Unsurprisingly Complicated

by Claudia Burgoa

  “If I don’t make it,” another girl sniffs, “tell my mother that I love her.”

  Her loud sobs could wake up the dead. What happened to ‘don’t say a fucking word or we all die?’ I should’ve threatened to shoot them if they said a peep during the operation.

  The three remain behind me: two females and a male in their early twenties. Yet another favor for my father. He called me last week asking me for this favor, and I couldn’t say no to his request. He owes me; this isn’t part of my job description. Yes, I’m trained for this kind of shit, but I don’t enjoy it. I prefer to oversee the operations, create an entire security system for big military compounds. Instead, I’m holding an AK-47, wearing my prototype body armor—keyword ‘prototype’—and saving three clueless idiots who, tomorrow, will be back at home, playing either victims or heroes.

  I glance back at my mission and silently growl. The guy shivers and jolts with every cracking and booming sound. I bet he’s about to pee his pants. I don’t blame him; being lost in the middle of the jungle close to the headquarters of a drug cartel that’s armed better than the White House must be scary as hell. Next time, they should follow the directions of the leader and stay close to their group. I call those rich kid problems, but I don’t judge him. I’m just opening my wallet to receive the fruits of their idiotic moves.

  The rich kid’s father is paying for my early retirement in the Bahamas—or any other paradise I decide on.

  “Any time now,” I murmur through the communicator.

  “This isn’t easy, Bradley.” Kowalski’s voice comes across with another round of shots. “When I tell you, run with everything you have—do it and cover them on your way over.”

  I don’t care for what he says. Among others, I have a no killing rule—if I can help it. You go in and out, no messy-bloody business.

  “Why?”

  “Because they continue to pop out of nowhere like weeds in the middle of a summer rain.” My next-in-command comes up with the dumbest philosophical shit at the worst times. “Dude, you only have to run and keep those kids alive.”

  I grumble as I put back on my night vision goggles and adjust them to the thermokinetic mode. Another prototype that should help me detect bodies, even when they hide behind some trees.

  “How many?” I scratch my head.

  “We’ve counted ten from where you are to the chopper, so far.”

  I turn around and check on Winston. He’s another one of my guys, the tail of the body we’re about to create. He tilts his head, giving me an ‘I’m ready’ signal.

  Think of this as a live video game, Bradley. Call of Duty. I talk myself into it; whomever I shoot isn’t human at the moment. That’s what helps me sleep at nights. I rise up and signal the others to follow my lead. Holding my hand up, I count down with my fingers. The moment I close my fist we rush from one tree to another. One of the girls follows too close to me, but I let her. That’s better than having her scream like an idiot, drawing attention to ourselves.

  “One at two o’clock,” I call as I jog to the next tree, firearm lifted and ready to shoot.

  Ratatatat-ratatatat. Game mode.

  Twice I shoot the guy I tried to avoid. One bullet in the shoulder causing him to drop the machine gun he held, and the other bullet to his hip. Down he goes. At that moment, all hell breaks loose. The girls scream, and the guy behind them shrieks like a little girl, which draws more attention toward us. Winston and I are spreading the love with our guns as we try to hurry toward the chopper that is less than a mile away from where we stand. The girl who has been clinging to my leg loses her footing. I catch her by the waist, and now I have to thank my father for teaching me to shoot with one hand while having the other tied to my back. As we reach the helicopter that is ready to take off, Kowalski grabs the girl I’m holding while I continue shooting at the warm bodies that are working hard to keep us from leaving.

  “Motherfucker,” I hear Winston say.

  “Everything is ready,” Kowalski announces. “Jump in, I’m covering you guys.”

  I board the vehicle while watching my own back. It’s not about trust; it’s about the twenty some bodies I can see running toward us. The door remains open as I continue spilling bullets along with Winston and Kowalski. My goggles zoom in on the guy who’s kneeling and setting an enormous cylinder on top of his left shoulder.

  “Shit, shit,” I yell. “They have an RPG-7.”

