by Mara White
“Do it, man. Tell her you fucking love her and you’re coming back for her.”
“I was doing it for her. Trying to stay away, not to screw up her life.”
“Did you ever ask her what she wanted?”
“I was too much of a fuck-up. I think she wanted to be normal, wished I didn’t exist. Before I left, I tried to ask her to be with me forever—but she wouldn’t let me say it. She put her fingers over my lips.”
“So you never got to ask her?”
“I think it was a no, dude.”
“Maybe you misunderstood what she meant. Call her.”
I throw my head back and stare up at the sky, crack my neck to each side and hold in the tears as best as I can. At the bottom of my pocket my fingers wrap around my rock of glass. I toss it into the air and watch it shoot into the sky.
I survived a massive explosion with flying metal catapulting at my head. A full day bleeding out under the hot sun in the desert, my life being soaked up into the sand in a land I wasn’t from. I survived a night full of shooting stars that spoke to me of Belén. It must mean something—the person your mind goes to when your body is giving up on you. I don’t know why we are the way we are or who makes us love the way we do. That night I felt sure I’d never see her again.
The desert glass comes somersaulting back down, flipping as it gains speed. I snatch it back in midair with my fist and flip it into my pocket.
“Maybe I will,” I say and kick up some dust. The little cloud of powder-thin dirt rises with the wind and floats away.
Calling home is one thing. A resurrection from the dead is something else entirely.
Después
“I think you’ve had enough scotch.” His glass clunks down hard on the nightstand and splashes over the rim onto his wrist, wetting the new watch I got him for his birthday. Maybe a waterproof one would have been better, had I known he was going to drown himself in alcohol. Despite being annoyed at how much he’s had I’m a little terrified to tell him to stop. I kissed Mami goodbye and put Luke to bed. He didn’t move from the chair at the kitchen table and his eyes had gone distant and glassy. He just kept pouring the scotch without saying anything, not talking to anybody.
His parents sent him the bottle of Laphroaig 18. It arrived yesterday with a short birthday card. No phone call, but that’s just how his family is. I guess being together reminds them that Adam’s brother Luke is gone. If you’re all spread apart around the country, you don’t come face to face with the fact there’s a person missing. I know that’s why my aunt Awilda left.
“Baby, at least take off your pants.”
I lean over him, undo the button and zipper and yank them down his legs the best I can. He mutters something incomprehensible. At least he’s not groping me. I hate it when he’s wasted and tries to make love to me.
He didn’t even eat his cake. Left the full slice on the plate. The big blue frosting flower looks depressed, so I squish out its petaled perfection with a fork, bring it to my mouth and lick.
At least Luke didn’t seem to notice that the mood was so somber. His grandmother kept him occupied and wears him out better than I can. The remains of frosting mix with the hot water and swirl down the drain as I smash the plates into the dishwasher.
I make sandwiches for both of my boys for school and work tomorrow. Sadly enough, my three-day mental health vacation is over. The bump on my leg is healing well enough to stop in and get the stitches taken out on my lunch break later in the week. I run my thumb over the yellow and purple bruise that decorates my shinbone.
I don’t think Adam and I are doing too well, and after tonight, I’m not so sure which one of us is more off course.
Chulo and Rosy pull their leashes relentlessly; they’re both mad about being stuck in the room during the party. When I walk these streets with Adam, no one says hello, but when I walk them with my mom or Luke or even by myself, everyone greets me; even the boys on the corner give me a shout out. The old ladies will gush over my son and ask after my mother. Some do give a slight nod when I walk with my husband, but no one really talks to me or makes me feel welcome. It makes me feel like a traitor in my own neighborhood. I committed treason when I married a gringo.
Antes
Mami does overnights on most Friday nights. She leaves her X-ray tech job at five and then stops home to make dinner for us and an extra plate for the man she takes care of. He’s eighty-two years old and doesn’t speak any English. Mami told me his head is covered in freckles and he’s got only two hairs left up top, which he still likes to brush in the morning. She rubs his head with rosemary oil so he doesn’t get cradle cap like a baby.
