With those words, I feel the walls of a trap snap shut around me.
“I don’t want to see my brother back in prison,” I say.
She shrugs. “The parole officer said he could send your brother somewhere else, probably to another neighborhood.”
“How will that help?”
“He won’t be here. That’s what matters. He’ll be someone else’s problem, and we’ll be safe. Lamont might even be happier with a brand-new start.”
“I have to think.” My head hurts. I have to consider what a new start could mean for my brother. Maybe it’s like when players get traded on ball teams and play better afterward. She might be right. I could be helping him. Only, if signing is such a good thing, why does the idea of putting my name on her online petition make me feel like I’m stepping on a pond that’s supposed to be frozen solid and hear cracks growing beneath my feet?
“Don’t think. Act,” she says, getting all up in my face. “Sign and then get your mother to sign too.” Dontae nods his agreement. Drops fall from the bottle of fluid to his IV line. His face remains ashen. It’s not his fault he is here, or Carmela’s. Or mine.
But is it really Lamont’s?
“No, I won’t.” I look from Carmela to Linda, hoping to see some acceptance. I can’t sign. And I definitely can’t ever ask my mom to sign anything designed to kick out her number-one son.
“I’m launching that petition, no matter what,” she declares.
I back out of the room while Carmela talks to some of the others. I can’t be here anymore.
Dontae’s parents are in the corridor by the door, talking with a doctor. I stand hidden behind his father as they talk.
“The tests show that your son suffered a mild stroke,” the doctor says, her voice holding the same tone of practiced sympathy I heard from medical people when Dad entered hospice.
“A stroke? Dear God, he’s only twelve.” Mrs. Morrow whimpers and puts a hand to her mouth.
I almost do the same. Strokes are for old people. Strokes can cause brain damage.
“They are not uncommon in severe sickle cell attacks,” the doctor continues. “I want him to stay in the hospital overnight. Fortunately, he’s responding to treatment, and so far, tests indicate there are no lasting effects.”
His parents clutch each other and nod. The words must make them feel better, but they don’t work on me. I didn’t protect my friend. I took him into danger, just by being with him.
I have to get away before I begin blubbering. I rush to the elevator. The second the doors open, I push myself inside, merging with the crowd of doctors wearing white coats over their clothes and nurses in multicolored scrubs. Once at the first floor, I rush from the building. I have to get away and don’t care where I go. I walk for a couple of blocks, stopping only when I reach congested Cottage Grove Avenue, a four-lane street filled with cars, buses, and trucks. On the west side of Cottage Grove is Washington Park, with trees, grass, and playgrounds stretching west all the way to Martin Luther King Drive and the gray stone of the DuSable Museum of African American History. Here on the east side is the University of Chicago Duchossois Center for Advanced Medicine, where my father received his cancer treatments. This is the last place I want to be. I should grab a bus and head south to get home.
Instead, I move to stand near the circular drive in front of the cancer center. Cars are lined up to enter the parking garage. There are always crowds around this building, and valet parkers stay busy. Patients, family, and people in lab coats. Large bushes in planters attempt to make the area look cheerful. Doesn’t work, at least not with me.
Footsteps come hurrying behind me. “Wait up, T.” I turn to see Linda rushing toward me. Her hair is pulled back in a lopsided ponytail that waves in the wind as she runs. She stops in front of me and wipes her hands on her jeans while breathing heavily.
“I saw you leave, and I wanted . . . I’ve been chasing you for blocks. Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth, and wait for her to leave and return to the others.
“No, you’re not,” she says immediately, and takes my hand. “Tell me the truth.”
The truth is I suddenly feel warm and relieved.
“I hate being here,” I mutter. “I haven’t come near this part of the city since Dad moved into hospice.”
“What is hospice?”
“The place you go after the doctors give up. Dad had pancreatic cancer and came here nearly every day for his chemoradiotherapy treatments. Lamont came with him because Dad was too weak to travel alone.”
I point to a banner flapping in the strong breeze. It reads, “Welcome to the Forefront of Medicine and Science.” “They are supposed to make miracles here. Only not for my dad. They removed part of his insides, gave him ‘chemo-brain.’”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s how my father described what was happening inside his mind. Dontae said his head felt fuzzy, and the doctor said he had a stroke. My dad had strokes too. At times he couldn’t talk.” I swallow down a hard lump. “In the end, all they could do was reduce the pain, not cure him. And the insurance company wouldn’t pay for all those kinds of treatments. My brother was there through it all. He kept the worst news away from me, kept it inside.”
Linda stays quiet, then says, “Hey, you want to go for a bike ride?” She points to the Divvy bike stand across the way.
I nod, and we rent a pair of bikes and begin pedaling east, away from the building. Linda stays at my side, not interfering or trying to make me feel better. This is better than being alone.
Linda barely sweats as we ride the nearly two miles between the hospital and the Museum of Science and Industry. We use the pedestrian underpass at 57th Street to cross under Lake Shore Drive, pausing and walking our bikes as we pass the colorful mosaic panels set into the stone walls. Car horns and the rumble of trucks and CTA buses shake the roof. Voices echo off the walls. We emerge into the rocks and sand of the beach. Cooler by the lake is a real thing in Chicago, especially in the spring. I shiver beneath my thin jacket in the too-cold wind. Linda is smarter than me and wears a hooded coat.
