A Constellation of Roses

by Miranda Asebedo

  “This will work, Trix.”

  “No. Nothing’s going to change. She’s still dead, and you and I are just digging ourselves in deeper until we get caught, or we cross the wrong person and then we end up like her. Dead in some motel room.”

  I feel him pulling away, not just physically, but totally, completely.

  I will either sever us completely or save us from ourselves.

  “We can’t do this, Shane.”

  “Are you serious?” Shane hisses, getting up. I stand up, too, so that we’re facing each other. His brow is furrowed; he’s angry. No, he’s disappointed. Abandoned.

  “I can’t do this.” No, that’s wrong. And in this moment, I have to choose my words carefully, be completely honest with him or I’ll never be able to live with myself afterward. “I won’t do this.”

  “Fine,” Shane grinds out. “I’ll do it myself. I’ve got the keys.”

  I grab his hand this time, like he’s done hundreds of times for me. “Don’t, Shane. Leave with me. Just walk away.”

  “Walk away? With Don waiting for us? Jesus, he’ll have guys after me in a fucking heartbeat if I don’t hold up my end of the deal.”

  “Come with me. Come back to Rocksaw. We’ll figure it out. I can find you a place to stay.”

  “And do what? You know how many people are just so fucking eager to hire some nineteen-year-old with a prison record?” He tries to pull his hand away, but I hold on tight, as if I could make him change his mind with only the power of my touch.

  “Try, Shane. Just try. For me.”

  “For you? Why should I do shit for you? You’re going to walk out and leave me after everything? I stole a fucking car to come get you when you needed me.”

  “Do it because we’re friends. Because we’ve always looked out for each other. You and me and Charly.”

  “Only, you’re not looking out for me. You’re just looking out for you now.”

  I let go of his hand.

  Something inside Shane is unleashed when I let go, and he punches the wall behind us with a strangled sound of anger, busting a hole in the drywall. Then he slides back down onto the floor, tugging up his black hood so I can’t see how much I’ve hurt him.

  “Please, Shane.” I sound like that girl who visited him in prison thirteen months ago, my voice some stranger’s, begging him not to let go.

  “Go home, Trix. Just go home.”

  And I do.

  I leave through the service-entrance door in the back of the mall. I know there are alarms, but they don’t go off when I pass through. The employee parking lot is empty but for a few cars, probably the night-shift security guards, the patrols Don had been worried about.

  I walk all the way to the bus stop without looking back, my hands fisted into the front pockets of my hoodie, leaning into the bitter October wind. The songs of the city welcome me back even as they make me feel more alone than ever. I try to shut down the rest of my senses, focus solely on the scuff of my sneakers over the pavement, the distant echoes of sirens and car horns, the shout of someone hailing a taxi.

  When Ms. Troy told me Mom was dead, I couldn’t feel anything. Only numbness. But I feel everything now. And holy shit, does it hurt.

  When I reach the bus stop, I stand there alone, my hood pulled up to shadow my face. I clench my jaw until it hurts, forcing myself not to cry. Staying is Shane’s choice. I have to make mine now. The city bus is driving toward me; I can hear it almost a block away, engine whirring and groaning as it shudders with every gear shift.

  I catch the sound of footsteps hitting the damp pavement at a quick clip, and a burst of adrenaline surges through my veins, preparing me to fight if need be. I turn around before I’m blindsided, thinking that it must be Don or one of the guys Shane was talking about coming at me from behind. Retribution will be swift after all.

  But it’s not. It’s Shane. He’s breathing hard, and the streetlight glints against his shaved head where his hood has fallen back. He stops next to me, turning to face the bus that’s pulling up to the stop, like he’s just some other passenger waiting next to me.

  I reach out my hand. He takes it and we get on the bus together.

  We sit in the back of the almost empty vehicle. Our hands are still clasped between us, his knuckles scraped and swollen from where he punched through the wall. “Thanks,” Shane whispers without looking at me, his voice raw.

  I don’t answer, I just hold on, wishing that I could reverse time, the last two years between us. And at the same time, wishing that everything had happened just the same.

