by Yessi Smith
“He’s coming back, Livvy.”
My heart quivers, my skin buzzing with the threatening storm. I’m falling again, my heart plummeting with the pressure. The gloomy shadows surround me, and numbness spreads over my body, but somehow, the pain from my shattered heart remains intact.
“I told him I loved him.” Overwhelming misery spills from her lips and takes ahold of my heart. “I thought maybe he could be my dad.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I whisper into her hair, rocking her in my arms, the same way I did when she was just a baby. “He’s coming back. He’s coming back,” I repeat as much for her as for myself.
He’s coming back.
He has to.
“Why’d he leave?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But he went with Tito, and you know Tito will take good care of him.”
“Tito would kick his butt if he didn’t come back.” Olivia perks up, flashing a cautious smile in my direction.
I laugh. “You’re probably right.”
“He seemed sad when he said good-bye. Like maybe it was forever.”
“Yeah.” I sigh, a tear freeing itself from behind my eye. “But Cam’s always been a bit intense, even when we were kids.”
Olivia’s eyes widen, her lips forming a thin line. “Was he always sad, too?”
“Not always. He had mean parents who did a lot of horrible things to him,” I try to explain the complexities of Camden’s life to innocent ears. “Ita and Tito took him in when he was twelve, and we became his family. After that, he was a lot happier.”
But still, the horrors he’d endured lashed out at him every chance they had and eventually drove him away.
“Is that why he’s leaving? So, he can find happiness again?”
“I think he found his happiness right here.” I trail a finger down her nose.
“Then, why’d he leave?” she asks, confusion contorting her face.
In love, we find hurt. In late hours, we find restlessness.
My head lies on my tear-soaked pillow, and I close my sore eyes to the early morning rays of sun spilling through my window shades. Memories of Camden and me surround me, an avalanche of what I already miss. Wrapped in my warm blanket, I lift my tired body from the bed and steal one last breath of Camden’s pillow before I start making breakfast for Olivia.
Startled, I take a step back when I find my mom sitting on the living room couch.
“Mi corazon.”
Sympathy and understanding wrap itself around me, and I go to her.
My mom brushes my hair away from my face and hugs me close to her as she murmurs words meant to soothe me.
“He left.” My heart cracks open, the tiny pieces slicing its way through my chest.
“Only for a short time,” she reassures me.
“But why? Don’t I get to know why?”
“You will. He’ll tell you everything when he comes back.”
“When he comes back?”
Anger builds in my stomach, thrashing and pulling me in all directions. My mouth twists, and I rub the nape of my neck as I try to gain control of my shallow breaths, but I know it’s futile, so I embrace it. Lost in the chaotic pain, my heart grows tense. Burning, devouring, destroying me.
“When he comes back?” A humorless laugh radiates from my chest. “And then what? He’ll leave again?”
Nerves rumble inside me, seeking a way out, and I stand up to pace in front of my mom.
“It isn’t like that,” she insists, standing up so that she can hug me again.
I shake away from her embrace and pin her down with a stare that encompasses all the hurt and frustration.
“How would I know?” I shout. My vision blurs, bleeding and fading. “I don’t even know what’s going on! I tell my daughter he’s coming back, but how do I know that’s true? How do I know how long he’s going to stay until he breaks our hearts again? Don’t I get a say in any of this?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “You’ve always had a say, but even when he wasn’t here, you still chose him.”
The truth of her words takes my breath away and I hunch over in pain. My chest spasms, and I suck in a greedy breath, my heart refusing to stop thinking, hurting, beating.
“Mommy?” Olivia’s soft voice echoes inside my ears, bringing me back to reality.
“It’s fine, sweetheart. I’m fine.” I turn to her with a forced smile and plant a kiss on her forehead. “Why don’t you let Nisa out?”
Nisa runs from the kitchen and bounces in front of us before she runs to the back sliding glass door, barking her impatience as she waits for someone to open it.