She works the extra job to have money for my college tuition. Up until last year I went along with her and slept on a pull-out sofa in his den. We’d stay up late watching cable with all the lights off, and we’d eat tapioca and butterscotch pudding in little containers because Don Reinaldo had a whole pantry full of them. Whenever he’d turn over a little alarm would go off and Mami would run into his bedroom and shift him so that he wouldn’t snore to death, as we liked to put it, giggling.
He loved Mami’s dinners and she would puree whatever she’d made for us. Then she’d spoon-feed him over the card table and he’d eat and hum old salsa songs. Once, she made me feed him when the tea kettle whistled.
“No se cómo hacerlo,” I complained.
“Ah, mi vida, just like you do a baby!” Mami scolded, like it was outrageous I was scared. My hand shook as I lifted the spoon to his mouth and I almost dropped it when he took me in with his milky eyes and smiled.
Mami gave him té de canela to help him digest. His son was a doctor and paid for someone to always look after him. During the week Melinda from Trinidad watched him during the day, and at night it was Juan Pablo, who was chubby and loud and wore purple sneakers.
But in eleventh grade Mami decided I could stay home alone. I had to call her at midnight to let her know I was in for good and had locked the front door. Sometimes I’d forget because I hadn’t even gone out, but Mami would scold through the phone and threaten to get a car service and bring Reinaldo to our house for the night.
“I’m in, I’m in! I just forgot to call ’cause I didn’t even go to the deli. I’m studying for my biology class. Mom, get off my case!”
She doesn’t have a clue as to how good she has it. I could be Lucky or Yari or even Jeremy for that matter and she’d be worse off in the teenage rebellion department. I don’t do anything except what I’m supposed to. No drugs, no boys, no stealing. I barely ever go to parties.
The remote is on the coffee table and I click on the screen. My head’s so full of zygotes that I need to take a break and fill it up with fluff instead. My feet find the heavy textbooks and kick them onto the floor. Mami’s blanket smells like her vanilla perfume and I yank it off the back of the couch and pull it up over my body, drifting in and out catching snippets of telenovelas. It’s a perpetual climax; some character is always crying or yelling. Lots of lipstick and hairspray and a ton of bad nose jobs.
The television is on infomercials when I awake with a start. A sharp rap at the door brings me jumping out from under the blanket and shivering my way to the door. My eyes squint to see the clock in the hallway. It’s past three AM, no one should be knocking this late.
“Who is it?” I shout as I pad to the door in my socks.
“Luciano,” he says and then nothing more.
I undo the deadbolt and all of the latch locks. When the door opens, Lucky is leaning against the wall, arm up supporting him, his face buried in the crook of his arm so I can’t tell what state he’s in.
“Sorry, about today at school, with Yari and Willy and everything I said to you.” His voice quakes and his body trembles and I surmise quickly that he’s in bad shape.
“Come in,” I whisper, grabbing his arm. He falls forward into me, knocking me back against the wall. I push him away; he sways and then staggers to the couch. Lucky stretches out with hi
s legs up the back, one arm flung over his face, the other grazing the floor.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” I ask him. His skin looks gray and slick with a shiny layer of sweat that rolls off him continuously. His nose is running and he doesn’t bother to wipe it. Both of his legs are twitching and his breathing is slow. I can see a trickle of blood that peeks out from the cuff of his sleeve and runs straight to his palm.
“I’m calling 911, Luciano,” I say.
“Don’t, Bey. I’ll kill you. I already got a Narcan shot, but I’m tripping out. Okay? I just need you to chill and help me through this.”
“What kind of shot?” My hands find their way to my hips, but I’m more terrified than angry at him.
“I shot up what was supposed to be some really pure dope, turns out it was cut with some bad shit. I started to convulse. Willy hit me with a Narcan shot ’cause his brother’s an EMT.”
“The heroin thingy? Anti-venom? I read about that in Time magazine.”
“I’m so fucking sick, Bey. So sick. I swear I’d rather die than feel like this.”