  A good leader knows when to delegate, and this shit was no longer something I could control. Wings, our pilot, starts shutting the door as I pull in my legs and roll inside. He’s good at this flying thing and should be able to outmaneuver whatever long-range weapons those assholes have. Wings is the man to trust up in the air. So far, he has gotten me out of many undesirable places without a scratch to my people or my aircrafts. Then there are the times he makes sure I reach places as fast as I need to. It all depends on the mission or the personal need.

  My body rolls toward one of the doors and then to the seat. Everyone is quiet as we hear the bullets showering the outside of the helicopter. No one has complained about the jolts, and I doubt anyone will give him shit about the crazy movements he is making at the moment. I regret not taking a seat and buckling up as I’m shifting from one side to the other while he maneuvers us out of here.

  Once I’m seated, I toss my head, resting it on the seat, when my phone buzzes. Finally, some sign of civilization. I also turn on my standard phone, hoping to get a signal soon. The first thing that appears is a picture of a kitten saying, ‘We have a new address.’

  J-9: I moved into my new place and you weren’t around—it was weird.

  Mase: Are you all set? The coffeemaker installed properly? Did you buy a kitten?

  J-9: You’re welcome to come and inspect that everything is in place. The coffeemaker is fine. Oh, and I don’t have a cat—yet. I accept house-warming gifts in the form of a feline.

  J-9: Where have you been? I sent that a couple of weeks ago and lots of things have happened since then.

  Mase: You okay?

  J-9: Yeah, I’m great. All moved in, but staying at my brothers temporarily since MJ’s sick. I’ll get in touch with you later. I’m shopping and can’t continue texting. Stay safe!

  Mase: Always!

  “I want to meet that Nine person,” Craig stares at my phone.

  “That ‘Nine person’ is not a person.” She’s … Nine.

  “Is it a he? Are you trying to tell me you’re gay?” Kowalski questions. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it.”

  There wouldn’t be anything wrong if I was, which I’m not. Ainsley’s parents taught me from a young age that people are people; you need to respect and appreciate them. It didn’t matter about their race, gender, sexual orientation, or their favorite color. The Deckers are pretty cool, plus I owe them since they were my first customers when I set up my company, and on a regular basis they throw my name around when their famous friends need security systems for their homes, businesses, and computers.

  “She’s one of the prettiest, sweetest girls you’ll ever meet.”

  Without hesitation, I pull one of the last pictures I took of Ainse. Her curly hair was pulled into some weird hairdo. In the photo, I can’t see her bright green eyes, but I can imagine them. All filled with sparkles when she smiles.

  “Nine is a she?” Craig asks. “And she plays the piano, I see.”

  She is a musician and a teacher. I took this candid picture of Ainse playing the piano after she had watched the perfect sunrise—that’s what she told me. Then she ran into the room to use her father’s piano, pulled out some paper and a pencil and then began to play. For an hour, the stroke of the piano keys and the pen dancing across the paper were the only things that existed. I watched her as that mind of hers created something soothing, sweet, and beautiful—like her.

  The thought of going back to Seattle and checking on the business sprouted in my mind. Nothing wrong with visiting my old friends, and t
o make sure the company did a good job installing the security alarm in her new home. All as a friend and nothing else. I wasn’t crossing that line—I liked her, but things between us couldn’t continue to escalate. Yes, I kissed her, but it was only a kiss. A taste that consumed me and still lingers around when I dream of her—every night.

  God, she tasted sweeter than I thought. One more bite, maybe I could get a taste of her and get her out of my system. The image of her ex-boyfriend stopped that thought. He hurt her bad, and I wasn’t going to be the next asshole to stomp on her heart. Yes, I’ll stay away. We can text for the next hundred years.

  Platonic! I couldn’t stand to lose my Nine.

  “Good morning, Mattie,” I greet my brother while unzipping my first aid kit where I keep my forehead thermometer. With a quick swipe, I check his temperature. “How are you feeling?”

  “I hate you,” he grunts.

