Carry Me Home

by Jessica Therrien

  At first I don’t know whether to swing or cover. I reach up to protect myself, but there are too many points of contact. The rush of adrenaline is intense. It blocks the pain, but there is a fiery need in me to get away. I try and kick or punch, feeling one or two connect, but the girls are everywhere. An elbow slams against my temple. My head splits and my ears ring. I go down.

  Every infinite minute of being the enemy feels like it’ll never end.

  Someone’s shoe stomps my thigh. Others strike my ribs. I heave and gag until I can’t breathe. But that kind of terror turns me into a resilient kind of crazy. The kind of rabid-mad that is born of desperation. I scrape and flail until I’m on my feet, pulling hair and swinging my fists, making contact with whatever I can. I don’t realize I’m screaming until Toño calls them to a stop.

  It ceases the moment the girls hear his voice, and I’m left there shaking and crazed, my breath dragging in and out of my lungs in a feverish effort to return to its normal rhythm. I pant and cry, as softly as I can, but it’s hard to deny my body the relief of all-out sobbing. My head hurts. My brain smashes against my skull with the pulse of too much pressure. I taste blood in my mouth, though no one has touched my face. Now that it’s over, the pain of it all rushes to the surface and makes me want to vomit. I feel like I could die.

  Why am I here? Why am I doing this?

  “She’s in,” Toño says, and the cheers of the group shock my senses and make me tense up.

  They all rush me, and at first I’m terrified it’s about to start again, but instead they hug me and pat me on the shoulder all at once. Each hand on my back or squeeze around the shoulders rocks me with pain, but they’re so happy. Their laughter and cheering is contagious, it flows into me, filling me with a strange sense of pride and belonging. I can’t help my smile when I see their encouraging faces. I even start to laugh.

  “You good. You good.”

  “You’ll only be fucked up for a week,” another says.

  It hurts to breathe. It hurts to move my head. The slightest brush of my hair makes me flinch. But somehow in their buzzing embrace it feels like an accomplishment, like maybe it was worth it.

  “Check it. This chick’s crazy, Rona,” Rose Tattoo says as she re-ties her messy bun. Her half-smile makes me think that’s a good thing.

  Rona is one of the cigarette twins. The one with movie-star red lips and pinup-girl black locks that curl in perfect ringlets. Her makeup has been smeared by the brawl, but her hair only looks more beautiful in its wild state.

  “Fuck man.” She runs a finger along the edge of her mouth, cleaning up her lip gloss. “Got yous in the ribs real good, but you’re a feisty motherfucker. Fuckin’ ripped my hair out.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter, suddenly afraid. My whole body is trembling, and all I can think about is I hope they can’t tell. Then I shrug, trying to be nonchalant even though I’m pretty sure my legs have shoe print bruises on them and my ears are so swollen I can’t hear right.

  “Don’t be sorry, Guera,” one of the novias says in a voice that seems too nice. I can tell by the way she moves she’s of a higher rank. She purses her lips into a duck pout and slides in real close. She smells sweet, like candy. Her hair is a streaky blonde, but her skin is beach-tan brown and sparkles with glitter lotion in the light. She rests her arm on my shoulder and examines the egg-sized welt on my temple. “You one of us now.”

  She squeezes my cheeks together like an angry parent would a small child. For a moment I expect her to push me down, but she kisses me. Right on the mouth.

  The girls around us laugh and the mood lightens. Angel woots from the sidelines. “That’s my girl,” and the crowd mills together, returning to their Spanish conversations.

  “You did goooood, Guera,” Ro screams, sweeping me into a hug. By now the fear is gone. I don’t know why I feel so proud, so welcome, but I like it.

  “Thanks,” I laugh as Angel hands me an open bottle of tequila.

  “Time to celebrate, my little mama.”

  I take the bottle, feeling cool as I hold it. If I can handle a fight like that, I can handle a few drinks. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m so high on the moment. I’m Muhammad Ali. The main event.

