“I think you should go home for a while and stay with your family. I’m not saying I’m leaving you, but I think it’s best till we get on our feet. I can’t let us stay in this valley.”
“You want me to go home to my mama, seven months pregnant, unmarried, without a boyfriend in sight, when I haven’t told her yet I’m pregnant because I’ve been waiting, waiting, waiting like a fool for you to marry me like you promised years ago? Because I’ve been a fucking delusional tonta thinking you’ll wake up and remember that you love me? That this baby girl inside of me is half you and the other half the me-you-couldn’t-get-enough-of, once upon a fucking time?”
“Stop cussing, Bee. You’ll teach our baby to cuss.”
She wanted to spit at him. She’d never wanted to spit at someone. She wanted to punch him in the face.
He hung his head, fumbled with that damn cell phone. “I’m sorry, Bee. I do love you. But I can’t handle this now. It’s too much.”
“The world is too much, Gabe. Grow up.”
“Look, I don’t know what you want me to do. I said I’m sorry.” He hunched on the bathtub’s edge.
“I need more than sorry.” She breathed slowly, trying to calm the waves of pain spreading through her crotch and down her legs. She pictured a bone-dry animal pelvis in the desert, crawling with snakes. “I need you to be the man I thought you were.”
He sat there on the linoleum, forehead pressed into his palms.
“And what about Lana?”
“I’ll come back as often as I can. She’ll still go to my mom’s every weekend.”
“Mm-hmm. And where will you live?” Bianca felt cold. “Up there in Orange County? While I’m at my abuela’s with my mama taking care of our baby? Where will you live that we can’t stay with you?”
He shook his head and sighed, looked up at her face, his eyes glistening, forehead wrinkling.
“With her?” she asked, though she already sensed the answer.
He sighed. “She has an extra room.”
“How convenient,” she said, her voice rising, her whole face flaming. “Though I don’t see why you’d need an extra room. I’m sure you’ll be fine fucking her in her own bedroom.”
“I knew you couldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand, Gabe. I understand that you’re a lying, cheating, disgusting bastard who has to move on once your job is done. Woman pregnant and alone? Check. Time to exit.” She felt the vomit rising. “You make me sick.”
She shoved him into the bathtub and fumed past him into the living room where she sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the Christmas decorations. Kanga sat beside her and pressed her wet doggy nose into Bianca’s lap. On the brown shag carpet, propped against the wall, glared three strange faces from the paintings that Lily had given her, three distorted surrealist coffee shop figures she’d bought at a yard sale. Their bulging faces, bulbous necks and eyes, their disproportionate hands and worms-for-fingers mocked Bianca. She turned her attention to the empty bassinet beside the bookshelf.
She heard running water. Was Gabe taking a shower? That didn’t make sense.
“Gabe?”
Her stomach hurt. Water running, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.
“Gabe? Can we go to the hospital? I don’t feel well. I think something’s wrong or the baby’s upset or I don’t know but I don’t feel normal.”
He didn’t answer. The sound of a bath. And beer bottles opening.
A clicking sound.
She looked again at the bassinet and screamed. There was blood. Kanga was barking.
“Gabe!”
He came into the living room. He wasn’t wet from the shower. He was dry. He was dry. Why was he dry? Was she hallucinating? Her heart pounded in her ears.
“Gabe?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m standing right here. What do you need?”
“There’s something wrong.”
“What?” His eyes were swollen, blacker than usual so it looked like his pupils never bled into iris, like he’d emerged from a tunnel and hadn’t adjusted to the light.
“With the crib, over there. Look.” She pointed toward the yard sale stuff.
He followed her gaze. “It’s just a bunch of baby stuff, Bee. Will you cut it out?”
She looked again. She was going crazy. No blood. It was white and spotless. No blood.
Her head hurt.
“Gabe, take me to the hospital.”
