by Maria Padian
And I couldn’t pull her up. I could barely hang on myself.
A sharp rap on the truck window startles me back to reality. Sam, flashing one of those eager smiles.
“Hey, no napping! There’s work to be done!” he enthuses through the glass. I’m so glad to see him I almost cry harder. Instead, I duck my head and wipe the tear tracks from my cheeks as I pretend to look for something under the seat. When I emerge from the truck, I’ve got a big smile and hug ready for Sam.
A bunch of the kids are already there, hovering near the snack tent, where Mrs. Shackelton and a couple of otherasketball moms are setting out stacks of bright-red-and-yellow Bojangles’ boxes. Darius chats with Lindsey and Jamila. Sam introduces himself to VC girls he doesn’t know, telling them he’s Aubrey’s brother. In spite of the heat, everyone’s drinking coffee.
I link arms with Min and Ann and smile.
“You guys are the best,” I tell them. “Thank you so much for coming today.”
All day, it’s that easy. It’s dusty (we have to vacuum and wipe everything to make sure no grit from the drywall sanding remains) and hot (late May in Virginia can roast) and a ton of work (even with rollers, ceilings are a bear). But as the day progresses and we coat the walls and talk and laugh and visit and tease, it gets easier and easier.
At the lunch break a few of the girls pull me aside to get the scoop on a few of the basketball guys, and Lindsey actually thanks me for inviting them to help on the build. It gets easier when Betts does a survey of the rooms and tells everyone they’ve done a great job. Really easy to slip into the utility closet with Sam when no one is watching and kiss him, my hands in his hair, him pressing me against the (still unpainted, luckily) wall, because despite having no skills whatsoever in the handyman department, he is the best kisser.
And even cleaning up at the end of the day is easy because everyone pitches in. We’re all coming back tomorrow for the second coat. But for now, we’re hot and sweaty and piling into cars and heading to the Shackeltons’, where there is a swimming pool and music and all sorts of amazing delicious things that Aubrey and the other under-sixteens have set up.
The only time it’s not quite so easy is when I retrieve my backpack from Mark’s truck and ask if he’s coming with us to the Shackeltons’ and he says no thanks.
“I have other plans,” he informs me. Unapologetically. We both know with whom.
“Okay. Well, have fun. See you tomorrow,” I tell him. We don’t make eye contact. We don’t cross that no-man’s-land minefield and blow apart this fragile family thing we’ve only just put together.
But we both damn well know that Roz Jenkins would have loved to be included.
32
And then, it’s done.
There’s a toilet that flushes and lights that flick on and off. There are doors that swing without scraping the floor and windows that open to birdsong. The meadow surrounding our yard is alive with these blackbirds that have red streaks on their wings. I could watch them all day. I might. Choose a day to do nothing but look at birds.
Of course, it’s not completely complete, but as Betts likes to say, “The perfect should not be the enemy of the done.” There’s still some final touches, and the yard is mostly dirt, but we can move in. Right after the Dedication.
Mami whips us into packing mode. We’ve moved a zillion times, but this feels different. Instead of shoving things in boxes without any idea where they’ll wind up at the other end, every item I wrap and every choice I make—pitch or keep?—feels hopeful and deliberate, as I choose what to carry into our new house. Our new life. Because that’s what it really is. Not just different walls.
We’ll U-Haul the big items (like the Scrouch, which is, unfortunately, joining us), but Mark and I make a few runs in his pickup with the fragile stuff. And the special stuff. Two items in particular, which I promised myself would be waiting for me when we move in.
In my lavender room with the white trim, Betts helped me install three shelves. Nothing fancy, just boards resting on brackets. I plan to fill them with books (yet to be purchased), but before that, I’ve got two things to display there: the plastic hard hat I’ve worn on-site all month (signed, in Sharpie, by everyone in the Paint Day crew) and my favorite (now framed) picture of my father.
Mark stands in the doorway, watching as I place these on the shelves.