In the summer, the 57th Street Beach is always jammed. Now gulls are our only companions.
I pause, just thinking, and Linda stays silent next to me. A squad car goes by on Lake Shore Drive, and I shiver. “I’m scared of a lot of things,” I say.
“And here I thought you were supposed to be a top student,” she says, smiling.
“Top enough to be duking it out with you for the number-one spot,” I say, and elbow her in the side. Gently, so she knows I’m just kidding.
“You don’t have a chance of beating me—not in English, anyway, because you messed up your tenses. Maybe you used to be scared of many things, but I don’t believe anything scares you anymore. Not even your brother.”
“The police scare me.”
“Yet you threw yourself on Dontae to protect him.”
Yeah, well I’m still a little scared of girls, especially smart ones. I just like being around this girl—something I’ll never admit. Not soon, anyway.
I look out over the lake.
“This is where Lamont brought me the day he taught me to swim,” I tell her. “He used to say that the prettiest lifeguards were on this beach.” I chuckle. “Lake Michigan seemed endless. It looked like all the water in the world stretched out in front of me that day. I was scared and embarrassed to be so afraid, but my big brother never laughed at me. He just walked waist deep into the freezing water and held out his hand to me. ‘Do you think I’d let you drown, Short Stack?’ he said. ‘Trust me.’ Those words meant everything to me.”
Linda smiles, making her eyes shine.
I step closer. The water is so clear I see the sand and rocks under my shoe. I confirm it’s too cold to even think about swimming. I bend down and grab a stone and toss it as far as I can.
“What makes you do that?” Linda asks.
“Nothi
ng. And everything.” I needed to let loose some energy. I feel like today will never end. Only a few hours ago, I was doing homework, writing a song as if there was a reason to be happy. I can’t believe the sun is still so high in the sky.
“You throw stones just because you can?”
“Yeah.” Small stones that fit in your hands exist to be thrown. I pick up another one, feel its smooth, moist surface. Then I pull back my arm and send it soaring far from the beach and watch it go plunk in the water.
“I see.” She nods like she’s solved some mystery. A moment later, she bends to get a stone of her own. Her throw barely makes it to the water.
“You have to put your whole body into it,” I say. “First hold your stone. Let your muscles feel the weight and shape before you throw. Like preparing before a test.”
She takes another stone, this one larger, and hefts it for several seconds before throwing again. This one goes almost as far as mine. I clap and congratulate her.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“Actually, yes, that does work,” Linda says through teeth that chatter louder than the waves lapping at the rocks. “My father claims he found God in prison.” She shudders.
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t care. Maybe he found God, or God found him. It doesn’t bring Mom back.” She bites her bottom lip and sighs. “My aunt says forgive and forget. She loves him; he’s her brother. But that’s not always enough.” The sadness in her eyes deepens as she looks at me. “I know you want to trust your brother, but trust can be dangerous.”
“Don’t you think people can change?” A burning sensation grows inside me, flaring from my stomach, up my throat, into my mouth. Sometimes I want Lamont gone, to never see him again. Mostly I want him to change and be my family again.
“I used to think that, before. I wanted to forgive my dad, and now I can’t even forgive myself,” she says.
“You can’t blame yourself. That would be like me blaming me because Lamont’s friends attacked Mr. Frank. Your father was the bad man. He messed that up, not you.”
Linda rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. “I tried to trust him. I wanted to believe in him. I knew he could get so angry. Enraged is the word. I knew he and Mom fought before she divorced him. But I never thought he would kill her. I thought they were in love, that they would get back together someday.”
My months in the shelter taught me not all parents are good or loving like mine. Those ladies talked a lot, and sometimes they were really loud. I know why so many got scared of Lamont when he strutted around the building talking mean. Sometimes I think he wanted to frighten people on purpose.
“Your brother wants a second chance. When he messes that up, who gets the blame?” She hiccups.
I know the answer. Me and Mom and Rochelle. The people closest to him.
“Do you think you’ll ever forgive your father?” I ask.
“I can’t even forgive myself.”
“You aren’t to blame for what your parents did.”
Linda bites her lower lip before continuing. “I didn’t tell you everything about my family and the night my father killed my mother. I didn’t tell you what I did.” A large tear begins rolling down her cheek. “I was mad at Mom when she divorced him. But I never wanted her dead.”
“Of course not, but you couldn’t stop your dad.”
“That’s it. I could have stopped him. Instead . . . I helped him kill my mother.” She wipes at the tear and ends up smearing the wet all over her cheek.
“No way. Don’t say that about yourself.”
“People think Mom caved and let him inside, but it was me. He begged me, said he only wanted to apologize. I was eight years old, and I wanted my family back together again, so I let him in the house. I never told that to anyone.”
Except me. Now I understand too much about Linda Murhasselt.
She hiccups. “Sometimes I want to go to the prison and rip my father to pieces. But I’m the one I really hate. I wasn’t strong enough to do what I had to do to protect my mother. Don’t be weak like me, T.”