  We get off at the last stop, walking back in the dark to the Starlite. It’s cold, and I stuff my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. Shane walks close to me, our shoulders bumping against each other.

  “I guess I can’t give you a ride home since I left the car. But you can use my phone to call your aunt,” Shane says.

  “What are you going to do now?” I ask.

  We stop at the edge of the parking lot of the Starlite. The NO VACANCY glares in the dark as we stand facing each other, savoring these last moments of what we used to be.

  Shane answers, “I’ve got a little stash. Think I’ll take a Greyhound bus out of town for a while. Start over somewhere new and let this shit with Don simmer down. Charly can come if she wants.”

  I nod.

  “You can always come with us too,” he says hopefully.

  I press my lips together before telling him, “I think I’m going to go home.”

  Shane nods, a faint, sad smile on his face. “I thought so. If you ever change your mind, you’ve got my number.”

  “You could come with me,” I offer, my voice breaking, even though I know he will say no.

  “Thanks,” Shane says, his voice still soft. “I don’t think I’m cut out for Rocksaw.” He raises one hand and rubs the back of his scraped knuckles against my cheek. “But I think you might be.”

  I look away, afraid that I might start to cry. This is really goodbye between us. Among the rusting sedans and sports cars, I recognize an old, beat-up, blue Suburban parked by the front office.

  It’s oddly comforting, that battered SUV. And despite how much this goodbye hurts, I find myself beginning to smile. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll need that phone call after all.” I remember Charly, who must still think we’re at the mall. “Will you tell your sister goodbye for me? Tell her I’ll call her soon.”

  “I will.” Then Shane notices the Suburban, too, and the out-of-county stickers on the plates. “I’ll see you around, Trix.” He touches his lips to the top of my head and fades back into the darkness, leaving only the faint scent of mint and cigarette smoke that I remember from our first kiss.

  Twenty-Three

  THE DOOR TO ROOM 7 of the Starlite is wide open, spilling a swath of light out into the dark parking lot. I hear Mia roaring before I see her. She’s cussing someone out like nothing I’ve ever heard.

  “. . . Renting a room to a minor? Are you serious? Do you know how much trouble you could get in? I ought to call the goddamn cops right now! Where is she?”

  I enter the room soundlessly to see Mel holding his hands up like Mia’s going to hit him. She looks like a wild thing, her vibrant hair tied up in a messy bun and her face red and blotchy. I’ve never seen her so angry, not even when she yelled at me. She’s clutching my sketchbook, and I can see it’s open to the picture of the Starlite’s neon sign.

  “Mia.”

  She freezes mid-rant, her shoulders moving once, as if she’s taking a deep breath. She turns to look at me as I approach her.

  Mel sees an opportunity to escape, and he hurtles out the door as fast as he can, brushing against me as he goes.

  “Trix.” Mia takes two swift steps and seizes me in a hug that smells of lemon and chai.

  Her embrace is the only thing that gives me the courage to say what I want, mostly because I know that I’m putting everything on the line. After running away, Mia may not want me to come back
with her. I may have ruined everything, just like I have so many times before. But I say it anyway. “I want to come home.”

  And then she’s laughing between sobs, and I’m crying, and neither one of us is letting the other go.

  In the parking lot, Mia accidentally kicks a discarded needle on the pavement and pointedly ignores catcalls from some men leaning against an old Cutlass. Once we’re inside the Suburban with the doors locked, she says it’s too late to drive all the way back to Rocksaw, and she takes us across town to a Holiday Inn and gets us a room. She makes a phone call outside in the hall while I get undressed and crawl into my own full-size bed. I fall asleep before she comes back inside, taking comfort in the muffled rise and fall of her voice on the other side of the door.

  The next morning Mia keeps the conversation light, telling me that we can go downstairs and get something quick to eat from the breakfast buffet before we leave. Surprisingly, she grabs one of their muffins. I guess eating someone else’s baked goods must feel a little bit like a vacation for her.

