I jog sluggishly behind Gabe, unable to look away from that minivan. My eyes connect with the child in the back seat. His dark hair and eyes duck out of view when he sees me, and I wish I could save him, take him with me or something.
Instead, Gabe tugs on my hand, and we leave those poor children in the hands of that horrible man bleeding on the street while people watch and do nothing.
We go back to Paco’s cousin’s, and Gabe washes up while the rest of them relive the moment. Their voices are loud and high off the rush. They laugh and say “Fuck that guy” about a hundred times, but I don’t say a word. I just sit on the couch and wait for Gabe so I can make him take me home.
I don’t know what just happened, but I don’t want to be a part of it. I’m done with gangs and guns and all that shit.
A tear slides into my ear as I stare up at the popcorn ceiling, but I wipe it away before anyone sees.
Gabe doesn’t make a big deal about leaving. In fact, it’s his idea. When he comes out of the bathroom, he grabs Paco’s car keys off the counter and heads straight for me.
“Ready to go?” he asks without addressing the others.
I nod and we leave, just the two of us.
“Gabe!” Paco yells out the door, but Gabe doesn’t look back.
I follow him in a rushed fast-walk to the car feeling like at any moment I’ll see the red minivan around a corner, but the street is quiet.
“You okay?” he asks, once we’re alone in the silence.
“No. I dunno, I guess.”
He starts the car, and takes my hand, managing the wheel with his left. I don’t feel like talking. Not yet. I can’t decide if I’m pissed at him or grateful that he saved my life. I think I’m both. He clearly hasn’t told me the whole story about this “crew” he’s a part of. FTC isn’t just tagging. It’s not just about Mendoza.
Even at 2am the I-5 freeway is bustling. My unfocussed eyes blur the red taillights ahead of us as I obsess over death being an arm’s length away. The gun was there. It went off. I should be dead.
“So you stabbed him and he missed?” I ask, coming to my own conclusion about what happened while my eyes were pinched close.
He nods. “I sort of tackled him and it went off. I don’t think he would have done it, but I wasn’t going to wait and find out.”
His features are emotionless and unreadable, and I wonder if he’s waiting for me to open up first.
I sigh. “So what the fuck?” The question breaks the thin sheet of uncertainty between us.
“I...” He shrugs, shakes his head. I can tell he doesn’t know what to say, but there is no hiding the guilt in his eyes. It’s obvious he’s holding something back.
“Are you in Crazy Eights or what? This isn’t just spray paint and torturing Mendoza is it?”
“No.” The worried lines in his forehead deepen. “Yes. I mean, for me it is. My brother, Fran, he did have some friends in Crazy Eights. He wasn’t into that shit, but you know his friends were so he sort of got wrapped up in things he didn’t want to be involved in. That’s what happened tonight. Paco’s cousins are in that same Crazy Eight shit. I didn’t know they had tags on them or whatever. I have no idea what happened back there. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.” His voice has a desperate edge to it, the kind of intensity that comes from trying to convince someone to believe you.
“So you’re not a Crazy Eight. You just stabbed a guy on a random street to save my life?”
He looks at me with heaviness in his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, and for the first time I realize I’m not the only one affected by what happened.
The girl I beat senseless in the park creeps out of the dark corner of my mind to haunt me, and understanding blooms in my heart. He might have killed a man. I know exactly how he feels. I can see the burden in the way he’s gripping the steering wheel, in the deep crease in his brow. He’ll never know if the man died. Just like I’ll never know about the girl in the park. Not unless I want to go digging around in that world again. And I don’t.
“I’m sorry,” I offer. “That you had to do that.”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps his sullen serious eyes on the road.
“Have you ever stabbed anyone before?” I ask.
“No.”
There is still an uncomfortableness in the air as we shed the layers of things unsaid between us until we’re naked with truth.
“So you just carry a knife just in case...”
“Look,” he sighs, cracking open just a little more. “I’m not a Crazy Eight, but they want me to be. Fran’s friends and Paco’s cousins, and us, we’ve all grown up together and they want revenge for Fran just as much as I do. They treat me like I’m in charge no matter how much I resist it. He was my brother, so out of respect, they all look to me, you know? I don’t want in their gang. I don’t.”
“What does that have to do with what happened tonight?”
“Nothing. I just...wanted to give you the whole story. Tonight was just bad luck.”
“Well, I’m not going to be around that shit. I just got out of some crazy gang crap in San Jose. I’m not doing it again. It’s fucked up.”
