Hell to Pay

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Ryan leans against the polished granite countertop, watching her. “What is that?”

  “Tea.”

  “I thought tea came in bags.”

  “Not the good stuff. Want to try this?”

  “Nope. What is it, herbal?”

  “Regular old decaf. I can’t have herbal tea while I’m pregnant.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too risky. I read that there are herbs that can induce a miscarriage.”

  “Really? Do you think that’s why . . . ?”

  “No! I knew about that going into my first pregnancy. I never touched herbal tea. I was so careful about everything, but . . .” She sighs and shakes her head.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Lucy. You know better than that. Sometimes things just happen. You can do everything right, and you still just never know.”

  “Right. But I have to take charge of the things that I can.”

  “You’ve always been good at that.”

  She looks up at Ryan, surprised to hear the sincerity in his tone. He usually gives her a hard time about being a control freak. At the moment, though, he’s almost looking at her with admiration.

  “Sit down,” she tells him, gesturing at the stools along the breakfast bar. She busies herself cutting a lemon into wedges. After a few moments, she asks, “So . . . what’s up with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re here.”

  “I wanted to see the new place.”

  “But what else? It’s a Thursday and I don’t think you really forgot I’d be here alone. I feel like you want to talk to me about something.”

  He looks down at the beer bottle sitting on the counter, rolling it back and forth between his palms. Watching him, Lucy wishes things didn’t have to be so difficult for him. The poor guy really needs a break.

  “It’s her, right? Phoenix?”

  Ryan looks up sharply. “What makes you think that?”

  “I can read minds, remember?”

  When they were kids, there was a time when she had him—and Sadie, too—actually believing that.

  Ryan’s bittersweet smile tells her that he hasn’t forgotten those days—and that somewhere deep down inside, he might just still buy into her alleged psychic abilities.

  “What is it, Ry? Trouble with Phoenix?”

  “Not really.”

  Yes, really.

  She can tell. “Are you sure about that?”

  He hesitates. “It’s not her, exactly. I guess I just feel like no matter what I ever do, it’s like there’s some big, heavy dark thing hanging over my head. Like my life is supposed to be hard. And now that something good—something great—is finally happening to me, I feel like something’s going to go wrong. Like it’s got to. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “When do you stop feeling that way?”

  Maybe you don’t, Ryan. Maybe you never stop feeling that way.

  But Lucy won’t say that—even if it’s the truth—because, quite simply, she just doesn’t operate that way. She doesn’t do second-guessing, or misgivings, or anything that falls remotely into wishy-washy territory.

  Ryan needs her strength more than he needs her empathy.

  They’ve all needed her strength, all her life. Even Mom, who was shell-shocked after Daddy left, once told Lucy, “When it comes to you and me, I’m never quite sure who’s taking care of whom.”

  Mom was strong. But sometimes, Lucy was stronger—even as a kid. Stronger than all of them. Even Daddy.

  Stay strong, Lucy. Stay strong.

  I did, Daddy. I was. I am.

  Yes, and if he had taken his own advice and been strong enough to resist temptation, he never would have left Mom and started the deadly chain reaction that led to his death.

  “Lu?” her brother prompts.

  She realizes he’s waiting for her to say something—and not about their father’s failings.

  “Look, Ryan, you need to do everything in your power to stay in charge of your own life. If you love Phoenix, and she loves you, then make it work.”

  “That’s so . . . you.” He shakes his head. “You make it sound easy. You make it look easy. Everything you do. Even the hard stuff. I wish I could be more like you, Lu.”

  “We all have our problems, Ry. Even me.” She tries to say it lightly, but it doesn’t come out that way.

  “I really think everything’s going to work out for you. With the baby, I mean.”

  She swallows over the sudden ache in her throat. “I hope you’re right.”

  “What about me? Do you think it’s going to work out?”

  “For you?”

  “For me and Phoenix.”

  She wants to lie and tell him that she’s sure it will. It’s what he wants to hear. But what good would that do?

  “It’s hard for me to say without meeting Phoenix. I want to believe in this for you. Maybe when I get to know her, I’ll have a better sense of whether this is right for you. As it is, all I’ve got to go on is what you say.”

  And what you’re saying isn’t all that encouraging.

  “Yeah.” Ryan sighs. “Half the time I just wish I knew what she was thinking.”

  “It’s so funny—I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  “That you wish I knew what I was thinking?” he asks in surprise. At her nod, he says, “I’m telling you exactly what I’m thinking. That I want things to work out for me and Phoenix. We’re soul mates—that’s what she said.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “The moment we met, there was something about her that seemed familiar, and she said she felt the same way about me. She said it’s because our hearts recognized each other.”

  “Really.” Lucy can’t help but think that’s either a very sweet thing to say, or a load of bull, and Ryan isn’t the kind of guy who’d be able to tell the difference.

  “But sometimes,” he goes on, “she kind of shuts down, and gets all withdrawn, and I don’t know why.”

  “Well, if it’s any comfort—everyone does that,” Lucy assures him, her thoughts again going to Jeremy.

