After Us

by Amber Hart

  “He was great with me and my sisters, they said.” Melissa looks at me then. “They were liars.”

  If he’s the one who gave Melissa her scars, I’ll kill him.

  “My dad was not a good man. People assume that because he led what seemed to be a normal life, that he must be this great guy. They were wrong. He was not nice. He yelled a lot. If I spilled my juice, if I stained my clothes, if I made a sound. He didn’t stop with yelling. He pushed Mom around. He slammed the doors and shattered whatever was within his reach. My mom used to tell us to go into our rooms and shut the door because our rooms were on the second floor and he was always on the first. On the couch, specifically, with the television volume high, watching whatever game was on. I think Mom thought that sending us to our rooms would save us from hearing his screams. He used to say so many things. That no one would want a woman with four kids, that me and my sisters ruined his life, that he could have played ball but he had to raise a kid instead because my mom wouldn’t get rid of ‘it’ after high school. He used to complain about having five mouths to feed.”

  I grit my teeth. Stomp on the need to get up and pace.

  “He never actually hit us. Didn’t need to. We were too scared to breathe around him, let alone disobey. Whenever I did something wrong, like the time I accidentally broke his coffee mug, Mom took the blame. She claimed it slipped while she was doing dishes. I was too scared to ever tell Dad the truth even though I knew that he yelled at Mom, made her cry, left bruises where he grabbed her too hard, all because of a mug that she didn’t even break.”

  Melissa picks at her nails. Somehow finds courage to speak.

  “It was just a mug. We were just kids,” she says. “I didn’t understand his constant anger. I don’t think—” A tear slips down. “I don’t think he ever really wanted a family.”

  She’s whispering now. Peeling pink paint off of her fingernails.

  “I don’t remember him ever hugging me, reading me a bedtime story, taking me anywhere.” She laughs bitterly. “So he left us. Packed his stuff and left. Some other childless woman welcomed him into her home, which worked perfectly for him.”

  I’ve always had mi papá y mi mamá. I know what it’s like to starve, fight, run, fear. But I don’t know what it’s like to be abandoned.

  “I haven’t talked to him since.”

  I should tell her how much I want to kill this guy that I’ve never met. How much it disgusts me that he wasn’t man enough to take care of the family he helped create. How she deserves so much better.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I say instead.

  She wipes away one solitary tear.

  “Because,” she replies.

  Nothing else. No explanation that makes much sense, but I’ll take it.

  Because she wants to trust me, is what I think this means.

  Because the story behind her scars is off limits, but she can give me this story for now, is what it seems.

  “Come here,” I say, pulling Melissa closer.

  She’s beautiful in this moment. Hair pulled back so that I can see her face. Eyes shining in the moonlight. Tiny dark freckles sprayed across her cheeks.

  “Your dad is an asshole. It doesn’t matter that you still had your mom; you didn’t have him and that’s not right. I don’t know that kind of pain,” I admit. “But I know other things. So I get it, Melissa.”

  One, two, three breaths.

  “I get what it’s like to hurt over things,” I finish.

  I won’t tell her that it’ll be all right. People naturally want to believe that things will get better. But sometimes, they just don’t.

  29

  melissa

  I told Javier about my dad.

  It’s real, it’s real, it’s real.

  I’ve let someone else in besides Faith and my sisters. I’ve let a guy in. I’ve trusted him with the second biggest secret of my life. And he’s trusted me with his pain, too, the truth about Diego. Though, honestly, I already knew most of it from Faith. Still, we’re connected by these events that rip, pull, shred our hearts.

  I trust him.

  Trust isn’t easy. I’ve tried to choke my insecurities. I aim my arrow at forgetting the past and miss every time.

  Javier has a piece of me.

  I won’t ask for it back.

  “How was your date?” Mom asks.

  I help her put the dishes away. It’s nice to not worry if one slips and breaks. Now we clean it up and shrug, knowing that it’s not the end of the world. Knowing that Dad won’t punish her for small things that shouldn’t matter. Not anymore.