“Go ahead,” my mom coaxes Olivia, who finally listens. She closes the small distance between us and places a warm hand against my cheek. “Yan, I want to tell you, I do, but I think it’d be better coming from him. You two have always understood each other.”
“He didn’t tell me though. He didn’t try to make me understand. He just left. So, you tell me, Mom. Please.” My eyes water, begging for an answer I’m not sure I’m ready to hear.
“Yan…”
“Please,” I whisper. “I need to know.”
A heavy sigh falls on my cheek.
“Cam made a mistake. A bad mistake that has followed him since the day he woke up in the hospital after the earthquake in Haiti.”
My mind spins and lands on Camden’s mom as my mom tells me about his addiction.
“An addict?” My voice bleeds, the tone slicing through the tension in the air.
I back away from her, from the lies and deceptions. A dull ache roots itself in the pit of my stomach, spreading into my chest. It throbs, twisting my heart, trying to force him out of me.
“He’s getting clean.” Scared, my mom steps forward, grasping my arms with trembling hands.
“He’s an addict.” My lips quiver, so I suck them between my teeth and clamp hard.
Tension continues to builds, and the air becomes saturated in it. Suffocating me.
“Yanelys,” my mom warns.
I lift an arm in her direction, halting her movement. “Don’t.” My eyes, shining with their betrayal, bore into her. “You should’ve told me. Instead, you chose him over us and put your granddaughter in danger,” I speak slowly, each word pouring out of me like poison.
“It’s Camden we’re talking about.” Her body inches forward but stops when I take another retreating step away from her.
“You don’t know him!” I accuse, my voice vibrating with my temper. “You knew the boy, not the man. The addict,” I hiss, bracing my arms around my chest, protecting my fragile heart from the only boy I ever loved. “I’m not doing this.” I step back further, my back pressing against the wall, leaving me no room to escape. “I’m not letting my daughter have his childhood.”
“He’d never hurt Olivia,” my mom insists, her lips parting in distress as she inhales a sharp breath of air.
“He already has.”
“Yanelys, you have to understand…”
“No.” I shake my head, the throbbing inside making me queasy. “I don’t. I have to let him go.”
“He’s getting help. For you,” she emphasizes.
“He’s an addict, Mom. He’s just like his parents. I can’t—” I stop, interrupting myself, “I won’t raise Livvy in that same toxic environment.”
On weak knees, I retreat back to my room where I burrow myself into the bed. My heart rate intensifies, shallow breaths falling onto my pillow, and I cocoon myself into the despair. With no end in sight, sorrow hits me with all the dreams Camden shattered. My soul screams, grief rising as bile, and I rush to my bathroom where I dispense all my unwanted thoughts.
I gave him every part of who I was. I tried so hard, willingly handing him my heart. Now…now, there’s nothing left of me. Because there’s nothing left of the boy I knew and loved. He’s gone, too. Maybe he was never really here. Maybe he was always his parents, and I was too young, too naive, to see it.
Blinded by
my fear, I stumble back in bed, and when I find Olivia under my covers, I lie down next to her and pull her to me. Delicate fingers trace my jaw, outlining my face. Her eyes are wide as a pensive smile spreads across her face.
“Ita said you’re mad and to leave you alone.”
“And, of course, you didn’t listen.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
“You always make me feel better when I’m mad.” Her tongue skirts out of her mouth, and she takes a small breath. “Are you mad at Ita?”
“Yeah.”
“And Tito?”
“Him, too.”
“What about Cam?”
I close my eyes, not wanting to hear his name.
“You can be mad at him. That’s okay, Mommy.”
“He made a bad mistake, sweetie. I don’t know if I can forgive him.”
“Remember when I painted your face with permanent marker while you were asleep, and you had to wear it for, like, a week?” she asks.
I nod, the memory of my little mischievous girl lifting my spirits.
“I thought you’d be mad at me forever, but you said you couldn’t because your heart loved me too much. Maybe your heart loves Cam that much, too.”
