But he only shrugged. “Not your fault. I’m the one who’s the shittiest kid ever, because I can’t even stand to visit her. It hurts too much. She never remembers who I am. Last time, she thought I was her sister.”
I frowned. Then I said, “You mean, she thought she was your sister?”
The expression on Sticks’s face froze before he shook his head. “Uh...yeah. What did I say?”
“You said she thought you were her sister.”
“Oh. Shit. Sorry. Anyway, if it weren’t for Abuela and Tío Alonso, it’s hard to know where I would’ve ended up, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have been anywhere good.”
When he began to play with the necklace he wore, I lifted an eyebrow. “Abuela?”
“Yeah. That’s Spanish for grandmother. She, along with my mom’s older brother Alonso, plus a couple more of her younger brothers, and all their families came to America two years before I was born. They’re a huge, overly religious group that’s always in everyone else’s business, but...I still kind of respect them for that. It keeps us together, you know, taken care of, which is a hell of a lot better off than I know I’d be on my own.”
I continued to watch as he toyed with the necklace’s medallion before my curiosity got the better of me. “Is that a family heirloom?”
“Hmm? Oh, this? No. Well... I guess, yeah. Abuela told me it was her mother’s but it’s actually just a pendant of la Virgen de Guadalupe.”
I shook my head. “Who?”
Sticks grinned. “The saint...Guadalupe. She’s famous in México. If you see someone wearing this, they’re probably Mexican. Personally, I’m not super religious, but...I don’t know. I like to wear it anyway. It reminds me of my roots, my family. It brings me a level of comfort, as if I’m home again. My family... It’s strange, but no one can drive me as crazy as they do. They’re all, like, complete opposites of me, but...there’s just something about them I adore. I love their culture, and Latin pride, and just everything that makes them them. They’re my heritage. My foundation.”
“That’s cool.” I watched the gold of Guadalupe’s image glint in the light and suddenly wished I had some family heirloom too. But, nope. “I don’t have anything like that.” I glanced down at my feet where I was idly winding a guitar cord around the toe of my shoe. “My mom...she’s the girl in the song. So my roots, a family foundation, just sort of got yanked out of the ground with her.”
I have no idea why I told him that. It was just...he’d told me about his mom. It only felt right to say something about my own, especially since both of ours had fallen into similar addictions.
He frowned at me a second before his eyes bugged. “You mean in ‘Ceilings’? You wrote that about your mom? It’s all...factual?”
I nodded. “Every single word.”
“But...” He shook his head, and I could tell he was trying to figure out which kid I was; the one she’d left at the hospital or the one she’d tried to kill in the womb.
So, I said, “I was her failed abortion attempt, the mistake she had with the drug dealer.”
Remy’s mouth dropped open. “Whoa. So, wait... Then, your dad...?”
“Is in jail. Statesburg,” I added stupidly.
“Holy shit. Where were you when he, you know...?”
“Killed her? I was sitting on the couch.” I have no idea why I answered his question. I didn’t want to talk about it. But then I just kept...talking. “Eating a bowl of cereal and watching Power Rangers on TV.”
That old familiar weight of crushing guilt swept over me. Not sure how to combat it, I swiped a hand through my hair. “He came in one morning from being out somewhere, probably at some other woman’s place, and asked where she was. I just said she was in her room, didn’t bother to mention she wasn’t there alone. And I didn’t bother to run and warn her that he was home. It only got me into trouble whenever I involved myself in the shit those two stirred with each other. But, Jesus, I can’t help but wonder...if I’d only done something that morning instead of eating my breakfast and watching TV, things would’ve turned out a lot different.”
“How old were you?” Sticks asked quietly.
I shook my head. It didn’t matter. I’d been old enough to know they’d fight when he found her in bed with one of his drug-dealing partners. But I said, “Seven.”
“Jesus. What the hell were you supposed to do at seven?”
“I don’t know.” I stared at the wall, seeing nothing. “Something. When he finally went back there and found them together, I still did nothing. My dad started shouting and the other dude came running out of the room, pulling on his pants. Then Mom started shouting. I guess she packed a bag and threatened to leave because she came storming into the front room with a suitcase, clothes sticking out each end. When she tried to open the front door—”