by Laura Ward
I met the paramedics outside as they were opening the back door for the ambulance. “I’ll show you the way. Spinal cord injury, complete C1 quadriplegic. Abnormal and rapid breathing, most likely respiratory distress. He’s had pneumonia before, looks like that might be happening again.” The paramedics gathered information and we moved the stretcher into the elevator.
Yes, we had dealt with my father’s health complications many times before. While we never got used to the fear or uncertainty, we knew what to brace for.
How long the rest of his life would be, we had no idea. Doctors told us that once he lived his first full year on a ventilator, with proper care and therapy he could live another twenty years. Possibly more.
And we were approaching nineteen years. With no therapy besides what we did at home with him. Without private insurance, we relied on Medicaid to help care for my father. But there were co-payments, procedures that were deemed “optional” and not covered, resulting in endless medical bills to pay.
My ears rang, and my vision blurred.
Papa’s health always came first but looming over all of us was the mountain of debt that kept growing day by day. I couldn’t let my emotions bubble over. I screamed inside, boiling over until I was ready to lash out and physically hurt something. Or someone. I had to do something, to act. Hearts aside, feelings aside, my father was my only priority.
Chapter Seventeen
Aveline
“I’M SORRY. I shouldn’t have left you.” Ricky texted.
Followed by, “Can we talk? I’d like to apologize.”
I wanted to respond to his messages. My fingers hovered over the screen on my phone, ready to follow my instinct to forgive and forget. But something in my gut held me back. Self-preservation took over and engulfed me.
“Okay, no response. See you in class?”
I contemplated skipping class. Like I somehow knew seeing him in person would shatter my resolve. Instead, I went to the top row of the auditorium, a place where few students sat. I imagined no one wanted the distance from Dr. Redmond. Her lectures kept students on the edge of their seats, but today even the lure of Dr. Redmond couldn’t stop me from hiding. Today, my embarrassment won.
Slinking into the seat, I opened my laptop and focused on reading through my class notes, drowning out the sounds of classmates settling in all around me. The lull of the muffled voices relaxed my nerves. I focused on my studies and not the rolls and waves of my stomach.
Without looking up, I immediately knew he was in the classroom. My body heat rose, and I licked my lips. Even after he hurt me badly, I couldn’t ignore the visceral reaction he caused in my body. I glanced up over the screen, my heart pounding as my vision locked on him. He stood at the base of the stairs, next to row one, seat one, my original favorite chair.
Clad in his usual jeans, t-shirt, black leather jacket, and boots, he grasped his backpack in one tightly fisted hand. His knuckles were white from the tension in his grasp. His jaw was taut, angled out and clenching. His eyes narrowed into slits as he scanned the auditorium. Finally, after searching row by row, he spotted me. The hard look in his eyes eased, but his lips remained pressed into a flat line. He trudged up the stairs before standing next to me, peering down.
He rubbed at his jaw with his free hand, almost as if he was willing it to soften. “May I sit next to you?” His voice was rough and raw.
Shrugging, I moved my knees to the side to allow him to pass by.
He settled into his seat, taking out his notebook and pen before turning to me. “Talk to me, Aveline. Let me apologize.” His eyes were wide and pleading, his tone defeated.
I shook my head, tearing my gaze away from his face. Looking at him caused physical pain behind my eyes. His handsome, rugged face showing this level of emotion was tough to process.
“Good morning, class. I hope you all enjoyed your weekend. Let’s get started.” Dr. Redmond stood in front of the lectern, sporting her usual pantsuit, this time in a deep red color. “This is one of my favorite topics to discuss. We’ll be producing a major project from this material for the remainder of the semester. Today we begin our study of social class and its effect on personality. Michener is our best renowned source for this study. Our readings and focus will involve his research findings and principles.”
Dr. Redmond moved away from her notes, walking along the length of the stage. “To simplify it, I call this our study of class warfare. Ladies and gentlemen, we are exposed to the issue of class every day of our lives. It’s focused on in the media, it impacts advertising and our consumer habits. Truly, there isn’t a facet of our lives not affected by the class of society that we define ourselves with. Class impacts every decision we make, and it is the context in which we shape ourselves. As time passes by, the gulf between the rich and the poor only seems to widen.”
I tensed, the reality of how different my lifestyle was from Ricky’s shone like a beacon of light between our seats.
Dr. Redmond clicked a pointer and the screen behind her illustrated a sheet of notes. She handed papers to several students in the front row and the stacks were passed around the room. “For this project that will comprise fifty percent of your final grade, you will study a person from a different class.”
Murmurs picked up as students whispered amongst themselves. “Look,” Dr. Redmond held up her hands. “This is not comfortable. I get it. You have to openly ask someone: ‘What class do you identify yourself as? Working class? Lower middle? Middle? Upper middle? Upper class?’ None of this is easy or simple. It’s the entire point of the project. There are huge differences in class that I want you to discover.
I would like you to visit one another’s homes. You will ask each other tough questions. How many friends do you have? How much support do you get from family? Explore health. When you or a family member are sick or injured, how do you get help? From family? From the government? Explore familial occupations. The idea that occupations are the source of income or lack thereof cements class status; you need to explore this and explain your point of view. You will learn consumer habits, stereotypes, and their prejudices. You will know this person inside and out.”