Her cheeks rise with her smile, and I rub my fingers over her tender skin, absorbing her warmth. Her eyes watch me, waiting for an answer.
“I think my heart loves him that much, too,” she says, her voice pleading with me, breaking me even further.
My heart thrums, wild but strong, and I close my eyes to her wisdom. My breath stutters, and a rush of heat creeps up my neck, casting a flame over my cheeks.
Every time I told him I believed in him, I meant it. I still do. I believe in his love and the goodness rooted inside of him.
But his deceit and the danger it poses to our daughter weigh on me. And, for the first time, it clouds the overwhelming love I have for him.
I inch closer to Olivia and cry. Because I can’t see past this pain. This sorrow.
My foolish heart remembers him. The boy I gave my heart to. The boy who loves me without restraint. And the vision distorts my doubts. My deceitful heart twists, turning his lies into truths. Believing him because he is my truth.
Silence brushes over me like silk, and I give in to the embrace, closing my eyes, not wanting to think or feel or love.
TWENTY-FOUR
CAMDEN
Crisp fall air rushes over me when I step out of Santiago’s beachfront house on Carolina Beach and make my way to the shore. Nerves hum around me, pricking my skin, as I take in a deep breath of the salty air. Letting it out slowly, I bring my coffee mug to my face and let the steam warm my skin.
“Ready?” Santiago’s voice comes out hoarse, his eyes scanning over the white sand.
My knees knock together, and sweat builds in the center of my hands, so I wipe them on my cargo shorts.
Am I ready?
The waves keep time on their own terms, the ebbing tide rising with the sun. Speckles of gold reflect in the distance. A gull breaks from a tree, its cry echoing over the rumbling waves, neither realizing nor caring about the war I’m set to wage on myself. I shiver.
The sea foams, slapping the cool sand with surging waves. Swell after swell, it heaves, taking what it wants. Never giving in return. Plunging, pummeling, expunging.
In a muted plea, the wind stills, the electricity resonating in the air passing through me.
“Yeah,” I mutter, the extended perfection of the beach stretching before me with towering dunes.
Another wave swells, a solitary mercenary whose soul stirs with each crash, frothing before it retreats back to sea.
“I’m ready,” I whisper into the cool air.
I turn around, my footprints in the sand following me home.
The mirrored wall can’t hide the devil pulling my strings, clawing at my skin. With my fingers gripping the bathroom sink, I look away from the image, a wordless message of all my many flaws and disappointments.
On lead feet, I shuffle to the bed where I sit and hide my face behind my hands. I hurt. Everywhere. Like a thousand needles pricking my flesh. Already, I know I can’t do this, and it hasn’t even been twelve hours since I had my last pill.
The day slowly ticked by, each second weighing on my resolve, on my spirit. Santiago spoke about fishing, about collecting shells for Olivia, about sunsets and the surf. I listened with a haphazard ear, the only sound resonating being the clamoring pulse of my heart. The tide rose and fell. Lunch and dinner came and went. Too nauseous to eat, all that my stomach claimed was the cup of coffee I’d drunk earlier this morning.
Shame rises, and my spirit lingers…barely, wanting to retreat from the radiating aches of withdrawal.
I ease my body onto the mattress and press a pillow to my stomach, hoping to ease the nausea.
The back of my head throbs. My stinging eyes sear into the ceiling. Anxiety creeps up my spine, so I roll over and stand up. Rough hands rub my face, and I take a step away from the bed. My feet continue to move, each step falling unheard on the bright walls.
Emotions, raw and tender, flood me, my past and future mixing together so that all I see is the horrifying idea of living my life without relief. The boy who felt too much and the man who can’t stop running from the agonizing misery, clash and mold into one trembling figure.
My shoulders drop, bitterness moving over me, as my back hunches over, and I lean my hands onto my knees. Hatred silences me, pours freely from me, as I gasp for air I can’t find. My disease taunts me from the inside, demanding a way out, to expose me as the fucking disaster that I am.
