He surprises me by following, and not dicing me to chunks, muttering something in Spanish about making sure “they never find the body”.
Her father just threatened me. I should just get in my truck and haul ass. But I can’t. I watch her cross the street, grinning when she tosses me one last smile before slipping inside her house. It’s that smile I hang onto. That, and her last kiss.
CHAPTER 10
Sol
I shut the door behind me. Finn can’t see me, not anymore. But that doesn’t stop my smile. I shrug out of my jacket, a thick one I could probably use to trek through the South Pole. It’s not flattering, and it’s definitely not cute. But Finn didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, he thinks I’m pretty.
“Pretty.” It’s a sweet little word I haven’t heard in a long time, and probably haven’t felt in even longer. But I did tonight because Finn makes me feel it. The way he looks at me is something I could really get used to. So is the way he holds me.
“Your mother’s upstairs,” my father says, instantly erasing my smile.
“She’s here?” I ask, my hands slipping away from my jacket.
“She was discharged a few hours ago.”
“Oh,” I respond, well aware of the disappointment lowering my tone. This is supposed to be good news. But I don’t take it that way, worried she was discharged prematurely.
“How is she?” I ask.
“Stable,” he answers.
He means so drugged she can’t hurt us. So numb, there’s nothing left of her. God, I hate that word.
“Do you think it’s a good idea? To get involved with a boy like that?” he asks.
I turn away from the small closet and face my father. He’s leaning against the staircase wearing his uniform of choice: a white collared dress shirt and tan slacks. Sometimes his slacks are brown, olive, or even black. But the shirt is always white, ironed to precision and perfection.
As stupid as it sounds, it’s seeing him in that shirt that causes the happiness Finn gave me to fade even further. My father is the foreman at the local canning factory. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a big deal to us. As an immigrant from Cuba, his first job at the factory was as a canner, barely making enough to give us a home, and food on the table. But he worked hard, stayed extra, and proved his worth until he was promoted to line supervisor, and then ultimately to his position now.
He takes his duties and his role seriously, leaving the house freshly groomed, and somehow returning the same way. My mother . . . she was the one who used to iron all his shirts. She was the one who’d kiss him goodbye. She was the one who’d hurry from the kitchen to welcome him home and draw his smile, gushing about her husband, “the big boss”.
Yet she no longer does that. She hasn’t in years because she can’t.
But I really wish she could.
“Sol?” my father says.
I bow my head, not wanting to think about the first time my father had to iron his own shirts. He doesn’t know I saw him cry. Yet I did, crying enough for both of us when I ran back to my room. “He’s a nice man, Papi,” I say.
“He’s a fighter.”
Which is one of the reasons I like Finn. He’s strong. I could use some of his strength . . . especially now. “That doesn’t mean he’s not nice.” I lift my head. “Or that he would hurt me.”
“Don’t lose sight of what’s important,” he says. “We’re counting on you.”
“I know,” I respond. I’m counting on me, too.
We both stand there in our chosen spots, neither of us appearing to want to move. I suppose moving means pushing on, something both of us seem almost too exhausted to do. Or maybe it’s because when we do move, it’s not to relax, or escape. It’s to once more deal with what’s happening.
“Where’s Mami?” I question, realizing I’ve waited too long to ask.
“In our room, watching television.”
I nod and start for the stairs. “I’m going out,” he says. “Just for an hour.”
My hand slides along the smooth surface of the banister. “Where are you going?”
“I need some air,” he answers.
Again, I nod, because what else can I do? My father has never “needed some air”. Even during the worst of times he internalizes his pain and simply deals with the stress. But he hasn’t been dealing well lately, not since this last incident with my mother. He’s mourning her. Well, at least who she was.
I suppose that makes two of us.
He’s through the door before I reach the second level. I want to beg him not to go, not to leave me, knowing I’ll be alone as soon as my aunt leaves. Am I afraid she’ll hit me? Not really. I’m more afraid that I’ll find her in the way I hate most: absent of anything that resembles my mother.