Trusting the wrong people only gets you hurt. I know it was the cops who actually hurt us, but blaming them doesn’t change anything. Some officer will see me again and decide I might be a threat like my brother. They will come after me again, just as long as he remains around us. This time Dontae and Carmela were hurt. Next time it could be Linda. A cop patrolling this beach right now could see me and . . .
“We have to get back,” I say, and grab her arm, leading her back to our bikes.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re not safe as long as you’re around me.” I use my phone to pull up Carmela’s petition and read it. “I can’t believe she said all this. She did everything except call him a predator.”
“I helped with a lot of it,” Linda admits. “She wanted to use that word, but I talked her out of it.”
“She listened to you?” I say, feeling grateful but confused.
“I know people think she bullies me, but Carmela and I are friends. Besties. We’ve been close ever since her father arrested mine. After that, we became like sisters.” She giggles. “Maybe I am the little sister, but we are friends. And I think her father is a real hero.”
Chapter
Twenty-Five
AFTER WEDNESDAY’S PRACTICE, I GRAB a quick dinner and rush to the church for the April TBTS meeting. Lamont is home babysitting Rochelle.
Gang issues are on this month’s agenda. So is the name Lamont Rodgers. Mom walks in looking like she is a mile past furious. She pauses for a moment, staring at the agenda on the wall, lips pressed tight. Then she lifts her head and makes her way to a seat near the front. She looks like she’s daring anyone to say anything to her.
I take a spot against the wall with Carmela and Linda. By the time things begin, the meeting room holds even more people than last month.
“I was out cleaning graffiti again last week,” a man says, turning to Mom. “Your son comes home, and now it’s twice in the last few weeks.”
“Lamont assures me he was not involved,” Mom says.
Carmela stands beside me, barely stifling a giggle. “What’s he supposed to do, confess?” She steps forward. “Some of you may have heard about the petition on Lamont Rodgers,” she begins.
“Someone actually asked me to sign that thing to get my son returned to prison,” Mom says.
I slink back against the wall. My face blazes as I wait for Carmela to expose my role in things.
“That’s not what it’s about,” Carmela says.
“It’s about my son. I told the guy exactly where he could place that thing,” Mom continues, her face a mask of righteous rage.
“The local police have been instructed to let gang members know they aren’t wanted around here,” Carmela’s father says in his official voice.
“My child is wanted,” Mom says, her voice still shaking.
“He’s not a kid. He’s been spotted hanging around the corners with other gangbangers. That’s against the rules of his parole. He’s not allowed to associate with them, as I’m sure his parole officer informed him,” Sergeant Rhodes says.
“Then who does he get to associate with?” Mom asks. “We should all remember these gang members, bangers, whatever we call them—they are still someone’s son or daughter.”
Several people in the room nod. I hadn’t thought much about gang members being kids too. Like I am. Like Lamont used to be.
Carmela begins talking again. She has a tablet full of crime statistics and wants to read them off and lay the blame on Lamont. Robberies in our neighborhood have gone up in the last month. The rise may have begun before his arrival, but it has definitely gotten worse since his return. I wonder if any of those robberies involved headphones.
“I appreciate the numbers.” Pastor Morrow steps forward. “But until this young man actually does something, he deserves a second chance.”
“I knew he would do that,” Carme
la says, punching me in the arm.
“He has to,” I mutter. I rub my shoulder before adding, “It’s a God thing, and he really believes all that stuff he preaches.”
Our pastor also makes people listen. Throughout the crowd, people nod and begin settling down. They listen when he suggests scheduling a prayer march against gangs.
“Spread the word,” he says. “I’ll be speaking about the plans for our Unity March every Sunday for the next few weeks. We’ll let the world know we may be surrounded by war, but we stand for peace.”
“Yeah, that’ll help,” Carmela mutters.
“Looks like the adults feel there are more important things to worry about than my brother,” I say as the discussion moves on to the next agenda item.
Carmela shakes her head. “I won’t stop. This is going to happen, with or without them.”
“What happens next?” I ask. “How will you get enough people to sign on?”
“We have to go to the next level. Social media. I have followers on Twitter and Instagram. We all do. We’ll blast the internet, wage a campaign, and get people lining up to sign.”
I just shake my head, knowing I can’t stop her.
“The people aren’t wrong about your son,” Sergeant Rhodes tells Mom after the meeting. I stayed behind to help the pastor clean up. Dontae is still in the hospital. “You need to think about letting him go.”
“Are you trying to order me to send Lamont away?” Mom asks in an icy voice.
“I can’t order you to do anything. I’m only asking you to pay attention to your neighbors’ welfare and your own. The local police are aware of his presence and his history. They decide what happens if he steps outside the lines. If he even gets too close to whatever line they draw, there could be issues. I’m concerned about you, T, and your daughter. If something happens, don’t get caught in the blowback.”
I can see why Linda calls him a hero. When he speaks so gently to Mom, he reminds me of my father. A light seems to shine through his dark-brown eyes. He’s off duty and out of uniform but still has the quiet air of a protector. I could become a police officer someday if I could be like him, strong and brave and really fight to protect and serve people.
Courage Page 16