  I tip back the bottle and almost die, it burns so much, but I keep my eyes on Angel and his warm brown skin. He keeps his eyes on me, too.

  That night I get to know all the girls in a drunken haze. Cynthia is the friendliest. She’s Filipina and child-sized. She says she’s not much of a fighter and seems new to the group. Lorena is the big girl, not much taller than me but almost three times as wide. Veronica is the one who kissed me. I was right. She’s “the queen,” as they say. Best fighter in the group. The cigarette twins are Rona and Kim. Then there’s rose-tattoo. Her name is CJ. She’s funny as shit.

  We all laugh and get drunk. The novias kiss their boyfriends with too much tongue and blow smoke into each other’s mouths. Leti sticks close to Angel, but he’s no longer being subtle about his interest in me. He keeps a hand on my bare thigh or an arm over my shoulders.

  I feel amazing.

  A group of us cluster in the corner passing the bottle of tequila around while telling stories, and Angel rubs my leg with his warm hand most of the night. He inches far too close to the hem of my shorts, but I let it happen.

  The bottle comes my way. I take another swig, too numb to be fazed by the burn anymore, and text my mom.

  Staying at Ro’s tonight. Getting pizza for dinner. Love you! Xoxo

  That’s the last thing I remember.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ruth

  I CAN FEEL LUCY stirring next to me. It wakes me up. I sigh, irritated at having to share an air mattress with someone I’m so mad at. We’ve been here for almost three weeks and it’s been a constant fight between us. All she does is complain, and any time Mom tells her she can’t spend the night at Rosa’s or has to be home by eight, she throws a hissy fit telling Mom how this is all her fault. That she’s selfish for abandoning Dad. I see right through it. Mom caves and she gets to do whatever she wants. It’s so manipulative. Tonight is the first night she’s slept next to me in days, and even the subtle bump of her leg against mine makes me angry.

  She shifts again, and I shove her with my elbow. “Stop moving so much,” I groan under my breath. Even in sleep she’s the sand in my sheets. I’m so tired of having to deal with her.

  The only response is the sound of her distressed breathing.

  My brow furrows as I listen, wondering what in the hell she’s doing. Trying to annoy me?

  “Lucy, what are you—” I sit up ready to push her off the mattress, and her still form bobs as I weigh down my side. She’s asleep, or pretending to be.

  I shove her shoulder. “Hey.”

  She gasps a terrified breath and shoots up to sitting, then scrambles to her hands and knees.

  “Whoa. Whoa,” I say, realizing she isn’t intentionally pushing my buttons. Her hands start shaking and fidgeting, like she’s blind and can’t figure out where she is. I grab them and make her face me. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  She shakes her head furiously. “I can’t breathe. I...” a desperate breath. “I can’t breathe.”

  “It was just a dream,” I tell her. Every ounce of anger vanishes at the sight of her troubled eyes.

  I help her to my grandpa’s brown plush recliner, and her nails dig into my arm as I pull away to get her some water. Her heavy breathing thickens into hiccupped sobs, and my heart speeds up like it can sense her distress, even from behind its cage of resentment. I pour the water and grab a paper bag, because that’s what they do in the movies.

  “Try and breathe. Can you breathe?” I ask, snapping on the lamp by the chair. I kneel down in front of her and puff up the paper bag, crunching the top into a small opening. “Breathe into this. It’ll help.”

  She takes it and obeys without question.

  “Slow deep breaths,” I say like I’m a doctor and I know what I’m doing.
>
  My shoulders relax as she sobs quietly. All we hear is the crinkle of the paper. Then the deep base of reggaetone music penetrates the thin walls as a low-riding Cadillac drives too fast past the trailer.

  “You okay?” I ask, handing her the water.

  She nods beneath the curtain of her flat-ironed hair.

  I pull her into a hug, but she’s quick to push away. “What happened?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” She rubs her index finger over her lips too many times and won’t look at me.

  “Well at least it’s over, huh?” I smile, trying to snap her out of it. “I hate dreams like that. The ones you think are real.”