  “It was good.” Really good.

  Mom is much happier with Dad gone. She doesn’t date, though. I don’t push the topic because I get how it could be hard to ever trust a man again.

  “Tell me about him,” she says.

  Mom’s smile is contagious. Brightening her whole face. Wrinkles crumple together in the corners of her eyes. Blond hair falls across her cheek every time she reaches for a dish.

  “He’s,” perfect, sexy, amazing, “nice.”

  Mom laughs. “Nice, huh?”

  More than nice.

  “I had a nice boyfriend once,” she says.

  I didn’t know this. All I’ve ever heard was that Dad swept Mom off her feet their senior year of high school. He was actually sweet to her then, she claims. But that all changed with an unexpected pregnancy and the realization of Dad’s shattered dreams. He became bitter, angry, resentful. It only got worse as the years passed. It was all Mom’s fault, according to Dad, because she didn’t just take care of the problem.

  Mom never saw any of her kids as a problem.

  “He wasn’t as good looking as your dad, but he was sweet. He liked me a lot.”

  Mom reaches for the last dish. Puts it away and dries her hands on the kitchen towel.

  “I left him for your dad,” she says.

  Wonder if she regrets it. Knowing Mom, probably not. She says everything happens for a reason, that suffering brings freedom. Without meeting Dad she wouldn’t have had us, she’s said before. So it couldn’t have been a mistake that she stayed with him all those years.

  I feel bad for what she could have had with someone else. Maybe her happily ever after. She sure never got it with Dad.

  “So this guy of yours,” Mom says. “You going to tell him?”

  About the cancer, she must mean. “I haven’t decided.”

  I’m not really sure how.

  “If he leaves you because of it, you’ll know,” she says.

  “Know what?”

  “If he was ever really worth it.”

  I watch Mom. Years of grief and suffering. Years of trying to hold a family together. Picking up what was left after Dad drove off. That’s what Mom’s done. Wiping our tears and telling us a million and one times that we are not worthless, though that’s how Dad’s abandonment made us feel. That’s what Mom has done.

  So, I believe her. I trust Mom when she tells me that letting Javier in on my diagnosis may make or break us. That with one big confession, I’ll know if he’s worth it.

  And even more, if I’m worth it.

  To him.

  “Thanks,” I say, wrapping my arms around Mom’s secure body.

  These are the arms that tucked me in every childhood night. The arms that carried me. The arms that have, when the time was right, let me go, too.

  “I love you,” I tell her.

  I tell her every day.

  “You need to answer Faith’s calls,” Mom says, shocking me.

  How does she know?

  “How did you . . . I don’t understand. . . .”

  Mom’s blue eyes pin me down. “She called the house. You told her about your cancer and left her hanging, Melissa.”

  “She left me hanging,” I say, defensive. “She’s my best friend and it’s been months since I’ve had a normal conversation with her.”

  “She must have had her reasons,” Mom says, ever positiv
e.

  “Her reasons?” I ask, exasperated. “Her reasons were because she didn’t want to answer. She admitted that, Mom. She heard my voice mails and never called back. On purpose.”

  I can’t keep the pain from my voice.

  “Do you trust her?” Mom asks.

  “I used to.”

  “And now?”

  “And now—” Do I trust Faith now? “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard.”

  Mom laughs. I’m caught off guard by the genuineness of it.

  “Nothing that’s truly good is ever easy. You of all people should know that.”

  Nothing that’s truly good is ever easy.

  “Just answer her call. Give her a chance,” Mom says. “I have a good feeling about Faith. Always have. Friendships take work.”

  Work is not something I want to have to do. I want it to be natural. I want the Faith I’ve always known. I want the friend who stuck up for me when girls bullied me in school. I want the friend who let me talk about my dad without judgment. I want the friend who grew into a person who learned how to take risks and go after what she wanted.