  “Ninety-nine,” I read the thermometer. “The fever is gone, the antibiotics are working. I bet that tomorrow when our fathers are home, you’ll feel much better.”

  “I hate you,” he repeats again after blowing his nose. “Are you going to stay with me all day or only for a few minutes?”

  “All day, my sweet brother.”

  Matt’s been sick for the past four days. Getting better by the day, but complaining about me and my contagious virus—a plan to kill my brothers and be my parents’ only and favorite child. I believe that was the fever talking and not his wild and crazy imagination. JC and I are now caring for our brother.

  My duty is to baby him. JC, the third amigo, the pseudo responsible triplet, has taken care of MJ’s duties at work while I take care of him at home.

  He’s a baby, MJ. For the past four days, he hasn’t moved from his bed except to the restroom.

  “You stink.” I fan my nose, scrunching it. “A bath might wash those germs away; at least the stench.” God, when was the last time he showered? Last year? He’s taking the French bath to heart and spritzing cologne instead of water and soap. Eww.

  “I need a nurse to care for me and give me a sponge bath,” he demands.

  I stare at him. The non-energetic, withdrawn man had better fade away soon, or I’m going to smother him with a pillow on top of his face. I pay no attention to him and start picking up his room. Most of the house remains tidy; they both agreed that hiring a cleaning service that comes twice a month might benefit both of them. I’m done playing Cinderella for them.

  “Did you say the ‘rents arrive tomorrow?”

  “Well, no, they arrive tonight,” I clarify. “But we won’t see them until tomorrow.”

  MJ pouts like a petulant child and makes me want to throw him in the shower and send him to work; he’s overacting his sickly role.

  “I promise to leave you some breakfast before I head out to pick them up at their hotel.”

  “I want my Papi to come and nourish me.” He snuggles closer to one of his pillows.

  Chris always babied us when we were sick. Not that Gabe didn’t, but Chris overdid it all the time, from making a special bed surrounded by pillows, to chicken noodle soup, sandwiches in the shape of stars, and plenty of lemonade to scare the illness away.

  “I’m doing my best, MJ.” I kiss his forehead. “Maybe I’ll make you a peanut butter and jelly star sandwich.”

  “With lemonade?”

  “You’re a baby,” I tell him. “Go back to sleep, I’ll wake you up at lunch time.”

  “All I hear is complaining. You should be ashamed of yourself for trying to kill me.”

  I laugh at him and close the door of his bedroom behind me.

  MJ falls fast asleep after taking his antibiotic and Nyquil. JC texted me that he won’t make it home tonight. Another night out with some hot item. Their house is completely empty. The cold leather couches, glass walls, and marble floors need some love. I bet Gabe agrees with me. Neither one of us like the sterile look that my brothers and Chris enjoy. Well, it’s more their ‘I don’t give a shit’ style.

  As if I’ve summoned my parents, my phone rings and Papi’s face appears.

  “Papi,” I greet him with a smile on my lips. “Are you guys in Seattle?”

  “Yes, we just stepped inside the hotel room, sweetheart,” he answers. “How are things there?”

  I catch him up with the latest as I head to the guest room I’ve been staying in. Give him a few updates regarding the record company and the new music we’ve been writing, then add that MJ’s sick with the bug I carried, how JC is out for the night and I’m keeping an eye on my brother.

  “Overall, being close to them is fun,” I confess with a broad smirk planted on my face. “Like old times, but better because we can do whatever we want—in moderation.”

  “You don’t have to wipe up your tracks, Ainsley Janine,” Chris reminds me. “You’re old enough, and we won’t send you to time-out.”

  Hallelujah, they’re aware that I’m old enough. The praise doesn’t include the fact that they know I’ve covered my tracks pretty well to avoid the chair—that place where my brothers spent most of their childhood reflecting about what they did wrong. Which I doubt they ever did.

  “Did you guys fly or drive up here, Papi?”

  “Drove,” he informs me. “We want to keep a car in Seattle. How’s Eleanor?”