Dr. Redmond sauntered back to her podium, placing her hands on both sides. “Your project is to describe from your findings how social class effects personality.’” She clicked to a new slide. “I’ll give you the rest of today’s class time to mingle and chat. Find the person in the room as different as possible from you. Be open. Be brave. Be ready to learn as much about yourself as you do about them.”
She gathered her papers into her arms, leaning her face closer to the microphone. “This is one project you will remember the rest of your life.”
With that she exited the stage and the dull murmurs escalated into loud, excited shouts. People stood scanning the room, eager to assess classmates and begin the process of finding a partner.
I closed my laptop, packing my bag and preparing to join the melee.
“Aveline?” Ricky angled in his chair to face me. “Work with me on this project. I’m the definition of working class poor. I get the strong feeling that upper class might be an understatement for you. We are as different as night and day. Let’s do this together.”
“No,” I breathed. I couldn’t handle the proximity to him. I couldn’t stave the agony of embarrassment every time I was around him, knowing I had tried to be brave and put my heart on the line only to be shut down and abandoned. No, my heart couldn’t handle it.
A student approached our row, empty save for our two seats, a small, hopeful smile on his face. Ricky looked over his shoulder, and up into the young man’s face. “No,” he barked, and the guy’s eyes widened before he turned to hurry down the stairs.
“Ricky!” My voice was squeaky, and I stood to catch the guy. I could be partners with anyone in this room but Ricky. “Wait!” I called out, but the guy was gone. I’d heard Ricky say no, but I hadn’t seen his face. If Ricky had an angry scowl on it like I supposed he did
, no one would be brave enough to come back up here.
His big warm hand clasped mine. “Please. Give me a chance to explain. To apologize. Let’s do this project together and hopefully end up understanding each other better.” His eyes were bright and pleading, his lips curved into a tentative crooked grin.
“I want to know you better, but more than that, I want you to know me. I’ve never asked anyone to get to know me before, but I’m asking you. I think if we take this time and find a way to understand where we come from and who our families are, each of us will end up stronger in the end. Please. Say yes.” His grip on my hand tightened and his eyes searched mine as he waited for my response.
Every cell in my body screamed no. Not to agree. To stay smart. Stay protected. Stay safe. But my heart. My heart whispered yes. That in the end, if my heart would be stronger, then working with Ricky was worth any pain that I met along the way.
“Okay.” I swallowed hard, my mouth dry and gravelly. “I’ll be your partner.”
Ricky blew out a breath, his eyes closing for a second. He opened them, relief taking over his. He nodded. Determination gleamed in his eyes and he squeezed my hand once before letting it go. “Thank you, Aveline. Thank you.”
* * *
RICKY FOLLOWED BEHIND me as I walked to my car. My stomach flipped and turned with each step I took. I wanted to speak to him. I wanted to ask why he left me in Manny’s. Why he couldn’t be with me the way I’d hoped. Why he sat next to me in class. And why he begged to be partners.
I ignored my desires and willed my stomach to settle. Instead, I focused on each step forward. With each breath I took, I grew stronger. I had to protect my heart—a heart that had never experienced romantic love before and I now knew would never with the man behind me. I wanted to experience some of life with Ricky, that much was true. But I would not allow myself to get hurt again. We could complete our project and I’d move on. To another class, a job, or the same monotony of my life. No matter the path I chose, the one promise I repeated in my mind and heart was that it would not include Ricky Martinez.
Chapter Eighteen
Ricky
AVELINE WALKED BRISKLY in front of me, her puffy black winter coat protecting her from the winter wind. Her legs reminded me of willowy tree branches, her tight black leggings and knee high brown boots highlighting just how small her frame was. She looked over her shoulder once, adjusting her brown glasses farther up her nose as she made sure I was still there. Following her.
Why was I following her? I had already told her, and more importantly myself, that we had no place together. Yet, I stalked after her, a strange deep need to make sure she was safe consuming me.
She placed her bag in the trunk, stopped, and straightened her back. I wondered if she was thinking about speaking to me. God, I wanted her to, but I also hadn’t thought through what to say if she did. Because if she opened up to me and asked the questions I wasn’t ready to answer, I would really be up shit’s creek. I couldn’t be honest, but I couldn’t lie to her either.
She opened the door to her car, climbed inside, shut it, and started the engine. My breath rushed out in a relieved puff of air and I tracked her car the entire way out of the garage before I walked to my bike.
Backing out of my space and revving my engine, I accelerated, turning sharply on the corners and feeling adrenaline course through me.
The pressure of Papa’s medical worries weighed on me like a thousand-pound rock. As soon as I understood Dr. Redmond’s class project, hope sparked. This could be the chance I needed. I could get into her home and meet her parents or get information that I could use to contact them again and get the money we needed.
I could introduce her to Papa. I could explain that her mistake, while unintentional, caused all of his problems. I could demand help from her and her family.
