Unbroken

by Jasmine Carolina

  There’s something about this one, something that tells me I shouldn’t let her go so easily. I shouldn’t let her go at all.

  SIX

  HER EYES WERE GREEN. Not that “smoldering” green they talk about in books, but that light, airy, sea foam green. Whenever I looked her in the eyes, I couldn’t lock gazes with her for more than a few seconds. They were so hypnotic that at four years old, they scared the shit out of me.

  She always wore Chanel No. 5. Her hair was long, wavy, and chestnut brown. When she smiled, it was as bright as the letters on the Hollywood sign. She liked to make French toast, because it’s my favorite thing to eat for breakfast. Her favorite song was My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion. Her favorite movie was The Little Mermaid. She loved to dance, especially to cumbias. She loved my dad. She loved my sister and me.

  Those are the things I remember about my mother. It’s not much, but it’s what I have to hold on to.

  I know a little more about her, stuff that Daddy has told me over the years. Like how she was addicted to gummy bears. Like how she thought all of life’s problems could be cured by an evening of watching When Harry Met Sally and an endless supply of root beer floats. Like how she would whistle in the shower, because she would sing so loudly and off-key, she didn’t want to disturb anyone. Or how for the entire ten years they were together, no one ever saw her without a disposable camera in her hand. Or how she loved nature so much that whenever she and Daddy had a fight, he could always find her in the grass in our backyard, lying on her back and looking up at the trees. Or how she loved to go camping, and whenever they did, you couldn’t pay her to get out of the lake unless it was time to eat or time for bed.

  I run through the list in my head, making sure that they remain etched in my memory for future reference, for when—or if—Bianca ever wants to know what I do.

  My fingers trace over the the words on her headstone.

  Catalina Yadira Matteo

  Loving wife and mother

  I was only four when we lost our mother. And today is the thirteenth anniversary of her death. Normally, I come to the cemetery alone, and every once in a blue moon, I can cajole Bianca into coming with me. But this time, it’s a whole family affair. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve never driven long distances before.

  We got a babysitter for Gracie and Mila so that Mom and Daddy could drive down with us. Even though I don’t know why this time they choose to accompany us, I’m kind of glad they did.

  We decided to make this a weekend affair, but Ms. Archer gave me two days off, since I told her I was dealing with a family matter. We got two hotel rooms, one for Mom and Daddy, and one for me and Bee, so that we can stay up here until Wednesday morning. It’s rare that Daddy can stay away from his job this long, so we’re taking full advantage of it.

  We’ve been here for two hours, telling stories about her and laughing, eating really bad Little Caesar’s pizza and drinking apple juice.

  We’re enjoying ourselves, even though we probably shouldn’t be.

  Daddy looks solemn, and I can tell that thirteen years, another wife, and two new kids later, he still misses my mother something fierce.

  “Your mother was very beautiful, Sabrina,” Mom says. “You look just like her. You could have been her twin.”

  I smile at her, and she smiles back, pulling a box out from her purse. It’s small, but it’s lovely. She hands it to me, and I scoot over to my sister so that she can look with me. I’ve never seen this box before.

  I lift the lid and gingerly pull out a stack of pictures. Running through them, I watch her life through her eyes.

  The day she met Daddy: she’s grinning like a fool and dancing in the water fountain at Chapman. The day he proposed: she’s sobbing into his shirt as he presses a kiss to her forehead. The day they moved into our old house: she’s shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand—the other is on her hip as she stares at the moving truck from the front porch. The day she told Daddy she was pregnant for the first time: it’s Christmas day, and he’s holding a baby sleeper that he’s just pulled out of a gift-wrapped box. Her painting my nursery: her hair is in a bun, a paintbrush in one hand and the other rests affectionately on her baby bump. The day she gave birth to me—this one is my favorite: Daddy has his arms around her, and he’s looking at the camera, smiling at whoever’s taking the picture; she can’t take her eyes off of me.