  I’m not sure if any of that person is left.

  30

  javier

  Today is the day I’ll learn the streets for the first time. I’ll see through the eyes of MS-13. They’ll show me hot spots—what roads, allies, and blocks belong to MS-13; where rivals can be found.

  I won’t tell mi mamá. I’ll look her in the eyes and spit lies because I’m good at that. I’ll fill her mind with what I think she wants to hear and hope for the best.

  Because anything could go wrong. It does all the time. Rival gangs carry just as many weapons as MS-13. They shoot and stab and murder, too. I could be hurt. Or worse. I try not to think about what it would do to mi familia if they ever got the news that something bad had happened to me. Not now that I’ve made mi mamá happy by graduating high school. I’m doing better, she thinks. I’m finally getting over Diego’s death and moving forward, she thinks.

  I never said that.

  I’m just learning how to lie better. I’m learning to keep my voice firm and my body relaxed and everyone believes because that’s what they want to hear, anyway.

  From them . . .

  How are you: Fine.

  What’s new: Not much.

  How’s work: Good when it comes.

  Congrats on the diploma: Thanks.

  You gonna get a real job now, they always want to know.

  You gonna mind your own business? I never ask.

  No one knows the difference. Except mi tío.

  Mi tío knew something was wrong. Saw the bruises. Never told a soul.

  “Where you going?” Antonio asks, crayons in his little hand.

  He’s coloring a picture. It looks something like a dragon.

  “Out with friends,” I say, sitting next to him for a moment. I grab an orange crayon. “Can I show you something?”

  He nods his head eagerly.

  “If you outline like this,” I press the crayon into the paper to make the outline of the dragon bold, “and then color it in lighter, it stands out more. And then you’ll stay in the lines.”

  He’s been working on staying in the lines.

  Antonio smiles hugely. “Thanks!”

  He begins outlining everything like I showed him. The clouds, the sun, the grass. I like seeing him this happy. I sometimes wonder what it’s like to be as happy as Antonio.

  “Later, kid,” I say, getting up.

  Mi mamá smiles and pats me on the cheek, like I’ve done something good. She doesn’t doubt me. She doesn’t question further. She lets me go.

  “Have fun,” she says.

  Not likely.

  The street sounds like music if you listen closely. A knocked-over garbage can rattling in the wind is the cymbal. The pounding of footsteps on concrete are the drums. And all these voices speaking—drug deals, people hustling, businessmen and women stopping for drinks at a dive bar—are the singers.

  I don’t know where to look. There’s so much all at once. Sensory overload. Small stores and packed sidewalks and a million things competing for attention.

  “See the barbeque joint?” Loco asks.

  I don’t spot it at first. We’re on a busy boulevard. I have to scan every store until my eyes come to the end of a long line of shops, restaurants, and bars.

  “Yeah, I see it,” I say.

  “It’s run by MS-13,” Loco informs me.

  A barbeque joint?

  “Wanna tell me how an all American barbeque place became a home for MS-13?” I ask. Because I have to know. Because I don’t understand at all.

  “Would you suspect it?” Loco walks beside me, weaving through people.

  “No.”

  He laughs. “Exactly. Who would ever think that it could be run by a Latino gang?”

  “Nadie.”

  “Which is why it’s the perfect cover,” he replies.

  We stop at the barbeque joint. Only six booths fit inside. I can see clear through the narrow restaurant. Out the glass back doors where more tables crowd the patio.

  It’s packed.

  The front has one long counter for ordering. A few menu selections sit on display. The customer ordering points to one of them. The employee rings him up.

  “Follow me,” Loco says.

  Me, Loco, Monkey, and Colt all slip through a side door. End up in the middle of a bustling kitchen that feels hotter than hell. I look around.

  Now it makes sense.

  The guys back here are Latino. Cooking, running back and forth to get orders together.