“Finally dragging ol’ Charlie out into the light, huh?” He knows about this picture. We talked a lot on that car ride from Queen’s Mountain.
“Yup. Showed it to Mami last night.”
“How’d that go?”
“Uneventful. I thought she’d get all emotional, seeing a new picture of my dad? But she was, like, ‘That’s a good one,’ and just kind of blew it off when I confessed that I’d taken it.” It was not a very Mami-like reaction, which makes me realize my mother is pretty distracted right now.
Mark seems slightly amused. “Guess it was only a big deal in your own mind.”
“Okay, can we not throw darts at Cousin Izzy right now?” I say. “I’m in a good mood.”
I stand back to admire my shelf arrangement.
“Fine! No darts. Not today, anyhow.”
I try to scowl at him, but it’s hard. My shelves are making me too happy.
“By the way,” he continues. “This is for you.” He holds out a balled-up white shirt and necklace. “She doesn’t want it back.”
“Must be covered in cooties,” I remark. I’d found Roz’s shirt the other night when I was emptying drawers. I’d asked Mark to return it for me.
“Probably,” he agrees. “But she says it was a gift.”
I try not to reveal how that feels like the stab of an actual dart. Instead, I take them. There’s no furniture in here yet, so I shove them on a shelf in my closet.
Mark just looks at me like I’m a piece of gum stuck to his shoe.
I’m so sick of his judgments.
“Go ahead. Say it,” I demand. “You think I suck.”
He doesn’t comment. Which is worse than if he did.
“What do you want me to do? She hates everyone. And everything. Except maybe you, go figure. You can’t help a person like that. They drag you down.”
“I understand. When I got sober, I dropped all my drinking and drugging buddies. I walked away from anyone who threatened my recovery. It didn’t leave me with many friends. But I had to do it, so I get what you’re saying. Thing is, that’s not Roz.”
“She threw—”
“Forget the damn rock!” he interrupts. Loudly. “She knows that was a mistake, okay? She’s sorry. But it’s not like you’ve even given her a chance to apologize!”
“I was at her place the very next day! And she was not one bit sorry.”
“She trusted you and you lied to her. Have you ever apologized for that?”
I don’t answer him. I honestly can’t remember.
“Izzy, you didn’t drop her because she gets in your way. You dropped her because she’s an inconvenience. Now c’mon. Aren’t you better’n that?”
God, I want to hate him. Devil Spawn. I want to shout at him, You don’t know me! And just because you’re hooking up with Roz doesn’t mean you know her!
But here’s the thing: he’s not wrong. I was embarrassed by her. Afraid she’d blow my cover in front of all the people I was trying to fool.
I have no idea how to fix this. It’s probably too late.
“Mark. Can we just . . . get through this move? Get through tomorrow and the Dedication and everything? And then I’ll think about Roz? I hear you, okay? I get what you’re saying.”
Mark walks over to my three wall shelves and picks up the hard hat. I see him reading the names scrawled all over it. All my friends, absent one. When he replaces it, he doesn’t look mad anymore.
“Sure, Cuz.”
It’s
dark outside by the time we return to lovely Meadowbrook Gardens. Mami has been busy: our bare-walled living room is filled with cardboard boxes taped tight, and she has emptied the kitchen except for what we need for breakfast in the morning. Since there’s no way to cook, she splurged and got us all pizza for dinner. She’s also hoping Mark will finish off any leftovers in the fridge—I told her the empanadas had turned, but she insisted they were fine—because she thinks it’s bad luck to bring old food into a new home.
As Mark and I stand at the counter with our slices, I clink my soda can with his.
“Here’s to the last supper in the ol’ homestead,” I say.
“Cheers,” he replies.
Jack sits on the stool next to us. “Good Lord, good meat, good—” He doesn’t finish.
That’s because a familiar pounding threatens to collapse our door.
“Mrs. Crawford! Mrs. Crawford, please!”
My little brother aims his terrified eyes at me.
