We do our best. We go to school. We sit where we’re told, we keep our heads down, we call no attention to ourselves. And the moment we return to the tiny apartment, we wordlessly go to work. Cooking, cleaning, assisting Manny with his homework. Even if our mom is home from her job at the hospital. We need to keep busy, we need to help out. While we study our mom, watching the gait of her walk, listening to the cadence of her speech.
One day, I discover Lola searching the cabinets beneath the sink in the bathroom. I don’t say anything because I’d just gotten done pawing through the coat closet. Both of us looking for bottles of booze. Any sign the world is about to end again. This time, we want to be prepared. Hence the packs we both keep at the ready next to our bed.
But weeks become months. Our mother makes the long bus ride to St. Elizabeth’s Medical Center in Brighton, then returns home again. If her working day is longer than she wants due to the commute, that’s okay. Nothing here Lola and I can’t handle. And, of course, Manny is always happy, quick to greet us with a hug before demanding to know what new game we’re going to play.
Sometimes, I wake up to the sound of Lola crying. Sometimes, she shakes me awake, telling me that I’m dreaming again. Sometimes, neither of us bothers with sleep at all: We simply lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling.
I try not to think of Mother Del’s. Wonder who’s comforting the babies. What new kid is probably being punished by Roberto and Anya right now. We got out. Our mother, despite the odds, came for us. It isn’t our fault most of the kids don’t have a mom and will never dream of such luxuries as a beige apartment in a senior-living building.
I catch Lola drinking several months after that. A bottle of tequila, of all things, which she’d stashed under the bed.
“Don’t you dare!” I snap at her, keeping my voice low, though our mom isn’t back from work and Manny is still playing with his action figures in the living room. “Where’d you get this, anyway?”
She smiles at me funny. “What do you mean? Boys will do anything I want. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” She arches her back suggestively.
I slap her. “You’re not that person, Lola Baez. We know who is. Don’t let them wreck you!”
“Too late,” my sister says. Then she puts her head in her hands and cries, while I dump the rest of the tequila down the sink, then carry the bottle out to the building recycling center because I’m worried the sight of it might send my mom over the edge.
But I lick the top. Before I ditch it. I lick the clear glass. I try to taste what my mother tasted, what apparently my sister tasted. I get nothing. Just a burning sensation on the tip of my tongue that causes me to shudder, then spit.
Which, perversely, makes me jealous. Because at least my mom and sister know one trick for letting go of their troubles. Whereas me, I can only continue to shoulder my load, carrying it around day after day after day.
Can you get back the things you’ve lost? Everyone talks about the resilience of youth. Manny certainly seems to have rebounded just fine. And maybe he gets that from our mom, because each day she presents a cheerful, determined front. I screwed up, kids. So sorry. My bad. Never again.
Only Lola and I remain adrift. Two dolls who can’t seem to get our limbs in working order. Some nights, I can feel the darkness roll off my sister in waves. And some nights, my own emptiness feels just as deep. In the mornings, we both get up, unpack, repack our bags. Then get on with our day.
Toward the end of the school year, June something of Year 1, as my mother calls it, the unexpected happens. I’m walking home when I happen to look up. There. Across the street. I see him immediately. Not close enough to make out his face, but I don’t need to see his eyes, his nose, his jaw. The constant bouncing motion tells me enough.
I go still. I stare straight at him. He looks right back. And I know instantly who’s comforting the babies. I know who Anya and Roberto are hurting. And I know who will never escape to a tiny beige apartment, because he has no mother left.
I never called. I never stopped by. I didn’t even invite him over to dinner, though I, of all people, know how badly he could use the break from Mother Del’s. Coming over to our apartment wouldn’t even be that difficult; he could simply meet my mom at St. Elizabeth’s, take the bus with her at the end of her shift.
But I’ve never suggested it. Never even said his name. I can’t. I’m too afraid any reminder of Mother Del’s will send Lola back over the edge. And as always, I put my sister first.
Now, I lift my hand in greeting.
He raises his hand in reply.
Neither of us makes a move to close the distance.
There’s family that you have. And there’s family that is made. Mike Davis is my family. He saw me when no one else did. He helped me when no one else dared. And he let me go because he knew I needed to take care of my sister, more than I could care about him. Care about anyone.
Standing across the street from him now, I bottle up all my confusion and pain and fear. And for just one moment, I will myself to find anything that’s bright, happy, and sparkling. I do it for the boy who still lives in the dark. For him, I imagine an electric blue ball crackling with goodwill and high energy. Then I fling it across the street to him.
From the girl who will never forget you. From the girl who still considers you a friend. From the girl you saved, and you should be proud of that because now she can save her own family.
All of that from me to the boy who can never stop bouncing.
When I open my eyes, Mike is gone. But I like to think he understood.
There’s the family that you have. And the family that you make. Maybe neither are perfect. But Mike and me, we’ve always been close enough.
Chapter 37
WHERE IS SHE?”
I was barely out the back door before Mike was in front of me, rocking up and down on his heels, drumming his fingers, clearly agitated.
“I went. She wasn’t there. I have food, water, supplies. I’m supposed to help. Is she okay? Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?”
I raised a calming hand. At the last moment, I realized I probably shouldn’t place it on his shoulder. He might spook and dash like a frightened colt straight into the fence.
“Roxy is safe,” I said.
“Have you seen her? She can’t go to Mother Del’s. Never be alone at Mother Del’s.”
“Of course not. Mike, are you okay?”
He stared at me, eyes overbright. I wondered again if he was on something. Or maybe off something, which in his case could be just as disruptive. I took a deep breath, willed some of my calmness into him.
“You’re a good friend to Roxy, aren’t you, Mike? For years you’ve been trying to help her. You knew where she was hiding out.”
Quick nod.
“Setting her up in the theater was very smart,” I continued smoothly. “Of course you couldn’t bring her to Mother Del’s. And both of you have good reason not to trust the police.”
His fingers slowed slightly in their beat against the tops of his legs.
“Things change, though. Given everything that’s happened, Roxanna needs the police on her side. She’s innocent. You know that. I know that. We need the police to see that, as well.”
He frowned, his gaze dashing around the yard, settling on anything but me.
“This morning, I arranged for Roxy to meet with Sergeant D. D. Warren, the Boston detective in charge of the case. The sergeant is starting to believe Roxy’s story. She also tested Roxy’s hands for gunpowder residue. Roxy tested clean. She didn’t hurt her family.”
“Roxy would never hurt her family.”
“What about Roberto? Would she hurt Roberto?”
Fingers drumming again, which didn’t surprise me. After talking to the school counselor, I had some new thoughts on this subject.
“Mike, did you and Roxy hear what Roberto told Ms. Lobdell Cass in her office that day? When Roberto was waiting to meet with the principal after having gotten in trouble for posting Roxy’s photo? Did you two hear Roberto threaten her?”
Mike flinched. He glanced at me. “Never get caught alone at Mother Del’s,” he said solemnly, which I took to mean yes.
“That must’ve been very frustrating. That Roberto bullied not only kids, but grown adults, as well.”