as I saw a flutter of his eyelids, but his eyes remained shut and probably that would happen to anyone, if their eyes were forced open and a light shone in them. Cash talked to Jill about medication and I crouched down next to the bed. There was no time for shyness or self consciousness.
"Malachi, it's Dominique." I picked up his hand carefully, holding it so I could clasp my fingers with his, the way we always greeted each other. It felt lifeless, weak, and I gripped it firmly.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and Jill whispered into my mask, "He'll get through this, darling, I know he will." But her eyes looked like they'd already lost hope, as if she didn't believe her own words.
"Malachi," I spoke with some authority now, knowing I had to be strong, not only for him, but for Jill as well. He'd become much more than a patient to her, that I could see. "Malachi, remember Benji Bear. How he was running cross country? Remember how his shoe came off and he had to stop to put it back on and everyone passed him? But he kept going. And then, remember how he tripped over the log and hurt his paw? But he got up and he kept running. And then remember how the little girl was tired, how Benji helped her to finish the race and they crossed the line together and they -" I stopped mid sentence as I felt his thumb move. "Malachi, can you hear me?" I asked with urgency. His thumb pressed against mine again. I turned to Jill, both crying and smiling, "He's squeezing my thumb!"
I reached my other hand for his head, resting it on his beanie. "Malachi, please hang in there for me, for Benji. We love you." His eyelids fluttered, like he was giving his greatest effort in trying to open them. And then they did, a slow lift, his eyes murky and disoriented, like he couldn't understand what was happening.
Jill had joined Cassian on the opposite side of the bed, as had another doctor, an older Asian man.
"Malachi, sweetheart," she said, "you listen to Dominique, you hang in there." Malachi's eyes tracked to Jill's voice and his lips tried to part. "Don't talk sweetheart," she directed, "you just rest. That's all you need to do."
Cash and the doctor were having a discussion in the background but I was focused solely on Malachi's face. He tried to move his head, so I took my hand away. His eyes flicked across to me, but then straight back to Jill. He jerked his head in her direction, once, twice, his eyes looking to the pillow. Jill smiled and nodded and her hand reached under the pillow. She pulled out a Benji Bear book. It was Benji Bear Plays Baseball, one of the first stories I'd read him. My heart melted, knowing he kept it under his pillow.
Malachi angled his head back in my direction but his eyes had closed. His fingers pressed ever so slightly against mine, but I imagine it was all the strength he could muster.
“So, this is our angel who reads the stories?" the Asian doctor said in a southern accent. Jill nodded. "Benji Bear is certainly a fighter, isn't he?" I didn't know who he was talking to and clasped Malachi's hand tighter.
I reached for Benji, who was sitting on the bedside cabinet and wrapped Malachi's hand around him and I started reading the story. It could have been my imagination or wishful thinking, but it seemed like Malachi's body relaxed, as I read the words he'd heard a hundred times before.
And there, tucked between the last page and the back cover was a little green note. Malachi had written: I hope you get your gymnastics scholarship Dominiqe, and all your dreams come true.
My heart surged, completely filled with love. Malachi, with his life hanging in the balance, was thinking about me. He wanted me to be happy, he wanted the best for me. I rested my head next to Benji, the three of us intertwined.
And I wept.
For a selfless boy, a boy who deserved a lif
e better than he'd been dealt, a boy who had made his way into my heart and given me the greatest gift of all, the ability to love.
I didn't want to leave the hospital but Mom and Dad came by, and Dad drove my car home while I went with Mom. I didn't want to go to school the next day, but Mom said I could stop in to see Malachi in the morning and then go back again in the afternoon. She rattled off her Education is very important speech.
Malachi was asleep in the morning but I read him a Benji story anyway, hoping that hearing my voice might give him comfort. Angie brought me in a coffee and shared my bagel. She had said his stats had been stable through the night, so I felt positive going off to school.
I spent the lunch period in a state of anxiety. I was unable to get in touch with Cassian for an update. I tried to convince myself this was a good thing, surely if Malachi's condition had deteriorated, someone would let me know. I had no appetite for the wilted salad on my tray and couldn't concentrate on the conversations happening around me.
And because my friends didn't know about my love for Malachi, I couldn't share my worries with them.
The thing is, I'd wanted to, so much. I wanted to shout out to the world how much I loved Malachi, but I was under no illusion that it would be easy, that he would be welcomed with open arms.
Malachi was different from us, he would be judged — for his tattoo, for his gang connections, for his incarcerated father, for being poor.
And I would be judged — for loving him.
So it had been easier to keep Malachi a secret.
Racing off after school, the girls assumed I was going to gymnastics. I didn’t correct them. I had brought the rest of the Benji Bear books, and I had my iPad, thinking that we could watch some videos or a movie, that it might be a good way for Malachi to relax and recover.
But Malachi's room was a hive of activity with Jill and another nurse bustling around, as well as another doctor, a man with white hair under his cap. Jill had given me a wave so I started to suit up.
Then, suddenly there was a flurry of monitors beeping and a nurse bolted in from the reception area. I stood back to get out of her way, hearing her talk into the phone. Somebody else arrived pushing a machine. Jill waved me in when she opened the door, her arm going around me for a moment.