I creep down on the floor in front of the couch and pick up Lucky’s arm. His skin feels like wax and his breath smells deeply chemical, like he’s nothing but toxic. He moans into the ditch of his elbow and turns his body away. His forehead is hot, but he must have fever chills because his skin is covered in gooseflesh.
Two wet washcloths swirl in a bowl full of warm water sitting on the coffee table. I take off his jacket and peel off his socks. He’s docile like a baby and tries to help me. The effort seems gargantuan and the result, barely tangible. Lucky is helpless. His eyes flutter under rapid blinks and the whites of his eyes come up more than his pupils. What if he’s having a seizure, what if the drug wore off and the overdose is back again?
“Lucky, don’t do this, please. Let me call the police.”
His hand grips my wrist with a surprisingly firm hold. He shakes his head no through the fog of the drugs.
“Please, Lucky, I’m scared,” I whimper and toss the washrag back in the bowl. He grabs my head forcefully and slams it down on his chest.
“Just stay with me, Bey. It’ll wear off, I swear to God. Just stay close and don’t leave me.”
I nod and weep into his chest. His heart hammers under my ear like thundering hooves. The arm that was around me again falls lifeless to the floor. His eyelids continue to flutter and the sweat doesn’t stop.
“If you die on my couch, Lucky, I will kill you, I’m serious!”
He snaps his fingers and points up to the ceiling. His eyes don’t open but a wisp of a smile plays across his lips.
His T-shirt wrestles with me all the way up over his head. My hands hesitate at his waist and I decide to leave his jeans on. His stomach is flat and muscular, much paler than the rest of him. Lucky’s abdomen tapers and cuts sharply before it disappears into the band of his boxers.
I dip the washcloth in the bowl of water again and squeeze out the excess. I put in two drops of peppermint oil just like Mami does when she gives Reinaldo a sponge bath. It scents the air and cuts the chemical smell that still lingers on my cousin. I drag the cool cloth up the tapered V on his abdomen. His stomach muscles tense and release. I want to put my mouth on him, to drag my lips up the expanse of his smooth stomach.
“Keep talking so you don’t lose consciousness. ’Cause the second you do, I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Len, you so fuckin’ bossy,” he whispers, his voice scratchy with stress. “Keep touching me,” he says more softly. His teeth are suddenly visible, biting into his cracked lip.
I love taking care of him. I don’t want Lucky to be sick or helpless or in danger, but it’s such sweet relief to have him come to me for something, anything. It soothes me and at the same time, it’s gratifying to touch him, to have him need me in this moment more than he needs anyone. He could be at Yari’s or with his boys or even upstairs with Titi, but instead he’s here in my arms and letting me care for him.
He falls asleep breathing evenly, his chest expanding and rising in a normal rhythm, but I’m too scared to sleep. If he dies while I slumber, I’d never forgive myself.
I light four candles on the shelf where Mami has her saints—Altagracia, Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes, La Virgen de la Inmaculada Concepción. I put two pieces of red beach glass up there as an offering to the Gods of the PSAT and whoever oversees test scores in heaven. I move them over to Altagracia and tell her that the red glass gems are now for Lucky instead.
When the candles are all lit they cast an ominous glow on the room. The lick of the flame flickers and paints Lucky’s form in a kaleidoscope of dark and light shadows. I whisper two Hail Marys as I watch him breathe.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”
I cross myself twice just in case. I make sure his exhales sound even by leaning in close to his face; his breath tickles my ear and I squirm, then lay my head on his chest. His hand flies up and grips around my neck. He tucks my head under his chin and keeps his hand on my cheek.
“Someday, Belén. We’ll just be patient and wait,” he says.
I can’t tell if he’s awake, if he knows what he’s saying. It seems to me like Lucky is already dreaming.
“What do we wait for?” I chance, my lips barely moving with the words.
“When all the stars all line up. Keep watching the sky.”
He rolls to the side when he says it and curls into the back of the couch. His body is exhausted from negotiating with whatever crap he put in it. I yank a pillow out from under him and lie down on the floor beside him.