  I rest my arm on her knees as she takes a sip of her water.

  She swallows and glances at Mom’s door. “Do you think anyone heard?”

  We both get quiet, listening for shuffling sheets or footsteps. Instead, Mom’s grizzly snore cuts through our silence, and I snort out a laugh.

  Lucy’s shoulders jump with laughter that I immediately try and shush. It doesn’t work. Mom’s snore gets louder and we both succumb to silent laugh attacks that are fueled by the other’s inability to stop.

  My eyes are still smiling when I notice a yellow bruise on the side of her head that had been hiding beneath her long bangs.

  “What happened to your head?” I reach for it, but she scoots away and scoops her hair from behind her ear so it falls just so.

  “Nothing. I just ran into the bathroom door.”

  I’m not stupid. “Did you get in a fight or something?”

  She rolls her eyes and pushes me out of the way with her legs as she stands up.

  “No, jeeez.”

  “Well sor-ry.” I cut the word in two with annoyance. “I guess I’m a jerk for being concerned. You don’t have to push me.”

  She slips into the air-bed like nothing ever happened and turns her back to me, leaving me to shut off the lamp.

  When I adjust the covers on my side of the mattress I glare at the back of her head, and pull the hand-sewn quilts over my shoulder.

  I close my eyes, trying to get back to sleep.

  “You can’t tell Mom, okay?” she whispers.

  “Tell Mom what?” I stay where I am, not bothering to open my eyes.

  She turns to face me again, and a rectangular beam of moonlight cuts through the curtains illuminating the apologetic downturn of her eyes.

  “Ro is teaching me how to fight. We’ve been practicing with each other...and her friends.”

  My laughter sputters out at the thought of a bunch of girls grappling in Rosa’s bedroom like they’re professsional wrestlers. “Okay...”

  “No. It’s serious fighting, like her and her friends are like trying to beat me up, and I’ve got to fight back—”

  “Beat you up?” I listen a little more carefully this time. “And you’re letting them? Are they hurting you?”

  I turn to face her, feeling more protective of her than angry.

  “Yeah, but it’s okay,” she says. “I want to learn to fight. I need to, you know? So I can defend myself. Did you know, back home, Erica Day came after me because she thought her boyfriend liked me? I had to run, like a scared little wimp.”

  “No,” I answer, realizing I don’t know as much about her as I thought I did. “I still don’t think you should be doing it.” The thought of her getting beaten up gives me a sick feeling in my stomach.

  She sits up. “You can’t tell, Mom. Please. Promise me,” she pleads. I can’t believe something this reckless and stupid is so important to her, but her searching eyes are waiting for me to seal this secret between us.

  “Fine,” I give in. “But if you come back with a black eye or something crazy I’m not going to lie for you.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t,” she says, seeming satisfied.

  She lays back down, but I watch the back of her head as she tries to sleep. I can’t stop picturing her getting punched in the face. I don’t know if telling on her will protect her or just break her trust.

  When my mind is finally quiet enough to doze off, I decide to keep her secret.

  And I feel her scoot a little closer.

  CHAPTER 6

  Mom

  TODAY I’M DETERMINED. Determined to do what, I don’t know. I just need to do something, anything to get me out of my parents’ trailer. After almost a month here, what used to feel cozy and comforting is starting to suffocate me.

  The girls are supposed to start school in six weeks, and I have no idea what I want to do or where we’ll be. I don’t want to think about it. I’m not ready to make those kinds of decisions.

  I pull on some sweats and tennis shoes and decide today will be the day I start my new exercise program. I grab my portable CD player and head out my parents’ sliding glass door to the busy San Jose street. The freeway nearby is a loud freight train of possibility. Being here, away from the isolation of small-town Massack, California, I feel like I can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone.

  It’s a poor part of the city. The cars that drive by as I walk down the littered sidewalk are dated and faded. I pass barbed wire fences and barred windows, but none of it scares me. My parents have lived here long enough that I’m desensitized to the shock of urban poverty. Instead, I feel a sort of kinship with the people here. Life is rough, but we’re in it together.

