by Zane
Did God listen to anyone anymore? Maybe all along, the answer to “Please God, keep me and my mother safe and help my father to leave the drugs alone,” was a big fat, “No!” While Steven couldn’t understand that, he did understand that God helps those who help themselves. The only thing he could see was that his dad—angry, high, or drunk—helped himself to giving out an order of ass-whipping. And his mother helped herself to an order of take one, take two, why not take three. Steven could only help himself to a ringside seat in his favorite corner, and there is where the family togetherness ended. Another blow made Steven wince. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision. At one time, he had loved his dad. At one time, he had felt his mother was the strongest woman on the planet. Each fight proved him wrong and with each fight he felt more alone.
Fear kept Steven’s behind planted on the plush carpet. A carpet that barely hid the blood stains from the previous fights. A living room that had been almost spotless two hours ago, now looked like the before pictures in a home makeover series. Drugs had taken over what was left of his dad’s mind. But deep down Steven knew that drugs weren’t the real cause of his father’s anger. The one night when he yelled at the top of his lungs, “I gave up my hopes and dreams to support this family!” was closer to the truth. Hopelessness. Dreamlessness. They wouldn’t even have a family, if Steven weren’t there. Steven knew then that the fighting was his fault, but what could he do about it now. He was already there.
What was Mom’s excuse for staying? Of course it couldn’t be because Dad was so good to her or that he took care of their family. Well, to let Aunt Vinah tell it, at one time he was good to her. But as far as Steven could remember, that hadn’t been the case. Maybe someone had fast-forwarded through that scene before he could catch a glimpse. But God made other men, good men. Like his karate instructor. And his gym teacher! Good men. Kind men. Didn’t God give mothers a second chance when the first husband broke down like a used car in the middle of rush-hour traffic? Couldn’t they be traded in like cars? Or toys? Or refrigerators? Mom took that Kenmore back and got a new one—a better one with an icemaker, too. Didn’t that say something?
Mom was superwoman. Mom could make a week’s worth of groceries last a month. She could juggle bills like a pro. Mom could somehow pay for Steven to attend private school on a salary that said public school would do just fine. Mom could put a smile on even the meanest police officer’s face by making small talk. And Steven had seen that many times as she drove away without a ticket. Even he had known that speeding down Lake Shore Drive like an Indy 500 driver was against the law. He never complained because he enjoyed it. Yes, Mom could do all that and more. Well, except one thing. Leave! Yes, just one thing—leave and take him with her. Why did she stay with Dad when all he could do was hurt her? She was strong. Everyone knew that. Superwoman was always strong, right? She was super-woman. But how could she rescue Steven if she couldn’t even rescue herself?
The front door wasn’t made of kryptonite. It didn’t even have bars or a screen door. A few simple steps forward and both of them could run. Hide. Live. Smile. Dream. That’s all it would take, right? Just the two of them. Yes, that would be an answer to a prayer. But deep down, he loved his dad, too. Didn’t they have places for him to get well? Yes, rehab or detox, or something like that. But by looking at the rage in his father’s eyes, as sick as it sounded, it looked like he enjoyed fighting. There was no help for that; not even counseling. Steven could also see hatred. Not just hatred for his family, but hatred for life in its entirety, like life had done him wrong. If anything, Hector wasn’t getting it any worse than anyone else. He was learning life’s lesson, but he chose to learn the hard way. Even though Steven’s mother was his superwoman, he had been waiting on his father to become Superman. Steven could bet that it wouldn’t happen anytime soon, though.
The sudden stillness in the room made Steven hold his breath. Something had changed. The fighting had ended, but not the normal way—with doors slamming and sobs and swiping alcohol over blood-crusted bruises.
No, they were still standing. Facing each other. Oh yes, this time was different. Dad had changed the game. He held a small silver gun in his hands. Mom’s hands had yanked upward like a criminal when the police say, “Put ’em up.”
“Where’s the money, Bitch?” That voice, although spilling from his dad’s lips, did not belong to the man Steven once knew. And who was he calling a bitch?
Steven could barely recognize his mother’s voice, which came out as a frightened whisper, “It’s gone. I had to pay bills. We have to eat. We have to … live!”
Sweat and blood poured from Dad’s forehead as though a faucet had been installed at the hairline. “You’re lying. I want that money. You got paid today.”
What money? Her money? Mom was the only one who worked. Dad never had any money. Dad didn’t have a job anymore—thanks to his best friends—cocaine and crack. Now this scene was new—the gun and Dad hitting Mom up for cash? Or was it an old thing, and Steven didn’t know about it? If Steven had any respect left for his dad, he would’ve lost it at that moment. But Dad had a head start on that a year ago, and had done nothing to gain it back. Steven wasn’t sure the man even cared.
“You’re lying, Bitch. You always take care of that brat. You’ve got some money.”
Brat? When did Steven become a brat? And who gave his dad a gun? Who in their right, or even their terrible mind, would trust his dad with a gun?
“Hector, put the gun down and leave. Or just leave. I don’t have anything. You’ve been through my purse; you’ve been through all my hiding places. You’ve seen there’s nothing there.”