The stars won’t ever line up because our sky wasn’t made like that. And if Lucky keeps using, the sky will reach down and take him back before fate gets a chance to catch up with us.
I wake up sometime after nine the next morning. Sun is blazing through the living room windows and heating the couch up like an oven. My neck is so stiff that I can barely turn my head. Mami is in the kitchen banging the dishes around. Somehow I can tell that Lucky is gone. I lick my lips and rub the sleep from my eyes.
“What time did you get here?” I ask her, stretching my arms up. She looks up from the dishes, then dries her hands on a dishtowel. I yawn and circle my stiff neck and scan the room for signs that Lucky left something behind. I don’t want Mami to know he was here, let alone find out he was sick from an overdose.
“You let the candles burn down to the quick. You could have set the house on fire!”
“Candles for saints don’t start fires, you said so yourself!” It’s a childish answer and something I don’t believe. Just throwing Mami’s superstition back in her face.
“What was the bowl of water for? Were you praying for something?” She slices a whole chicken down the middle with her sharpest knife. I can’t do it, but Mami is way stronger than she looks. She dumps cubed potatoes, carrots and onions into the casserole dish.
“Yeah,” I say. I open the fridge to get something to drink. The carton of orange juice got put back empty. A tiny smile of delight pops up on my lips when I realize who did it.
“And, mi vida? What did you ask for?”
“To get lucky,” I say. Chocolate milk will work. I grab the carton and beeline to the shower. I’m not usually so sassy.
“What ever happened to hard work and perseverance?”
“Mami, there’s nothing wrong with wishing the stars will line up in your favor,” I holler before turning on the shower full force. I step under the cold spray, shiver and hug myself. Is fate what we let happen? Or is it what we make happen if we try hard enough?
Después
I’ll only stick around at this grief group if there’s no one I know. I’m not sharing my troubles with every single one of my co-workers. That’s what would inevitably happen if it turns out there are familiar faces in group.
The table is spread with coffee, doughnuts and bagels. I get a coffee with milk and snag a plain
cake doughnut on a little flowered paper plate. The only seat available is one next to the guy who’s obviously a homeless person.
“Hello,” I tell him, trying not to stare at his dirty clothes and shredded shoes. Mami always told me to watch for Jesus in people who have nothing. “That’s where he’d be, for he takes nothing and gives everything, Belén. Selflessness is Christianity.”
When I was a kid, I thought every homeless man with a beard was Christ himself.
I’m pretty sure he’s not the son of God, though—just a guy from the Armory shelter across the street from the hospital.
“There’s coffee and bagels,” I tell him, gesturing toward the table with my plate. He seems a little out of it and I’m shocked that he’s not taking full advantage of the free breakfast. Maybe he’s not homeless, but a drug addict who looks bad from nodding off in the streets.
“What’s your name?” I ask him. The coffee requires some cool-down time. The steam lifts and curls and I blow gently across the top of the cup.
“Ponzo,” he says and runs dirty fingers through his greasy hair. That vacant body and zombie stare is the same one that Lucky used to get when he was using.
“Here, take mine,” I say, handing him my coffee and doughnut. “Are you here because you lost someone special?”
I have to admit that I’m good at group therapy after my experience in college. Co-dependency, grief, it’s the same basic format. I get the dynamic, and it turns out I’m great at small talk. Ponzo sort of smiles at me and it’s clear that he hasn’t been to the dentist in a long time.
The leader comes in and she’s a petit woman with curly hair wearing blue-framed glasses. Her gait is sharp and her smile genuine as she drags a giant scroll of paper on a standup easel over to the circle.
“Morning, everyone! I see some regulars as well as some fresh faces. Why don’t we just go around the circle and say our names and why we’re here. If you want to share any milestones, we’re all ears,” she says pleasantly. I don’t know why Adam refuses to come. It feels so good to get stuff off my chest. Even though I might appear calm, on the inside, I’m bursting and splitting, falling apart in places that can’t be seen from the outside.