“I know. And I don’t care about any of it. You and me. Fuck the rest of ‘em.” He squeezes my hand and looks at me until I can’t resist the urge to kiss him.
He grabs me and pulls me close while he drives. We stop at the closest McDonalds because we never actually made it to the Taco Bell, and now I don’t think I’ll ever go to another Taco Bell again. We eat and joke about falling asleep inside on the table and then we actually do. I rest my face in the crook of my elbow and close my eyes until someone taps me on the shoulder, but by then it’s morning.
After my near death experience I want to see my mom, so we drive to my house, only no one is home. The daylight shines through the living room windows, warming the oatmeal carpet. There is a note on the table that says Lucy, if you come home call me. I’m worried. So I call her, and even though I’ve avoided her and complained about all her shit, the truth is, I actually miss it. I miss her. It’s so nice to hear her voice.
“Hello?” She picks up after the first ring. Her greeting is a rushed and eager whisper, like she’s answering in class. I can tell she’s been waiting for this call for days, and I feel a deep stab of guilt.
“Hey Mom. Sorry.”
She sighs heavily into the phone. Not in anger, but in relief.
“Where are you?”
“I’m home. Don’t worry. I’m fine. I was with Gabe and Dani, but I’m home now. I’ll be home when you get here.”
“Okay. Please don’t leave again. We need to talk about this.”
She’s still whispering, and I don’t want to get her in trouble so I cut it short.
“I’ll talk to you when you get home. Okay. Love you.”
Gabe is standing close to me as I hang up. I don’t know if it’s the quiet, empty house, the trauma I just experienced and the need to feel something good and real, but I don’t want to waste another second of my life. How much would I have missed out on if the gun had still been aimed at my head?
I lean in and kiss him, throwing the phone on the table. I’m pretty sure he feels the same, because he doesn’t seem surprised. He just grabs me and lifts me up, wrapping my legs around him. I don’t want to take one single minute with him for granted.
He carries me across the living room, whispering in Spanish as his lips move from my mouth to my neck. This is how it should feel. The heat. The rush. I’m not afraid.
He sinks into the couch so he’s sitting up and I’m straddling him. I reach for the hem of my shirt without thought, but he stops me.
“You almost died,” he says. His fingers rest gently on my exposed waist, as he looks at me real and alive in front of him.
I press my lips to his flushed mouth, the silver stud adding a metallic texture to our kiss. His breath is heavy and relaxed as I slip my hands under his shirt. “You’re in c
harge,” he whispers. “We only go as far as you want.”
I pull away just to look into his eyes. They glint with a familiarity from another life, like our souls have always known each other.
CHAPTER 32
Mom
I HANG UP THE phone, but Lucy’s picture freezes for a fraction of a second on my homescreen as the call ends. Her head is thrown back in genuine laughter, one of our closer moments. I happened to catch and keep it to remember even in this reckless, rebellious stage she’s still my daughter.
But I’m no better than she is. I didn’t tell her where I was, who I’m with. I’m not at school, like I should be. A feeling of disgust washes over me as I realize what a hypocrite I am.
I think back, reliving the night, combing my memory for any shred of regret. So far there is none, only the secret I’ve kept from Lucy.
With school during the day and waiting tables at night I’ve hardly had time to nurture my loneliness. But last night it came lurking. I had the night off from work. A peaceful evening at home sounded amazing. I’d take a bath, listen to music. I didn’t expect to be consumed by every strangled fear or worry I’ve had over the last few months all at once, but my mind carried me down like a syphon to the bottom of those dark waters.
It’d been years since I’d truly felt lonely. I had my girls, and even the stone-faced presence of my resentful husband was enough to quell the unsettling hush of solitude back home. Unhappy, yes, but I always had company. Alone in my apartment, free from distraction, everything seemed too still. What if Steve was right? What if no one would ever love me? My children had lives of their own. What if this became my life? This empty living room. This too-quiet home.
I felt useless sitting by myself in front of the T.V. Lucy had been gone for days, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I couldn’t control her or protect her.
But maybe someone could.
I remembered the phone number in my purse and went to dig for it. His name was scribbled across the top of a torn piece of paper.
Arturo Mendoza.
He’d given it to me in case I had any more information on the crew Lucy was associated with, but maybe he could help me find her or scare her into coming home. Normally I wouldn’t call, but the sound of my own breath in the near-silence was giving me anxiety.
“Hello?”
I balked at the sound of his crisp voice on the other end. It sounded sexier than I knew he looked.