“Bee, I just want to go home. You’re fine. Go lie down. Sleep it off, okay? I’ll come back later and check on you.” He marched out through the hallway toward the front door, flung it open, and headed toward his puke-green truck parked in the driveway.
“Wait, Gabe. Don’t go yet,” she called after him. There was the bathwater again. She was going crazy. She clutched her belly and followed him outside, ordering Kanga to stay. The dog sat in the doorway, whining but obedient. The cold air bit Bianca’s cheeks and sliced across the tears on her face. Her bare feet stung against the walkway pavement, dead leaves clinging to the pads as she waddled out after him.
“Go inside, Bianca,” he called. “It’s cold. I’m going home.”
“Please wait,” she said. “I’m sorry I called your nino’s daughter a cunt . . . Stay and talk to me.” I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
“There’s nothing to talk about. This isn’t working. I’m tired. Go inside.” He climbed into his truck, turned the ignition, switched the headlights on.
“Wait,” she screamed. “Please wait. Don’t leave me here. I’m scared.” She said this last part as a whisper. My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night—
The headlights reflected on the windows, lighting up the driveway. Her feet burned. Her stomach ached. Dad stood in the doorway. Daddy? Why the hell was her dead father standing in her doorway? She walked as fast as she could toward Gabe’s truck, clutching her belly. Everything hurt.
“Wait, Gabe. I’m scared. Something’s wrong.”
The truck switched into gear. He was ignoring her. Why wouldn’t he help her? Without thinking, Bianca clambered onto the hood.
“What the fuck?” he yelled, pumping the brake. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t go.”
She was flying. She was La Llorona.
“Get the fuck off my truck, Bianca!” he hollered, flinging open his door and reaching out to pry her off the hood.
She crawled up higher toward the window, holding onto the windshield wipers like a dying insect. “Please don’t leave me alone in this house,” she cried, tears pouring down her cheeks. “There’s something in there. Something wrong. I feel it.”
“Enough, Bianca.” He pulled her feet. “You’re hysterical.”
She pictured the wandering womb. Her womb floating into the night sky. She felt dizzy. He was hurting her.
“Stop,” she said. “Or take me with you. Let’s go talk somewhere. Figure this out.”
“You’re not making me want to stay with you.” He was yelling. “You’re making me want to call the cops. The neighbors are gonna come out. Stop making a scene.”
“I don’t care. Don’t leave me here. This house is haunted, Gabe.”
“Then go home to your mama, Bee. Jesus fucking Christ. You’re crazier than Katrina.”
“You’re so mean, Gabe. You’re so mean.”
“Whatever, Bee. Get off my truck so I can go home.”
“No,” she said, razors in her throat. She was cramping and wanted to catch her falling belly, for that’s what it felt like, dropping and dropping, but she wouldn’t let go of the truck. No matter what.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
She clasped her fingers tighter to the wipers, curled her feet under her.
“You’re de
nting my truck.”
She didn’t move.
“You’ll hurt the baby.”
“Then take me to the hospital,” she said.
He looked like he would cry. “Get off,” he pleaded. “Take yourself to the hospital. I want to go home. I’m tired of this shit.”
She stared into the dark glass, avoiding her reflection. Was she crazy? God help her. Dad help her. Someone please fucking help her. She said nothing, but stared forward, unmoving.
“Fine. You win. Get in the truck.”
She slid down, wobbled to the passenger door, which he’d pushed open from inside, and climbed up. Before she could buckle her seatbelt, he was already backing out of the driveway and speeding down her street. He didn’t turn right at the alley, toward his house; he turned left, toward the swine barns, and, beyond that, out of town. He was taking her out into the country.
“You want to talk, puta? Talk.” He unzipped his pants, still driving, speeding into the fields, turning at the crossroads, toward the hay bales, between the cornstalks and canals. She had to clutch the door handle to keep from swinging wildly in her seat, gripped the floor with her bare feet. Her stomach hurt so bad. But she didn’t want to tell him she might vomit. She just stared forward, as the dirt road sprawled ahead.