  “Perfect, she’s the epitome of the best car in the world.”

  Eleanor is my VW Beetle. The car my parents bought me when I was eighteen. Same car they’d like to trade-in because it’s old, and I need an ‘all-weather’ car. Whatever that means; doesn’t matter, I would never get rid of her.

  “MJ misses you,” I change the subject and rest my head on the pillow. “I think every time we’re sick, we miss you. I made him some PB&J star sandwiches, but they weren’t the same.”

  “Having three children the same age at the same time was crazy,” Chris tells me. “More so when the three ended up with the same nasty bug. I guess making a few special things during those days made each one of you feel special.”

  They tried hard to give each one of us time, but my brothers won the attention as they were a couple of evil rascals. I guess having more than one kid is crazy; it would’ve been impossible if they’ve had four.

  “Papi, do you ever wonder about the fourth baby?” When my parents decided to have babies, the doctors inseminated four eggs. Two with Gabe’s sperm and two with Chris’. Gabe’s both made it while only one of Chris’ barely did—that’s me. “You’d have two kids instead of one.”

  “The fourth egg didn’t stick,” Chris explains using that calm, philosophical voice that grounds me. “There was never a fourth baby, Ainse, your father and I have three children. If Gabe ever hears you say that, he’ll be hurt. He adores you, baby girl. We both do. What’s going on?”

  James is going on. The baby that Porter and I lost a few years ago. I debate if I’m crazy for remembering him or… “Do you think James existed?”

  “There’s a big difference between egg number four,” Chris starts explaining, “and a baby who didn’t develop to a complete term. James existed, you met him and he lived inside you for a few weeks. I grieve for him too, but definitely not for an egg. You three keep us busy enough to stop wondering about having more children.”

  I grieve for James, and I have no idea how long this sensation will stay with me. Going back to counseling is in the back of my mind, and I make a mental note to ask Chris for a few numbers. To this day, I don’t understand what happened and why. James came to the world only for a few weeks. Not even the world, but inside me. Enough time to touch my life. It pains me that I’ll never meet him or know why he came to me and left so soon.

  “He’ll care for you from heaven,” Mason told me the night after it happened.

  Mason arrived at the hospital when I lost James; he sat next to me as the doctor signed the discharge papers and instructions for the next few days. Mase stayed for a few days caring for me while I cried for the loss and the lack of response
from my boyfriend.

  “If I had known,” Mase told me. “I would’ve taken you with me when you told me about the pregnancy.”

  Mason knew about the baby before Porter, as I had no idea what to do or how I’d break the news to my parents. Later, he suggested leaving Porter and seeking the help of my parents. By the time I tried to make a decision, James was no longer with us.

  “Maybe you can help me get in touch with one of your colleagues, Papi,” I suggest. “A few more therapy sessions might help me understand further about how I should be feeling.”

  “Anything for you,” he tells me. “I’ll send a few emails. About what you said earlier, we might be an unorthodox family, but the three of you are our children. For all we know, you’re Gabe’s too. There’s no paternity test that can confirm which baby is whose.”

  It’s obvious. My brothers are the exact replica of Gabriel Colthurst and I look a lot like Chris.

  “I know, Daddy, sorry for… ”

  “Remember, Ainse, if you hurt, don’t hurt.” A motto we made up after realizing that I do it as a defense mechanism. “Go to bed, baby girl. We’re still on for tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there. Give my love to Daddy and tell him that I love him from here to the end of the universe and back.” Then I ask, “Where is he?”

  “A conference call. I’ll give him your message.” He yawns. “I love you, and I’m glad you asked for help.”

  Me too, because I don’t know what’d happen to me if I don’t stop whatever is going inside my head.

  I close the umbrella after stepping into the lobby of the Ritz Carlton where my fathers stayed for the night. My slip-on shoes splash with every step. Stupid rain, I hate it. The April showers haven’t brought any May flowers. Well, it’s the first day of May, but still, I haven’t seen flowers around, only puddles.