“What the hell?” Mark exclaims.
Mami and I exchange glances.
“Call nine-one-one. And take Jack into the back room,” Mami orders as she rushes to open the door.
But before either Mark or I budge, the door crashes open. Figures our last night here the thing would finally break.
There’s blood all over Roz’s face and the front of her shirt. There’s so much blood you can’t really tell it’s her, except for the hair. She’s sob-shrieking and I can’t make out what she’s saying, but probably that’s because Paco is barking and Jack is wailing this high-pitched scream that sounds like a crazy engine revving. Somehow I manage to get my hands on the one dish towel Mami didn’t pack and blot the blood out of Roz’s eyes. It’s difficult, though: she’s got a deep cut on her forehead. Like, to the bone. I can see the white. The room spins, and behind the screams I hear buzzing bees.
The telltale signs of a faint coming on. God, I’m such a wuss.
“Izzy. Izzy, close the door. Close the door.” Roz is rambling. She blinks rapidly, trying to clear the blood from her eyes.
I fill my lungs with air and will myself to stay upright. I press the towel against her forehead and place her hand over it. “Press. Hard,” I order her. I guide her butt to one of the stools. The one where Jack was just sitting. His cries sound far away now. Mark must have hauled him off to the back.
“Close the door, Izzy,” Roz repeats. Her voice shaking.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that I can’t. That she bashed our door in and it’s lying flat on the floor.
I feel Mami’s shoulder against mine. She leans in close to Roz and speaks directly into her face. “Where else are you hurt?” she says. Her voice sounds strange. She seems strange, amidst all the noise and screaming. Like an iron pole in a windstorm, unmoving, while loose leaves and branches whip past.
“Shawn. Close the door,” Roz repeats. But it’s too late for that. Shawn Shifflett chooses that very moment to fill the empty space where the cheap door once hung.
He is stumble-drunk. Red-eyed drunk, and bellowing. Mad as salt in a wound, not only at Roz but at us.
“Get yer ass out here, girl!” he shouts at Roz.
She scrambles back, almost upending herself and the stool. She’s too frightened to even scream.
“Shawn!” Mami orders him. “Get out of my house.”
He laughs. “Soon’s you send that little whore home,” he snarls. “This is none of your business.”
“I told you, you make it my business when you come into my house. Leave now, or else.”
“Or else what?” he scoffs.
Which is when Mami whips out the second thing I’m surprised she didn’t pack: a kitchen knife. The kitchen knife. Our biggest, baddest blade, which we use for everything from peeling garlic to cutting up chicken.
Mami always keeps it razor sharp.
“You can either leave my house with your cojones or without your cojones,” she says in her scariest Mami voice. Which is pretty scary. “You decide.”
Shawn reaches into the loose front pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a gun. The gun. Roz wasn’t joking.
“Get outta the way,” he orders Mami. He extends his arm full length and points the gun at her. The barrel can’t be more than two feet from her face. Mami doesn’t speak. But I see her hand go to her throat. To her Mother Cabrini medal. She doesn’t stand aside. Instead, she takes one step, putting herself between Roz and the gun, and I realize: my mother thinks she’s about to die.
I’m about to watch my mother die.
Shawn pulls the trigger. The empty chamber clicks.
Roz.
“What the hell!” Shawn roars. He tosses the gun aside and lunges at Roz. But at the same moment, Mark, materializing from the darkness of the hall, tackles him. The impact of those two bodies colliding rattles the walls. It sounds like two sides of beef crashing into each other, meat on meat. Luckily for Mark, the door is down and the momentum is in his favor, so as he and Shawn go flying outside into the dark, he’s on top.
And he takes Shawn clean out.
There’s a frightened wail. Jack has left his room, his fear of being alone trumping his fear of Shawn. Mami scoops him into her arms and heads back toward the bedrooms. As they disappear, I glance into the kitchen. Roz has pressed herself into a corner, and holds the dish towel to her forehead. Blood has seeped through, and the stain is growing. I go to her.