  I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Mia to yell at me like she did at Mel last night. I ran away. I did exactly what Ms. Troy warned her I’d do the day she dropped me off at the farmhouse. I haven’t changed. I haven’t put down roots. I am a failure, a thief, a drifter. The pile of stolen items in my motel room proves it.

  But there’s nothing. Only a placid smile as Mia checks out at the front desk. We get into the Suburban, and Mia backs it out of the parking space. We turn out onto Charles Avenue, but we don’t immediately head toward Rocksaw. It’s unnerving, and so is her silence.

  Finally, I can’t bear it anymore and ask, “Are you going to yell at me now?”

  Mia purses her lips, like she’s determined. Her eyes are unreadable.

  We’re near Little Chinatown. I recognize the city blocks as we pass them.

  Finally, she speaks. “I love you, Trix. I need you to know that no matter how many times you run, no matter how far you go, I’ll keep looking for you.”

  I’ve got that heavy feeling of guilt again. And something more, something warm underneath that heaviness that makes my eyes feel hot.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s been hard for me to stand back and let you decide what you are and aren’t willing to share with me. It’s different. With Ember, I was there for everything. But with you, it’s like I’m stepping in at the end of the game, the last inning. And I don’t even know how to play.” Then she slows the car. I realize we’re pulling up in front of the Jasmine Dragon.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask. Everything comes back to me in a rush. The Good Year. The wallpapered apartment. The back booth. Mom’s face, full and pretty. The dictionary. The spicy scent of ginger.

  The Yangs will not want to see me. The last time I was here, Mom robbed them of their bank deposit. Oh no, this is a bad idea.

  Mia pulls my sketchbook out of her purse and hands it to me. “When you ran away, I went through this whole book, looking for every place you drew. The Westside High School. The Jasmine Dragon. The bus stop on Fifth and Yates. The Eastside Mall. All three Golden Corrals near the Eastside Mall. The Starlite Motel.” She points to the Jasmine Dragon outside the Suburban. “I met Mrs. Yang here. I showed her the picture that you drew of yourself in the booth.” She holds the sketch out to me. It’s me sitting next to Wendy, something I’d drawn when I was lonely and wishing that I had a sister, a friend.

  “She knew right away who you were.”

  “What did she say?” I ask, unable to look Mia in the eye.

  “She said you were a sweet girl, and she always wished that your mom had taken the deposit but left you behind.”

  I’m tearing up again, and there’s no gluten-free muffins to blame it on.

  “We talked for a little while.”

  “And she told you everything?”

  “She told me a few things. I understand that I’m never going to know everything, Trix. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me anything. But maybe someday you’ll tell me more.”

  I nod. Because I’m not ready to tell her everything. Some things are best left in the past. But other things. Maybe I could let them go if I told someone else. Maybe those wounds would heal over a little faster.

  I touch my sweater over my constellation of scars before I pull up my sleeve so that she can see them. “I never told anyone.” Not even Shane, who so lovingly traced the marks with his fingers, his lips.

  Mia shuts off the Suburban, but the radio continues to play that song that Ember loves so much, “Your Touch.” She looks at me with all her focus, waiting for me to tell her.

  “I was ten years old.” I feel the moment taking over, pulling me back. Every word now is a struggle, like I have to pull it from some dark place inside of me, syllable by syllable. “Mom knew what I could do. It was a part of how we’d always gotten by. But one night she was really messed up, and she owed her dealer money. She wanted me to sneak into the motel room next to us and steal some cash. The girl who stayed there had just gotten a lot of cash from her dad. I guess she was a runaway. Only fifteen. And she told Mom about it all because she was scared and relieved and afraid that her dad would never love her after everything she’d done. He wanted her to come home, and he’d wired her the money to get there.”

  I press my lips together, hoping it will keep me from crying. “But I told Mom no. I wouldn’t steal from that girl. She just wanted to go home.” I can’t stop my voice from breaking because I know what it feels like to want to go home. I know that now. “And Mom was so mad, and so fucking high that she did this to me. I had to be punished for refusing to steal from that girl.”