  There are a plethora of pictures from my childhood. My first steps, all my Christmases, birthdays, and Easters. My first school assembly. I flip through them like they’re nothing, and I stop at the only one Bianca wants to see, and I hand it to her. I know this picture well, because it’s the one that was up in our living room. She and Daddy are in a warm embrace. I’m sitting in Daddy’s lap, and I’m holding a newborn Bianca. We’re all staring down at Bee like she’s God’s gift to humankind.

  I look over at my sister, and there are tears in her eyes. She can’t stop staring at the picture of the day she was born.

  “You can keep it if you want to, Bee,” Mom says. “I’ve always felt guilty, you know? I got to raise the both of you. I got to be with your dad. I got to spend the past thirteen years with her family, and she’s missing it all.”

  I look over at my sister, and she has her lips pursed. She hands the picture to Mom, and then stands up. Brushing the grass off her pants, she says, “Well that’s certainly not your fault. It’s hers. I’ll be in the car.”

  Mom looks like she’s about to cry, and Daddy puts his arms around her. She leans into his embrace, and I know he’s trying to relieve her of some of her guilt.

  Mom showed up at the cemetery the day we buried my mother. She and Daddy were high school sweethearts, but they broke up a few weeks after graduation. They lost contact through college, and somehow she found him during the worst possible time—the death of his wife. She wanted to be his shoulder to lean on in his time of need. And that’s exactly what she was. She healed him. She came in and took over where our bio-mom left off. She took me to school, stayed home with Bee. She gave us normalcy where we had none. Somewhere between her falling in love with my sister and me, Daddy fell in love with her all over again. They married within the year, and Mom moved into our home. Mom was only 25 when she and Daddy married. She wanted children and lots of them. Daddy was all for it—in time. They both decided they should wait until we were stable and adjusted mentally before even considering it. It wasn’t until seven years later that they decided to have a baby. Grecia came along when I was eleven, and Mila came later.

  Because of all that, and how badly Mom tried to respect our bio-mom, and our grief over her loss, I can’t understand where her guilt comes from.

  “Ana, honey, don’t worry over it. Bianca’s just sensitive about Catalina,” Daddy says. “Give her time. She’ll be okay.” He kisses Mom on the top of her head, and gets to his feet. “I’ll look after her.”

  He squeezes my shoulder as he goes to tend to my sister.

  Mom sits quietly beside me, and then she nods her head in the direction of the flower arrangements we bought. She starts taking the cellophane off the bouquet, her eyes watering as she does so. She’s far more emotional here than I ever have been, and I’m sure that’s just her guilt getting the best of her.

  I reach over and grasp her shaking hand, pulling the attention away from the scene at hand. She gazes at me, her hazel eyes piercing my absolutely ordinary brown ones, a smile on her face.

  “Mom, don’t beat yourself up so much when it comes to Bianca. You know why she feels the way she does, and it’s going to take a lot more than two years of therapy to vanquish those fears from her mind,” I tell her, trying to soothe her worry.

  I understand Bianca’s feelings all too well, not because I agree with what she feels, but because I’m partially responsible for embedding that fear into her mind.

  When they thought I was old enough to understand what happened to my mother, Mom and Daddy sat down and explained it to me. Words like �
�suicide” and “post-partum depression” were thrown around, and to a curious eleven year old, it was just another puzzle to solve. A trip to the library and a few dictionary and encyclopedia searches later, I came home on a rampage, fully believing that the birth of my baby sister was the reason our mother took her own life.

  Years later, I learned the true meaning of those words, especially after Bianca was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and I had to understand mental illness on a whole other level. I worked hard to convince my sister that she didn’t do anything wrong, that I loved her, that she was perfect just the way she was, and we would always be the best of friends.

  But then Maddox Bradley came into our lives.

  And the unthinkable happened.

  And all Hell broke loose.

  And she convinced herself there was something wrong with her, that she was responsible for taking all the people I loved away from me.