The walls quiver and begin to close in on me, so I rush to the door and turn the knob with an unsteady hand. Lost in my aching body, I hang my head, my heart pounding with every painful thought, as I leave my room and walk to the living room.
Santiago stands when he sees me, his eyes wide with worry. I look back at him in a blank stare, silently pleading with him to help me. The sharp blade of his disappointment cuts into me, making me bleed.
Quitting without weaning myself from the pills I’ve habitually taken for years was a bad idea. He warned me against it, but when I refused to take another pill, wanting them all out of my system as soon as possible so that I could go back to Yanelys and Olivia, he flushed them down the toilet.
My eyes shift to the sofa, and after he nods his head once in my direction, he sits back down. I sit on the spot next to him, on the other side of the small couch, and wrap my arms around my chest as we turn our attention to the blinking television in front of us.
This life…this life I’ve been living with a broken heart, a broken mind, a broken soul tugs at me so that I can’t see beyond the despair. Or the damn loneliness.
And I remember a time I was so alone that even the sky cried. Stormy clouds hung over me as I wandered the streets, trying to escape Yanelys, Pastor Floyd, and Haiti. My tattered, wasted existence with no hope for an easy escape. I screamed, my lungs burning from the exertion. The clouds opened and shed the tears I’d struggled to hold on to.
Steely brown eyes watch me, and I squirm on the sofa with my knees shaking. On a soft grunt, Santiago leans forward and grabs something from the coffee table, which he hands to me without uttering a word. My fingers run over the glossy finish before I open my hand to find a picture of Yanelys and Olivia smiling back at me, the vibrant color of their souls gripping me.
For a long time, I sit there, taking in my girls, with a smile painted on my face. Even though I hurt, even though I’m being torn apart by grief and uncertainty, I smile. And I feel them, their love, their light, their trust.
I reach deep inside myself to where a tiny flicker of hope remains, and I know I’ll survive. My life will not come from the years of my existence but through the damage that kept me alive.
TWENTY-FIVE
YANELYS
A white double-wide trailer stands in front of an open field with a volleyball court on its side. Children run, their laughter chasing after them, whil
e adults talk among themselves. An older man, about my dad’s age but with a head full of gray hairs, walks to me with a knowing smile.
“You’re Yanelys,” he says, putting his hands in his jeans pockets.
I nod. “You must be Pastor Floyd.”
With the necessary introductions out of the way, the awkwardness of the situation claims the confidence I mustered up on the drive over.
“Camden carried your picture with him everywhere he went,” he explains.
I dig the toe of my shoe into the ground.
“Do you want to talk in my office?” His blue eyes shift toward another double-wide that sits behind his church.
I bite my bottom lip but nod again.
His steps are small and cautious as we make our way over the well-manicured lawn. Although old, the trailer homes are tidy, the sidings still white with a light yellowish tint running along the edges.
“Once a week, Camden cleans both homes and goes over the sidings to keep them looking clean,” Pastor Floyd tells me when he sees my appreciative inspection of both homes.
My eyes dart and roam the grass when he says Camden’s name. “They’re very nice.”
“He’s painted them once already, but they’re old, and up until Camden came, no one really took care of them. He also mows the lawn and cleans up after services.”
“That’s great,” I say, easing myself onto the two steps to the trailer home that houses Pastor Floyd’s office. I take in both homes and the open field surrounding it.
And it is. Camden maintaining a place he must love is great. And completely Camden. I don’t know why I’m surprised.
When I walk through the door, a somber teenager greets me from a couch in the reception area. His eyes barely meet mine, and I see the same insecurity that looked back at me when Camden and I were kids. I give him a hopeful smile that he turns away from, and I follow Pastor Floyd to his office.
Taking an offered seat, I put my hands on my lap and fidget.
Pastor Floyd coughs. “What can I do for you, Yanelys?”
I fold my hands and take a deep breath. “You know my dad and Cam went to my parents’ beach house?” I ask.