  He’s never given her any reason to worry that he might break down again someday, or commit another violent act . . .

  And anyway, what happened in the past stemmed from a childhood of abuse and neglect. He’s had years of therapy, and medication, too, and not a single violent incident since that second attack on La La fifteen years ago.

  Still . . . there are times when he’s a million miles away, and she can’t help but wonder what’s going on in his head.

  “Trust me,” she tells Ryan, back in the sage older-sister mode. “Everyone needs space.”

  “Even you guys?”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “No! I’m serious.”

  She peers at his face. He does look serious. Dead serious.

  “Yeah. Even us. I love Jeremy, and he loves me, but we get moody and we argue and believe me, we don’t want to spend every waking minute together. He has his stuff and I have mine.”

  “Do you ever feel like you have no clue what he’s thinking about?”

  “Sure, sometimes.”

  Then again, she usually knows what he’s thinking about: the past. Sometimes she wonders if he’ll ever be able to let it go.

  For the most part, he’s moved on, yet every Friday morning, he still feels duty-bound to go to Parkview.

  Not last week, though, she recalls. Or the week before that.

  She’d been surprised when he twice opted out of his weekly visit, but didn’t want to question his decision to skip it or make a big deal about it, lest he feel guilty.

  Maybe the break in routine is a sign that her husband is trying to loosen those ties at last—or at least, lessen
the overwhelming sense of obligation to a woman who, while she might once have been as much a victim as he is, caused him so much pain.

  “Lu?”

  She looks up to see her brother watching her, undoubtedly waiting for more sage sisterly advice. Ha.

  “Look, Ry, knowing what someone else is thinking—that’s not the point. It’s never going to happen. You need to make sure you have more going on in your life than just your relationship, and then it won’t matter so much.”

  “I do,” he replies, then, shaking his head with resignation, amends, “No, I don’t. Ever since she came along—no, before she even came along—I’ve kind of been feeling . . . like there’s something missing.”

  “Well, maybe it isn’t about her. Maybe it’s some part of yourself that you lost a long time ago, and you need to find it again.”

  Ryan gives a case-closed shrug and pushes aside his empty beer bottle. “Maybe. I guess I should get going. It’s a long ride home on the train.”

  “You can stay here in the guest room if you want,” she offers.

  “Are you worried about being here alone at night?”

  “Me? Are you kidding?” Seeing his expression, Lucy wishes she could take back her response—or at least, tone it down.

  Maybe Ryan wants to feel needed. Or maybe he just wants to think that he’s not the only one who feels vulnerable.

  Everyone is afraid of something, she wants to tell him. Maybe being alone at night isn’t something that scares me but there are other things . . .

  Things she doesn’t talk about. Ever. To anyone. That’s just not her style.

  “If you stay,” she tells Ryan, “we can make popcorn and watch a movie.”

  “That’s okay. I have to go.”

  She gets his coat, walks him to the door, and gives him a quick hug good-bye.

  “Keep me posted, okay, Ry?”

  “I will. You too.” He rests a hand on her stomach for a moment, and she looks up at him in surprise.

  She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t have to.

  Maybe he can’t read Phoenix’s thoughts, but he obviously can read Lucy’s.

  “Good game, guys.” Jeremy high-fives the members of the basketball team—all adolescent boys whose wayward paths have intersected here, at the Bruckner Center for Behavioral Health. “Did everyone remember to fill out the menu choices for the holiday party Monday night? They were due yesterday.”

  Scattered affirmative head bobs, but far more dismayed head slaps accompanied by under-the-breath curses. Not surprising with this crew, though they’re good kids at heart. Most of them, anyway. Jeremy doesn’t judge those who aren’t, too well aware that they’ve been through hell and back in their short lives.

  That’s why they’re here, all of them.

  It’s why Jeremy’s here, too. He’s been to hell—and back—and wants to ensure that the boys’ hellish journeys are also round-trip.

  He finds it cathartic, most of the time, working with troubled kids. Maybe he can’t quite relate to everyone’s specific set of issues, but the big picture is pretty universal for kids like these. Jeremy knows only too well the feeling of being unloved and alone in the world. Knows, too, that he can’t save all of them.

  In the five years he’s been working here at the center, Jeremy has lost a couple of kids.

  Lost, as in dead. Usually on the streets, victims of drugs or violence.

  Lost, as in incarcerated.

  And sometimes, just plain lost, as in fallen off the face of the earth.

  But so many of them go on to make something of themselves, to find their way back into the world beyond the group home.

  It looks like Dylan is going to have a good chance to do just that. This morning, Jeremy concluded that his grandfather will be a fit guardian and started the necessary paperwork to move Dylan out of here and in with Mr. Purtell. Not in time for Christmas, but at least they can spend it together, and light the tree.

  “I can’t find my form—do you got another one?” asks Miguel, the scrappy runt of the group. His baby face features and gap-toothed smile make him look like a first-grader, but he’s eighteen and lost a front tooth and a molar in a run-in with a rival gang member.

  “I have them in my office,” Jeremy tells him. “Come on upstairs with me. How about the rest of you? Anyone else lose their form?”