  I still haven’t convinced her otherwise, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to.

  “I’ll never understand why she feels the way she does,” Mom says, choking back a sob. “I’ve tried to do everything right, tried to love her past all that. And nothing works.”

  “I understand why she feels that way. She’s my sister, and I’ll always understand her on a level no one else ever will. You let me worry about Bianca. Everything will be alright, Mom, I promise.”

  Looking up, I see Daddy walking back toward us, his head hung low. He crouches down in front of us, placing a hand on Mom’s shoulder as he kisses her quickly on the lips. When he pulls away, he turns to face me and gives me a solemn expression.

  “Your sister’s asking for you. Maybe you can say something to cheer her up,” he offers.

  With an eyebrow raise, I nod. I’m not sure what I can offer in ways of support and a shoulder to cry on, but I’m willing to try either way. If it’ll make my dad happy, I’m more than happy to do it.

  I leap to my feet and dust my jeans off, making my way to the backseat of the Denali. I climb in beside my sister, who’s looking out the window on the opposite side of me. When I shut the door, she winces, but she doesn’t look over at me. I’m sure she knows I’m here.

  “Hey, Bee,” I tell her, scooting all the way over and nudging her with my knee. “Talk to me.”

  She turns to look at me, and I inhale sharply at the tears spilling from her eyes. She hasn’t cried in front of me since she was ten, and that’s what bothers me the most about her emotional state right now. I know she cries, know she shed more tears than I could possibly imagine after what happened with Maddox, but I never saw it. I never watched her shed a tear over the most devastating thing either of us could remember experiencing since our mother’s death.

  “I don’t know how you don’t hate me,” she whispers.

  Her words take me aback, shove a knife in my heart. As heartbroken as I’ve been over many things that have happened over the years, including losing the first boy I loved, I could never imagine a reality where I’d hate my sister.

  “Bianca, why would you ever think that? What makes you think I could ever hate you?” I ask, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t!” Her voice is sharp. “Don’t touch me…I can’t stand it! How can you stand to be in the same space as me, huh? I took her from you. She’s dead because I’m alive. She’s missing everything, and you grew up calling another woman ‘Mommy’ because of me.”

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  She turns away, folding her arms and leaning out the window. For a moment, I think she’s just gathering her thoughts, but I know otherwise. Her shoulders quake and I hear her gasp, cutting me to the core.

  I grab her hand and pull her toward me. Her head falls forward to rest on my shoulder and I rub her back soothingly.

  Her reaction to all this stuns me, although it really shouldn’t. She turns into stone the minute we pull into the parking lot of the cemetery, doesn’t say a thing unless someone says something to her first, and she always beats herself up later.

  “Bianca, look at me.” My tone is demanding, the only one I can take with her when she gets like this, because otherwise she’ll end up on a destructive path and ruin everything in her wake. She lifts her head marginally, so I place my hands on either side of her jaw and hold her in place. “Bianca, I love you. Yes, she’s missing everything. Yes, she’s dead. Yes, another woman came in and took her place. But you’re forgetting one crucial detail.” Her eyes light up with scores of questions. I give her a weak smile. “You went through all that, too. I had four years with Mom. You only got one. I remember her. You don’t. I am not the only one who lost her, Bianca. And her death is not. Your. Fault.” I kiss her on the forehead as she continues to sob. “There is nothing you could ever do that would make me hate you.”

  She closes her eyes as more tears stream down her face. She hiccups with every sob, and she finally opens her eyes to look at me after inhaling shakily.

  “But I’m the reason you lost Maddox.”

  So there it is. The giant elephant in the room.

  Her voice is so soft, I’m surprised I’m even able to hear her above the howling of the wind.

  I close my eyes, fighting off my own tears as they threaten to fall. I should have known that this would come between us, as hard as I’ve tried not to let it. She’s fourteen years old, we’re not too close in age. We don’t fight over stupid things like each other’s clothes and shoes and makeup. We don’t fight over boys. But this boy in particular ruined everything, and he doesn’t even give a shit.