  Mia’s eyes are wet. “Oh, Trix, I’m—”

  “That’s not all of it.” I have to get this all out now before I lose my nerve. “After that I turned her in. I went to my teacher at school and I told her my mom was an addict, and that we were lying about where we lived. And they took me away from her. Mom checked herself into rehab. And I went into foster care for the first time.

  “And then I realized what I’d done. I was angry, and hurt, and I’d betrayed her. My mother. My only family. I thought maybe she would never come back for me. I ran away three times trying to find her. I was sorry. I just wanted to go home, like that girl in the room next to ours. And Mom was home. I loved her.” I swipe at the tears again.

  “But even years after everything, I don’t think she could ever forgive either of us for what we did. And that’s why she left.”

  “Trix, you can’t think that. You can’t put her leaving on you.”

  “Why else would she have left?”

  “I don’t know. There could be a million reasons. But you can’t keep taking responsibility for her and what she did. She was the adult. You were the kid.”

  My voice breaks again. “But she can never come back now. How can I tell her that I forgive her?”

  “I don’t know, Trix. I don’t know. But you have to believe that no matter what, she loved you, okay? There’s no one in the world who wouldn’t love you.”

  “After she got out of rehab, she got a job here and a little apartment up there.” I point at the small window on the east side of the building. “I thought we were finally going to be a perfect family.”

  Mia hands me a tissue from her purse. After I’ve wiped my eyes and nose, and taken a few deep breaths, she reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Let’s go see Mrs. Yang. I promised her I would bring you by when I found you.”

  The front door is locked because the restaurant doesn’t open for another two hours, but when Mia taps quietly at the door, someone answers it.

  The girl who opens it is my age. She has shoulder-length black hair, with some brightly dyed pink strands hanging on either side of her face. She wears a short apron around her waist and a pen tucked behind her left ear. It’s Wendy. “We open at eleven,” she says at first. Then her mouth forms a perfect O in recognition. “Mama!” she yells over her shoulder. “Come out here!
You won’t believe who it is! It’s Trix!” Wendy smashes me into an enthusiastic hug before herding me into the dining room with one arm locked around my shoulders. I admire her pink hair again and wonder if she got a guitar and started a rock band like she wanted when we were twelve.

  Jack is wrapping silverware in paper napkins at the familiar back booth. He stands up when he sees me. I can’t believe how big he’s gotten. He blushes, his voice cracking a little. “Hi, Trix. Long time no see.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Yang come in from the kitchen. For a moment they stand there, and I wonder if they are comparing me to the little girl who used to live here, who used to play poker for peppermints and never swore.

  They look the same as I remember, as if I’ve stepped back in time. I glance briefly at the stairs that lead to the upstairs apartments, as if Mom might be on her way down for the lunch shift.

  Mrs. Yang pulls me back to this moment. “Trix! It’s you! I can’t believe it! We’ve wanted to see you again for so long.” Her face would be happy if it weren’t for her wet eyes, like mine now. She hurries to me, folding me into her soft arms. She runs a hand over my hair when she pulls back again to look at me, and suddenly I remember her doing that in the Good Year, the gesture casual and yet devastatingly kind to me when I was twelve. “It’s so good to see you, Trix. I’ve always worried about you, wondering where you were. If you were okay. Mia says you’re living in the country now? With your cousin and another aunt?”

  I nod, still trying to find the words to tell her everything I wished I could have before Mom and I left.

  “Trixie,” Mr. Yang says, joining his wife. He lets out a sigh of relief. “I’ve waited a long time to tell you thank you.” He hugs me, too.

  “Thank you?” I ask, confused.

  Mr. Yang pulls a battered pocket-size copy of American English Idioms and Slang out of his back pocket. “When Mia stopped by yesterday, it reminded me of this. I found it when I was cleaning out the little apartment a few weeks after you left. It had my name on it, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I unwrapped it.” He smiles at me. “It has been well-loved, as you can see. Many Scrabble feuds were settled.”