“Come here,” he said, unbuckling her seatbelt, slowing the truck a bit, grasping her arm and pulling her toward him.
She shrank back, groaned, “No, Gabe. Not that. Come on. Let’s just talk.”
“Talk to my dick, Bee.” His voice was deadpan. Cold.
She squished herself back against the passenger door, putting as much space between them as she could. “Let’s go back to your house,” she said. “Please.”
“You wanted to be with me. So be with me.”
He grabbed her hand again, pulled her forward, hard, so hard her shoulder popped, and she yelped in pain.
“You’re hurting me, Gabe!”
“Then come on, hurry. I want you.”
Tears streaming down her face, she tugged away, but he grabbed her head, clamped his fists through her hair, pushed her toward his crotch. The saltwater smell burned her nostrils, and she resisted the urge to gag. He clutched her hair tighter, pulling her scalp.
She opened her mouth, shut it.
“Suck my dick, Bianca.” There was her name again. In a stranger’s cold tongue.
She was floating. Water rushing in her ears.
She wouldn’t be a fish with no fins again.
He slammed her head forward, into the dashboard, grasping her by the hair, then whipped her sharply back toward his lap.
“I said now, bitch.”
Something wet trickled down her face. Warm and wet. Matted her hair to her forehead.
Her temples ached. They rang.
She needed help. She needed help. God, she needed help.
She grabbed the steering wheel, jerked it as hard as she could, swerving the whole goddamn truck off the road and Gabe with it.
A dam opens to flood the fields, a dam opens to irrigate the living, and growing. All those sprouting things that need water. A farmer opens a dam and the canal water flows. And when a truck swerves into a ditch whose dam has just opened, the water gushes. See how fast the water goes. See how fast the water rises to Bianca’s toes. Her knees. Her belly.
Upon impact, Bianca had scrambled back up to her seat. She’d reached the door handle. But it had stayed closed.
Upon impact, the passenger side airbag flowered open.
It punched Bianca in the gut.
She cupped her hands to her ears. Water rushing. Nothing. Nothing. Gabe pulled the handles, clicked the windows. The water was rising. It reached the middle of the door in seconds flat. Bianca would have been counting them, had she not been humming.
“Bianca! Open the glove compartment!”
She heard him now, and pulled it open.
He reached inside, below the rock that was crushing her chest and stomach, and pulled out a little silver hammer with a spike at the end. He handed it to her.
“Break the window!”
She turned, and pounded. Again. The glass shattered, and the water rushed in.
“Go! Crawl out! Go!”
He shoved her, and she crawled through the window, the jagged glass scratching her arms and legs as she burrowed through. She kicked the door hard to push past the suction that the truck and the ditchwater had created around her. A tunnel. A black hole.
The water tasted like iodine in her mouth. The water tasted like blood.
Dark, cold, rushing water that pulled her away from the truck. She fought it. She kicked her legs and stretched out her arms, a girlchild again in swim team, winning first place; a girlchild again, in the ditches that Dippy Duck said avoid. Stay safe! Swim in a pool! Gabe had pushed out of the passenger window and was swimming behind her. She turned, briefly, toward the truck, a bird with its head dipped into the water to catch a fish. Her father’s mechanical dipping bird, perpetual motion machine, its beak into the water for a quick sip. Bianca cupped the ditchwater with her hands, scooped it back, pumped hard, free-stroking toward the concrete wall on the other side, but the water kept rushing her downstream. The water was cold as needles, jabbing her, prickling her skin.
She couldn’t breathe; everything hurt. She almost wanted to stop fighting and let the water take her. She almost wanted to laugh. She wondered if Gabe’s pants were still unzipped, and as she grappled for a piece of concrete to stick her hand to, she imagined him swimming with his dick exposed and wished the ditch had sharks.