  “Maddox Bradley is a Grade-A son of a bitch. He made his bed. He fucked up. He is the reason he’s no longer in my life. Not you. I loved him, I did. And part of me always will. But I will never forgive him for what he did to us.” I give her a smile. “I will always love you, Bianca. You didn’t take anything from me. You, Grace, and Mila, are the only ones keeping me afloat these days. You don’t ever have to worry about me hating you. I never could. Do I make myself clear?”

  She forces a smile and envelops me in a tight hug. “Crystal. I love you, Bree.”

  SEVEN

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, NO ONE would ever be able to tell the horrors this house has held for me the past six years.

  White house, yellow shutters, large picture windows, an enormous front porch. To an innocent bystander, it probably looks like someone’s dream home. It looks like the home people write novels, write songs, make movies about. But for the past six years, it’s been the subject of all my nightmares.

  For six years, I’ve run away from this place, my brother and sister in tow, trying to escape the demon who resides within these four walls.

  We always run to the same place, to Mama Quinn’s. Nickayla was the first person to learn my secret, and she would take it to her grave if I asked her to. For years that place has been my safe haven, our safe haven. We learned there what our life could have been like had our mother survived her battle with cancer. We learned what a father’s love is supposed to look like.

  Every time shit hit the fan at home, we always knew we had another one to run to.

  And every time I decided it was time for us to go, it got harder and harder to convince myself I was doing the right thing for all of us.

  This morning, for instance, I had to drag Dalis and Cason from the Quinn household kicking and screaming. They protested the entire time, and Dalis cried the entire car ride over. I knew I was hurting them, and I hated having to do it, but the fact of the matter was, if we weren’t at the house, our dad would find a reason to sell the house and all that was left of Mom inside it.

  I didn’t stay because I was some kind of martyr or a masochist. I stayed because there was no way I could give up so easily on my memory of my mother.

  That’s what I keep telling myself as I stand on the front porch of our childhood home, rummaging through my pocket for the keys. No matter how many times I say it mentally, it’s impossible to believe it when my siblings are looking at me like I killed the family pet.


  “Do we really have to stay here, Bubba?” Dalis asks, her voice shaking. “I hate it here.”

  I know she does, and I know she always will most likely. There’s nothing that can make being here okay for any of us, but I’m going to try.

  Getting my hand around the keys, I pull them out and unlock the door. Cason’s the one holding our bags, so the minute we’re inside, he darts toward the staircase and runs upstairs. I close my eyes as I stand in the foyer, waiting for the inevitable. It’s not long before it comes: the slam of his bedroom door, and the familiar vocal stylings of AFI blasting from his radio. I shake my head and open my eyes, turning to look at my little sister.

  I place the house key on the hook right by our hallway closet as I smile at her.

  She looks so small compared to this house. It swallows her up, diminishes her size, and I never noticed until exactly this moment.

  “Go on upstairs, Liss,” I tell her.

  With a sideways glance, she stares me down. I know she’s trying to read me, trying to figure out what I’m up to. If only she knew…

  I grab the back of her neck and guide her toward my chest so I can give her a hug. She buries her face against my shirt and sighs, trying to calm the emotions within her.

  “Go ahead. I’ll be up in a few. I’m gonna see what’s in here to eat.”

  A curt nod is passed between us, and I watch as she retreats up to her bedroom. Her shoes pound against the stairs, and she stomps purposely all the rest of the way to her room. I close my eyes, knowing exactly what’s coming next, and there’s no way I can stop it now. She slams her door closed, same as Cason, and then her teeny bopper pop music starts playing to compete against his rock.

  There’s no way I can hear him coming up behind me. There’s too much going on around me, too much requiring my attention, like the giant mess in the middle of the living room, likely the result of another drunken night on his part. He grabs my shoulder from behind and I whirl around to look him in his red-rimmed eyes.