  As I walk, I listen to one of my favorite songs ask me questions like, when did I get so tired and how did my life end up without meaning?

  “Yeah,” I say to myself as I begin to sweat. “When did I get so tired?” I’m only thirty-seven, and I feel ancient.

  It’s hot outside, and my legs are starting to prickle and itch. Sweatpants were the wrong choice, but I don’t have the confidence for shorts. Despite the mid-July heat, the song urges me on, begging me to find my second wind. That’s exactly what I need, a second wind. When did I get so insecure? I used to feel capable, beautiful even.

  It’s still in me somewhere. I can be strong. I can stand up for myself. I left, didn’t I? Surely that sent a message. Maybe if I rediscover myself, Steve will really see me again. Despite his flaws, I do love him. We just have to get back to ourselves. He was drunk. He’s not perfect. I’ve made mistakes too. I’ve let myself go, gotten submissive and fat. Part of this is my fault. How can I expect him to love and respect me when I don’t love and respect myself?

  Maybe we can quit smoking together and he’ll cut the booze. It seems crazy to walk away from almost twenty years together. It’s so much loss. It means I failed. I’ll never get those years back.

  I smile as I fantasize about a new marriage where we can support each other’s dreams and rebuild. I’m going to call Steve, tell him I’m moving forward and getting on with the life I left behind. I’ll be the confident young woman he fell for.

  When we met, I was in college at San Francisco State. At nineteen, I was full of promise as a theatre major and loving life. He was a student at the Music Academy and it was love at first sight, two artists, young and vibrant. Before I knew it, my dream of heading to Broadway was pushed aside in favor of marriage and a family. It had been a long road that had landed us from the bustling city to that desolate town in the middle of nowhere, and my dreams had stayed on the shelf until this day.

  As I take them down and dust them off, I realize they have changed, partly because I know now, what I didn’t know then, that a career in theatre is pretty far-fetched, but as a teacher! I can do theatre and teach children to discover their passions and dreams. I am so excited by my decision that I practically run back to the house while my lumbering body protests. I have to call him.

  I enter the trailer, which is cool in comparison to the merciless heat outside. I’m drenched in sweat that chills my skin into goose bumps. My lungs are still working hard, and I take a minute to catch my breath. I don’t want to sound fat over the phone.

  With my mom and Ruth at the thrift store and Lucy at a friend’s, I have the trailer to myself. Even Dad is off play
ing poker at the Elks’ Club, so I’m able to sit and go over my practiced speech until I’m ready.

  The phone rings.

  “Yeeeello,” he answers cheerfully. I guess he’s enjoying this time without his family.

  I try not to be resentful. “Hey! It’s me.”

  “Look, Rachel. I said I was sorry. I meant it, too, okay? Either you’re coming home or you’re not.”

  I pause for a moment, recalling the last time we spoke and his so-called apology the day after we left. We agreed to take some time apart over the summer. It doesn’t seem to be helping. I can hear the loathing in his voice.

  “No, no, I just need to talk to you, to tell you something,” I say, ignoring the tension between us.

  “Can it wait? I was just about to jump in the shower.”

  My confidence begins to waver. I might not have the courage to say these things again.

  “No,” I answer. My heart flutters with a mix of fear and hope as I wait for him to say something. I pace back and forth going over in my head all the things I need to get out.

  “Fine. Hang on. Let me turn the water off.”

  He sighs heavily into the phone, clearly annoyed, but I hear the familiar squeak of the shower knob. At least he’s willing to listen.

  “I’m going back to school,” I blurt out.

  “You’re what?” He laughs so loud, I almost start to cry. “That’s the big news? And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

  “I’m....I’m quitting my job as a teacher’s aide so I can go to college full time and get my teaching credentials. I know it sounds crazy, but once school starts, the girls will be gone all day and I can get student loans and grants and scholarships, and—”