She shoved her body toward the concrete, and grasped a metal rung jutting out, a tooth in the mouth of a monster, and held on for her life as the water gushed past her. Gabe made it too. He grabbed on beside her. And together, they climbed up the side of the wall, out of the water. She slipped several times, knocking against the cement, the metal rungs. She was scratched and bleeding all over. “Come on, Bee. Climb.” She thought of the Cattle Call basin, where they had run as high schoolers. Up the hill, punk. You can make it. White flies summerlong swarming her face as she breathed, open-mouthed and ragged, puffing hard up the hill.
At the top, she crawled on hands and knees, wrangling her way up the embankment. Only when she was out of the ditch did she begin to feel the extent of her pain. She wasn’t in pain. She was pain. Nothing didn’t hurt. Which meant, maybe she should’ve just died instead.
“What the fuck! What the fuck, Bee?”
Gabe had made it out, too, which meant he was beginning to feel the extent of his rage.
She couldn’t have prepared herself for a fight if she’d wanted to.
But he didn’t fight.
Something stopped him.
The blood stopped him.
She had landed in a heap on the embankment. A leaf curled on the unyielding ditch bank. Something wet dripping from her.
He stood above her, his face swollen, his eyes wide.
“Oh my God, Bianca.” Running water throbbed in her ears. “Oh my God.”
Thirty-two
Swallowing Ashes
With Jubilee
When Bianca was a girl, she fed crows. She scattered seed across the backyard and they swooped like slick black raincoats instead of rain from the dry desert sky. She learned that together they’re called a murder, but they were kind to Bianca. They brought her gifts. Broken light bulbs, brown beer-bottle glass, pearl-colored plastic beads, a rusted screw, a dead mouse. Anything that could fit in a crow’s beaked mouth.
Bianca felt like the crows, bringing her own mangled presents to someone who probably wouldn’t understand what they meant or why she had to give them.
She saw Mama through Abuela’s bay window. After the social worker visit, she’d gone to see her mom and told her everything that had happened. “I’m not insane, Mama.”
Rosana held her daughter and rocked her like a little girl the way she should have when Dad died but she’d been frozen or stoic or needed to be unshocked as much as Bianca did, back then, in the Valley. Mama was covered in Bianca’s tears and mocos but she didn’t let her go or try saying a prayer over her or tell her how disappointed she was or advise her to eat pan dulce or a plate of tacos con carne then tell her she was getting fat. She was fat as could be with her pregnant belly and she had nowhere else to be but in Mama’s skinny arms.
Mama helped her into her bed and took her blood pressure with the cuff she kept in her nursing bag. Bianca’s pulse was high but that was normal from all the crying, she said. Bianca told her she needed to see Dad.
Mama looked at her like she was backsliding, as if she’d have to explain to her daughter that her father had died then call Dr. Norris and the Mel Gibson, Braveheart-sounding priest fast because, boy, Bianca had really gone off the deep end this time.
Before Mama said anything though, Bianca said, “I mean his ashes, Mama.” They hadn’t buried him and she needed a place to grieve him.
When Bianca was in the Valley, she’d gone to the cemetery beside the swine barns and the garbage dump at the northwestern edge of town, although she knew she wouldn’t find him there. In high school, Gabe had taken her between hay bales a few hundred feet farther into the country, and she’d sucked his dick to the brays of barn animals in the distance, feeling dirty and shameful, but, in the way of a teenage girl in love with a boy who needed that love to push back against the disappointment of his own life; it was exciting enough that she could pretend she was there of her own volition. That she was anything other than used. But the year before, when their relationship had turned horror house instead of fun, and she couldn’t find her father in the cemetery, she’d stood outside his white Chevy Cavalier parked on the ditch bank beside the canal and cursed La Llorona for dragging her into that terrible myth. I don’t want to be La Llorona. I can’t hold this pain anymore. Take it, Witch. Take it!
No one had heard her. Or no one answered if they had. And she still hadn’t said goodbye to Dad.
Jubilee Page 27