  Yep—just about everyone else lost his form, too. Surprise, surprise.

  Trooping out of the gym behind Jeremy, they trash-talk and jostle one another—for the most part, good-naturedly, though Jeremy keeps a wary eye on a couple of particularly aggressive kids.

  He leads the rowdy pack up the echoing staircase and down the deserted corridor to his office—a dusty, cluttered, low-ceilinged shoe box of a room. He notices that Jack Evans, the fellow caseworker who shares the office with him, has draped a limp tinsel garland over the doorway in an attempt at festiveness.

  It reminds him, yet again, that he and Lucy decided they aren’t going to get a Christmas tree this year. Looking at the boys in his office—boys who are, for the most part, all alone in the world, just like Jeremy once was—he wonders, once again, if that’s a mistake.

  Maybe he and Lucy should do it up this year, bigger and better than ever. After all, they have each other, a roof over their heads, and a baby on the way. What’s not to celebrate?

  He still has to get Lucy’s gift, too—and he’s running out of time, not to mention cash. He’ll have to charge it. She told him not to get her anything, but there’s no way he’ll agree to that. Especially since, when they were packing to move, he spotted several wrapped packages with his name on them.

  Leave it to Lucy to have everything done in advance.

  And leave it to me to wait until the last minute.

  He’ll have to figure out Christmas later, though. Right now, he’s dealing with a gaggle of lanky teenage boys in a very small space, and the sooner he gets them out of here, the better.

  “Fill these out right here, right now,” he tells them as he hands out forms and pens. “All you have to do is choose what you want to eat, chicken cutlet or vegetarian pasta.”

  “What are the choices?”

  “Are there any other choices?”

  “How am I s’posed to know what I want to eat next week?”

  “Wait, what do we do?”

  Somehow, Jeremy manages to keep his patience and answer all the questions—many, more than once. His head is starting to pound as he collects the completed forms, another painstaking process. He tells the guys they’re free to go but most linger, shooting the shit, accidentally toppling the pencil holder and a desk lamp that Jeremy catches before it hits the floor.

  “Guys, get moving! Back to your rooms! Get your homework done.”

  “Ain’t got no homework tonight,” says Eddie, the team forward, who towers over the rest of the pack, including Jeremy.

  “Then—here’s a brilliant idea for you—go read a book.”

  “Ain’t got no—”

  “If you want to borrow one . . .” Jeremy gestures at the crowded bookshelf beside his desk.

  “Nah, I’m good.” Eddie flashes a good-natured grin and disappears into the hall.

  “Good. Great. Go. All of you! Go!”

  Finally, they do. Everyone but Miguel, who lingers in the doorway. “Got a second, Coach?”

  Coach—it’s what they all call him, though he only fills that role on Thursday nights during basketball and baseball seasons. It’s his favorite part of his job, but he wonders whether that’s going to change when he has a child of his own waiting at home.

  It’s not necessarily that these boys are surrogates for the children he’s lost—or the children he hopes to have. But they do help to fill a certain void, and sometimes he worries he won’t have as much time and affection to give them after the baby is
born.

  “What’s up, Miguel?” he asks the man-boy who stands before him wearing an inscrutable expression.

  Miguel pulls the door closed, and something clicks in Jeremy’s brain. Only fleetingly does he entertain the thought that this kid—who’s been in and out of juvenile detention facilities for violence, among other things—might be up to no good.

  No. Not him. Not here and now, anyway. Not with me.

  Jeremy has learned, in his life—particularly in this work—to trust his gut instincts about people. His gut tells him that despite his past record, Miguel’s a good kid at heart. When you’re young and unloved, you do ugly, terrible things in order to survive.

  Miguel did.

  So did I.

  Realizing that it’s utter desolation he’s seeing in those big black eyes, Jeremy comes around his desk to sit on the edge facing Miguel, who stands with his hand still on the knob of the closed door.

  “You okay, dude?” Jeremy asks, though it’s obvious he’s not okay at all.

  It’s not that surprising. The holidays—with all the accompanying focus on home and hearth, giving and receiving—can be particularly rough around this place. The staff tries hard to make things merry for the kids, but when you get right down to it, most of them are here because their lives are lacking in the very things the season is meant to celebrate.

  Miguel shifts his weight. “My girlfriend . . .”

  “Carmen?” Jeremy has heard, and overheard, Miguel wax on and on about the beguiling Carmen, who lives a few blocks from the center with her family—including an ultra-strict father who isn’t crazy about his daughter’s juvenile delinquent boyfriend. “What happened, Miguel? Did you guys break up?”

  “No. Carmen, she’s having a baby. Only she ain’t, because she don’t want to have it.”

  Jeremy’s heart sinks. Carmen, he knows, having heard Miguel talk about her, is all of fourteen.

  Fourteen. Pregnant.

  This isn’t the first time one of the boys has come to him in this situation—but it is the first time in a while. The first time since he and Lucy started trying—and failing—to have a baby of their own.

  “First of all, Miguel, it’s a crime for you to have intercourse with a girl her age.”