  “Necesito pollo con maíz para llevar. ¡Rápido!”

  The guy closest to us is yelling for food to go. A customer is waiting on it. Everyone ignores us for the most part. Too busy to care. Only one guy stops when he notices. He nods for us to follow him into a cramped room. I guess it’s the office. At least it has a fan.

  “Who’s he?” the guy asks, staring at me, shutting the door.

  “One of the best members we have. Don’t ask questions,” Loco answers.

  The guy scowls. “I only deal with you and these two.” He points to Monkey and Colt. “No one said anythin’ ’bout a new guy.”

  Loco places a hand on his gun. Not subtly.

  “Are we gonna have a problem?” Loco looks the Latino directly in his eyes.

  He doesn’t need to say more. The guy turns a knob on a safe. Reaches inside. Pulls out a bag.

  “Tuesday at four. Everythin’ is inside,” he says, standing.

  Meeting’s over.

  “Nice doin’ business with you,” Loco says, grin cocky.

  We leave. If I blinked, I might have missed the entire exchange. I’m not sure if that was a run. Thought I wouldn’t go on those for a while. Maybe we were just picking up something. Like to-go food. In and out.

  I have no clue what’s in the bag that Loco has tucked underneath his shirt.

  “Let’s split,” Loco says, leading the way back to the car.

  He and Colt get lost in a mass of bodies ahead of me and Monkey.

  “What’s in the bag?” I ask Monkey.

  I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask these things, but now is as good a time as ever to find out.

  Monkey keeps his voice low. “Gun and cash.”

  I work over the possibilities in my head.

  “So,” I say, “the guy back there delivers info and things that MS-13 needs.”

  Monkey nods.

  “Is he in the gang?”

  “He’s a middleman,” Monkey clarifies. “He has connections to someone higher up. Someone who doesn’t go to the warehouse.”

  “El Asesino gets orders sometimes, too, right?”

  We reach the end of the sidewalk. Start making our way across the street to the parking lot.

  “Sí,” Monkey replies. “We mostly get orders from El Asesino and Jorge back there. Higher leaders like to stay private. They mostly reach us through other memb
ers. We carry out their plans. They deal in bigger things.”

  I need to know these bigger things.

  “Like?”

  “Like major shipments of goods. Like million-dollar transactions. That sort of thing.”

  We’re almost to the car.

  “That’s all for now.” Monkey’s face is neutral. Like he didn’t just share info with me. Which makes me think that maybe he wasn’t supposed to.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  Loco’s already in the car, engine running. I hop in the back of the El Camino with Monkey since Colt and Loco are up front.

  “One more thing,” Monkey says as we ride.

  Loud music. No one to hear him but me.

  “Watch out for Loco, okay?” Monkey glances at the front of the car. Loco and Colt are laughing about something. “He’ll smile in your face.”

  Monkey’s next words send a chill down my spine.

  “And shoot you in the back.”

  31

  melissa

  Working at the beach is much more distracting with Javier here. He watches me walk to my tables. His face is limestone. I wouldn’t know that he’s grinning if it weren’t for the tiniest lift of his lips. A lopsided smile that doesn’t even look like a smile. That mostly looks like he’s caught in deep thought.

  But I know better.

  “What’s funny?” I ask.

  I pass by him between running drinks. Javier grins his almost smile.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  A secret joke that I have no part in.

  “Nada, mami.”

  I don’t believe Javier. I think he showed up right as my shift is ending for a reason. I think he knows exactly what’s going on. And I think that Brock knows, too.

  I glance at Brock. He is not nearly as good at hiding his smile. He is passing out drinks and constantly looking over at me.

  I walk away from Javier. Approach Brock.

  “Spill,” I say.

  Because he knows what’s going on. It’s written in his face.

  “No way,” he says, smiling wider. “And your shift is over.”

  “Since when have you rushed me out of here?”

  Brock normally appreciates any extra time I put in. I’m one of his best servers.