“I’m sorry, Izzy. I didn’t know where to go,” she begins.
“Shhh, shhh,” I say. I rip a couple of paper towels from a roll and add them atop the dish towel. They fill with blood immediately.
“How bad? How bad is it?” she whispers.
“Mark’s got him. I think he knocked him out.”
“No, I mean my face.”
I don’t want to look. I don’t want to relieve the pressure and let loose a big gush of blood. But the fear in her eyes is killing me.
I gently lower the makeshift dressing. There’s a straight slash at her hairline. At first it looks like a thin red wire, but as blood pools it fattens and spills over. I quickly reapply the towel. She needs stitches.
“It’s a clean cut, and it’s up high. I think this means you’re keeping these dumb bangs.” We both burst out laughing. And crying. I put my arms around her and squeeze tight. “It’s fine. You’ll be fine,” I promise her.
“Izzy!” Mark is yelling.
I place Roz’s hands back on the towel, remind her to press, then run to the doorway. “Call nine-one-one again,” he demands when I appear. “Make sure they’re also sending an ambulance.”
I take out my phone and try dialing, but my fingers are not my own. They tremble over the keypad, useless. In the half-light pouring through the empty doorframe, Mark has rolled Shawn face-first into the gravel, then pinned him by leaning with his knees into his lower back. Shawn’s too drunk and too mashed to do much besides squirm and swear. Luckily for us, we can’t make out much of what he’s saying. That’s partly because he’s eating stones and partly because the police are already tearing through lovely Meadowbrook Gardens, blue lights flashing and sirens loud.
33
Ms. Clare insists we can’t pull off the Dedication without bread, salt, and wine. And since the person responsible for these crucial items dropped the ball, she sends me and Sam out to Four Corners to save the day.
I’m operating on three hours of sleep and feel like I’m stumbling through fog, even though it’s a cloudless, bright day. I’m not sure what part of I-spent-most-of-the-night-in-an-emergency-room Ms. Clare doesn’t get, but I’m just about out of bandwidth.
Sam picks up the slack. He’s the right amount of upbeat and positive as we climb into the Cherokee.
“I get it,” he says about the ridiculous errand. “It’s from It’s a Wonderful Life. I love that movie.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’ve been filling his ear about what went down last night, and it occurs to me I’m babbling. Sleep deprivation is a strange thing.
Here’s what’s stranger: emergency rooms. Where no one seems to get that you’ve got an emergency. Hello, people? I wanted to shriek as this intake person behind the glass started asking Roz if she had health insurance, her date of birth, et cetera, while she was looking like something out of a Freddy Krueger movie.
Mark was pissed. He’d followed the ambulance in his pickup (I got to ride with Roz, blaring sirens and neon lights, the works), and didn’t bother to hide his mad when he arrived and found us sitting in the waiting room holding wads of gauze on her forehead.
“She’s not fine! She’s probably in shock!” we heard him arguing with a nurse in the hallway. “I want someone to see her now!”
“Don’t mess with Devil Spawn,” I muttered, trying to coax a smile out of Roz. But she wasn’t buying it. Her eyes kept darting around the room. Like she expected Shawn to reappear. “Roz, what happened?”
“He just lost it tonight. Came at me with a knife.”
I didn’t ask what had set him off. There’s never a good reason.
“I’m screwed, Izzy,” she said, her voice full of tears.
“It’s a clean, straight cut near your hairline,” I reassured her. “No one will ever notice—”
“They’re going to call child services. They have to. There’s no hiding this.”
“Shhh, don’t worry about that. Shawn’s cooked. You didn’t see. The cops hauled his ass out of there. Dude’s gone, Roz, and—”
“My mother was blackout drunk when this went down. They’ll never let me live at home now.”
A cold knot of dread began to form in my stomach. She wasn’t wrong. “Let’s just deal with the cut for now, okay?” I tried to calm her. “Don’t jump to—”