The gun lifted until he connected with the frightened woman’s temple.
Fear was instantly swept aside as Steven scrambled to his feet, leaving the safety of the corner. “Here, Dad,” Steven said, stuffing a trembling hand into his jeans’ pocket. “This is my allowance. You can have it. I—”
The sudden movement caused his father, and the gun, to swing in his direction.
Powwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!
White heat flooded Steven’s body. Pain spread from his chest to his toes and bounced back up to start all over again. Standing became impossible. Against his wishes, Steven lowered to his knees, barely seeing the stunned expression on his father’s face. But he could see that his mother had reached out for him, trying to catch him before he landed totally on the floor. She was too late.
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God,” he faintly heard his dad say over and over again as he hit his fists on the side of his head. See? He said God! The man did actually know Him!
“Steven. Ohhhhhh, my baby.” Mom’s sobs made her body tremble as she pulled Steven’s head into the soft curve of her breasts. Soft. Comfort. The living room swam in and out of focus. The world was fading. Slowly. Slowly. Who knew that at twelve years of age, Steven would lay there in his mother’s arms wanting more time to live, but not sure whether time was on his side or not.
He remembered his mother telling him, “Before we are born and come onto Earth we choose our parents, our life, and our death.” Steven didn’t believe it then, but he understood now.
She reached out, yanked the phone from the cradle, frantically dialing for help. His dad sank down to the floor by his side. Both of them looked down on him. The fight was forgotten and something else was more important than money, or pain. Steven. Finally, they saw him. Finally, they had stopped fighting enough to see him. See, God does answer prayers. God does listen to children’s prayers.
Know ye not that ye are Gods? He’d read that in the Bible. And if that were true, if Steven was God, he would give anything, everything, to see his parents as they were right now. Hands by their sides, his father concerned with someone other than himself, his next hit, his next high—they were together in at least this one thing.
“I love you, Mom,” Steven said softly to the woman whose hands trailed a painful path near his wound. Then he turned to the man whose pale skin,
thin lips, and wavy hair were a perfect reminder of his Mexican heritage. Steven struggled for breath, but did the one thing that God would want him to do. “I forgive you, Dad. And … if you love me … you’ll get some help. Get some—”
A single nod from his dad, followed by another, then another, needed no words to explain. With that, Steven Santos closed his eyes and prayed. The soft hum of his mother’s voice echoed in his heart and mind as he drifted into a peaceful sleep, hoping to awake and see that his dad’s promises were kept and his mother had become Superwoman again.
Steven opened his eyes halfway, then fully. The operating room had disappeared. He was asleep in a comfortable green chair, but noticed “the other Steven” still lying on a hospital bed in a coma. His reflection was on life support—several different machines kept tabs on how close he was to death.
Though he remembered how it all happened, the question now was how could it be reversed? And why was he hanging around like a shadow, a ghost, or something.
His attention was drawn away from his body to his parents talking just inside the entrance. For the first time in a long time, it looked like a civil conversation. No yelling, flying objects, or people getting hurt. He was surprised that they couldn’t see him; he wasn’t gone but he wasn’t necessarily “there” either. Somehow, someone would have to explain that to him and fast.
“How could I have been so stupid?” Steven’s mother said as he listened in. “I should’ve left when I had the chance. This is all my fault.”
“Where would you go?” Steven’s father said angrily, trying to keep his voice down as though he knew that the “other” Steven could hear. “You don’t have any family.”
“Any place would’ve been better than staying with you,” his mother shot back. “Especially, if I would’ve known you were going to shoot my son.”
“It was an accident!” Hector said, his brow furrowed in frustration. He glanced over to the hospital bed. “He’s my son, too.”
“You sure have a wonderful way of showing that he’s your son,” Mom said through clenched teeth.
Hector got up and walked over to the window, looking out at the gray sky.
Mom, sporting a dark blue overcoat and clutching a worn handbag, followed him, saying, “Ever since you got hooked on those drugs, you’ve paid attention to nothing else. Not your son, and not me. I guess family doesn’t really mean anything to you anymore.” She grabbed him, whirling him to face her. “The only family you think about are those people that got you hooked on that stuff.”
“I don’t need to deal with this right now,” Hector said, brushing past her, trying to walk out of the room.
Sprinting, Mom made it to the door and blocked his path. “Yes, you do, Hector. If you don’t deal with this now, I know for a fact that you won’t deal with it later.” Dark brown eyes watered with tears that splattered onto her coat. “When are you going to stop running away from your problems and confront them?”
“I am confronting them,” he said, running a pale hand through his straight, jet-black hair. “I’m going to get help for my drug problem.”
There was an uncomfortable pause in the room. Both of them knew it was a lie—a lie he told often, and a lie she had believed far too many times to count.
“You almost killed your son,” she said softly, her gaze landing on the machines standing guard next to Steven. “Your own flesh and blood, your seed, and there’s no telling whether he will survive.” She faced Hector, glaring at him. “You don’t think there’s a problem? I know there’s a problem. The fact that you pulled a gun on me—a gun for Christ’s sake!—says there’s a problem. The fact that we’re here says there’s a problem. You should be praying and asking for forgiveness.”