My desire to merely be around her was just as important to me. As much as I fought it, she drew me in. The darkness inside me grumbled loud and low, and my chest physically hurt. What was I doing? I had to stop thinking about the pretty little pixie girl. I gunned the engine, pulling into the parking lot of the bike shop in record time.
Get the money, Ricardo. That’s what my family needed. That was all that really mattered anyway.
* * *
I TEXTED AVELINE later that day.
“Can we get together tomorrow for the project?”
She wrote back a minute later. “That works. Should I come to you?”
“No, let me come to you first. 2:00?”
“Sure. I’ll text you my address in the morning.”
I put my cell down on the coffee table, my fingers tracing the grooves and watermarks etched into the surface as I tried to survey the room through Aveline’s eyes. I never imagined bringing her here. Hell, most of the guys who I was closest to in the world had never been here. They’d pick me up and I’d run down to their car, hoping like hell no one ever asked to use the bathroom. It wasn’t so much that I was embarrassed by where we lived. More pervasive was the fear on behalf of my family. If any of them saw the pity that I had to believe would be in my friend’s eyes… that just might break something inside of me.
Mom sat rigid in a high-backed kitchen chair in front of Papa, pulling his left leg straight and then up and down and around, making circles as she stimulated blood flow to prevent blood clots. Papa had been released from the hospital yesterday. They’d administered the medicine he needed for his infection and advised us to seek more therapy.
Therapy insurance didn’t cover, of course.
The couch I reclined on was threadbare. It had been in this room, in this spot, all my life.
An ancient television was housed on a bookcase across the room. No flat screens had crossed this threshold. We had the old school bubble screens with a small bare-bones cable box attached to the top. That one luxury allowed my dad to watch television during the day, Univision solely playing Spanish news, and telenovela soap operas.
Next to me, Marcela sprawled across a recliner, her books open in her lap, but her eyes closed, a small snore escaping from her open mouth.
“Mama, I’ll be right back to help get Dad in bed.”
Mama nodded, a small hum of acknowledgment as she focused on my father.
I moved Marcela’s books off her lap, stacking them on the coffee table. Scooping her into my arms, I carried her into our room.
Our room.
All three of us.
What would Aveline say about that? In a two-bedroom apartment, there was no other choice.
The room was dark as I eased open the door. Teresa lay on the top bunk, her body rolled into a ball. Moving down onto one knee, I eased Marcela’s body onto the bottom bunk, pulling her covers up to her shoulders.
My bed was mere feet away and I settled on the edge, my elbows on my knees as I scrubbed my fingers down my face. I stared at that bunk, where my sisters had slept their whole lives, long since having outgrown it.
We all sacrificed in the ways we could to make this family work. My sisters poured themselves into their studies, knowing I’d been given a scholarship to college. That was the expectation for them as well. And with college came high paying jobs. The unspoken words in this home were that we would take care of one another always. In all ways.
Mama and I worked, and the girls ignored boys, parties, sports, and fun. Instead, they studied, cooked for the family, cared for our father, and anything else necessary.
How I wish I could help them live a better life. A life like Aveline’s.
The rush of familiar anger surged through me, but I swallowed it down, packing it away for another time.
And I stood, moving back into the family room to help move my father into his bed for the night, making sure his ventilator was working and his catheter clear so that his basic comforts were met.
Aveline would see all of this. Contemplating her reaction scared me as much as it filled me with wonder.
Chapter Nineteen
Ricky
AVELINE LIVED IN downtown Indianapolis. Her street was filled with large stone homes built in the early 1900s. The homes resembled small castles, some with turrets, others with stone lions perched on either end of the driveway. There were wrought iron gates and fancy security systems. I imagined cooks inside kitchens and butlers answering front doors.
But when I knocked at 1100 Meridian Drive, Aveline was the one to open the front door. My breath caught in my throat as I took her in.
She looked much more casual than I had ever seen her in class. Gray sweatpants that were humungous but adorable on her. Pink fuzzy socks peeked out from the floppy ends of the pants. Her fitted pink thermal hugged her small perky breasts, and I tore my eyes away, my nerve endings tingling at the sight. Her same glasses perched on her nose, but in the bright light of the foyer I could see her gray eyes sparkling behind the frames. Brown waves of hair hung down her shoulders and I itched to touch the smooth, glossy locks.
“Hey.” I stepped into the house, slipping my sunglasses off my face and into my pocket. Aveline shut and locked the door behind me. “You look… nice… er, cute… I mean.” I coughed into my hand, feeling my face flush. What was wrong with me? There would be no flirting. That wasn’t why I was here.
Aveline let out a surprised giggle. “I thought if we weren’t going anywhere, I might as well be comfy.” Her eyes traveled from my face down my body, her cheeks flushing pink when she landed on pecs, traveling lower still to my crotch.
“No, I mean yes. You should be comfortable. I pretty much always wear the same thing, huh?” My laugh was hard and awkward. Joking about fashion was not my forte.
“Sure, but if you look like that in jeans and boots, who cares? And you have different colored shirts. You change it up. White, grey, black… I think I saw a blue one, once.” Aveline babbled. She finally stopped herself and froze, her grey eyes widening.