“Heather, didn’t you hear him? Steven already forgave me for that,” Hector said, lacing his hands on top of his head, as though trying to block out one memory or another.
She glared angrily at him and her voice became icy. “I’m talking about God—forgiveness from God.”
Hector grimaced, inching away from Heather’s anger. “God can’t do anything for me,” he growled. “He didn’t do anything for me when I was Steven’s age and He sure as hell hasn’t done much for me lately.”
Dad began pacing the room.
“Hector,” Mom began softly, placing a single hand on his shoulder. “I know that your mother was abused by your father, but you—”
“Don’t even say it.” Hector shrugged, removing her hand from his body. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
“What?”
Hector turned to look at her. “I’m going to have to forgive him. But why should I, after all that he did to my family?”
Steven’s mother looked up at Hector. “For the same reason Steven forgave you… it’s the right thing to do. When will this vicious cycle end? It should’ve ended with you!” She stepped out, covering the distance between them. “You swore that you would be a better man than your father. A better husband. A better father. But you’ve tried so hard not to be like him, you’ve become worse than he ever was.”
Hector whirled to face her, parting his mouth to speak.
She held up a single hand to silence him. “I’ve taken a lot from you, things that will take time for me to forgive, but I didn’t want Steven to experience this. I don’t want him to grow up and continue this thing. If he lives.” At that moment, Mom broke down in tears. “No, I mean—when, when he wakes up.”
But the words were out. If. If Steven lived. Was this the price he had to pay for his mom’s inability to leave a bad situation? Was this the price for Dad’s love of drugs—things that took him away from reality and into a land that had nothing to do with responsibility? Why did Steven have to pay the price? He’d been the innocent one in all this.
Hector crossed the room, touching the face of the Steven lying on the bed. “How are we going to be able to say that we have a family? More than likely, I’ll be in jail.”
“I really don’t know how that will work out, but you should try to work things out while you can. This is something you’re going to have to do on your own. The only reason I’m talking to you now is because I know Steven would want that. Otherwise, I would’ve had you shipped out of here the moment we came through the hospital doors, so you wouldn’t be able to have any contact with me or my son.”
Hector’s gaze fell to the white tiled floor. Mom was right; Dad was going to have to do it on his own. Could he? Would he?
Small delicate fingers curled around the lifeless one with an IV sticking out of the back side. The sound of a chair scraping across the tile took over all other sounds in the room for a moment. Hector placed the wide, tan leather chair right behind Mom. She sat down, still keeping Steven’s hand in hers. Watching for signs of life—any life—any movement. She bowed her head, and Steven knew at once that she was praying.
“Pssssst. Hey, Kid.”
Steven looked to the left of his space in the upper corner of the room. Another kid, about his age, with dark brown skin and a low-cut fade perched next to him. He wore a red and white striped shirt, jeans, and Air Force One sneakers. Steven wasn’t frightened. Somehow Steven knew that this “kid” was just like him—in between living and dying.
“What’s up?” Steven asked.
“Those your parents?”
“Yep. If you could call them that.” Steven forced a laugh of disappointment. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to keep you company,” the boy said, punching Steven in the arm playfully.
“Company? I’m not alone; my parents are here.” Steven directed his focus back to his parents.
“No, your parents are there. They can’t even see you.”
“Am I fully dead?” Steven asked, confused by that one statement.
“Nope, you’re just like you thought—in between.”
“Whew—cool. So why else are you here?”
“I’m just like you. My parents were domvies, too.”
“No, domvies—domestic violence parents.”
“So you’re in a coma, too?”
“Nope, I wasn’t so lucky,” he said, sadly walking to the window, waiting for Steven to follow. “I’m all the way dead.”
“Your dad?”
The boy shook his head slowly. “Mom’s aim was a little off with the knife. It slipped past Dad and landed right here,” he said, pointing to his chest. “She was trying to protect herself from him.”
“Wow, my dad had a gun tonight. It was an accident also.”
“Yeah, I know all about it. There are a lot of us floating around here.” Michael frowned. “My mama had an order of protection and everything, but that was just a piece of paper. We should’ve gone to one of those shelters or something.”
“Was your dad on drugs?”
“Naw, he was just… mean,” the boy said, hesitating, trying to find a polite way to put it.
“Well, at least my dad had an excuse,” Steven said proudly. “He was on drugs.”
The boy chuckled, his hazel eyes twinkling. “Doesn’t make you any less half-dead now, does it?”
Steven winced, realizing the boy had a point. “What’s your name?”
“Michael,” he said, extending his hand. “Michael Roberts.”
“I’m Steven Santos,” he said, shaking it. “So, how long do I hang around up here?”
“Depends on you. Just like your parents are making choices, you’re supposed to make some also. You can stay here for a while or you can go back when you’re called.”
Actually, the more he thought about it, Steven didn’t want to go back—in between was safe.
“How many are there like you?”
Michael frowned, his mind winding with confusion. “Like me?”
“You know, kids that were killed in domestic violence accidents.”
“Oh, domvie kids?”