“Um. Hi. I don’t know if you remember me, but you gave me your number. My daughter is Lucy Wilcox...”
“Rachel,” he beamed. “Hi. Thanks for calling.” I smiled at the lift in his voice as he said my name. “My shift just ended, but if you want to talk about FTC I’d be happy to meet you somewhere. Starbucks on Brand and Broadway?”
“Sure,” I answered without a beat. My palms went slick with sweat. I didn’t have any information for him. Why did I agree? “I’ll head out now. See you there.”
I hung up the phone with a panicky feeling in my chest, my heart flitting about like a lost hummingbird. I did want to talk to him about the crew, I convinced myself. I wanted to talk about how they were continually stealing my daughter and ask him what I could do to stop them or help get them arrested. Whatever. I wanted them gone.
He wasn’t in uniform when he walked into the Starbucks, but I recognized his eyes and cleft chin.
“Hi! Arturo?” I waved at him and smiled despite my nerves. Whatever my intention, it had been almost twenty years since I’d met a man anywhere by myself.
“Oh, just call me Art,” he said, continuing to stand.
Without the police attire I felt more comfortable around him and began to relax a bit.
“I don’t know why I picked a coffee place. Probably shouldn’t drink caffeine at 7 p.m.,” he laughed nervously. “There’s a bar down the road. How about a beer instead?”
At first it was all business. I pretended I knew things, but I kept it vague as we walked along the cracked sidewalk toward the sound of rock music up ahead.
“I’m sure you know these kids better than I do,” I said. “What I really want to know is how to find her. She’s been gone for a few days and no one at the station seems to take that very seriously.”
“It happens a lot. She’ll turn up. Trust me. They eventually need money.”
I nodded, but couldn’t keep my features from sinking in defeat.
“Oh, no,” he stammered. “I’m sure she’ll come home for other reasons, too. I didn’t mean to...Sorry, I’m really bad at this. I haven’t been on a date in a really long time.”
A date? I almost said the words aloud but stopped myself. This definitely wasn’t supposed to be a date, but if that was what it was turning into, I secretly liked the idea. A crack was forming in the stone foundation of my insecurities and self-doubt—he liked me. Steve was wrong.
“You’re fine,” I said, feeling twenty years younger at the thought of a date. I clasped my hands behind my back and subtly slipped off my wedding ring before sliding it in my pocket.
Time passed easily after a few drinks. Alcohol made me fun. A woman can be fat if she’s funny, and that is what kept me drinking all those years with Steve. Wine became a staple, and it felt good to slip back into that role.
I learned Art was divorced and hadn’t dated since. No kids, but he wanted them. He was overly polite, pulling out my barstool and paying for drinks. But one thing made me like him more than I imagined I would. The way he looked into my eyes and actually listened when I talked, like he cared about what I had to say. I hadn’t realized how invisible I’d been in my marriage.
As the night deepened, we laughed with our heads close together. He rested a hand on my shoulder while telling a story. I reached for his arm, pulling him to the dance floor. It wasn’t long before casual touching became a natural extension of our words, and we didn’t think anything of it.
When we returned to his apartment it was easy to convince myself to stay. I hadn’t been drinking since we’d moved. I didn’t have the tolerance I used to, and the wine had me flushed and fuzzy. I couldn’t go home even if I wanted to. He felt the same, I was sure.
At least that’s what I told myself.
“So is there anything you can do, any strings you can pull to help me get her home?” I asked sitting on a white leather sofa in his pristine living room. His single story house was decorated like a model home, and I wondered if it had been a woman’s touch or if maybe he was lonely enough to live this immaculately. Only single people with no children could keep a house like this.
“Not really,” he spoke from the kitchen, pouring us glasses of red wine. “Those kids tend to avoid us, and when we do see them it’s usually because they’re causing trouble and we bring them in.” He looked up with a disheartened smile. “Is that why you agreed to go out with me? To see if I could help you find her?”
I didn’t mention this hadn’t started as a date. “I hoped, but it wasn’t the only reason,” I lied. “You’re sweet and listen when I talk. You seemed to care when I was upset at my house. I’m not used to a man caring when I cry.” I closed my eyes, the alcohol heavy in my head. “I’m sorry. I lose my filter when I drink. I’m saying too much.” I was sure I’d be embarrassed about opening up in the morning, but I chose to ride the carefree wave of my buzz.
“You reminded me of my mother,” he said, heading into the living room with our wine. “Is that weird? Shoot. See, I have no filter either.” We laughed as he relaxed into the sofa next to me and handed me my glass. “What I mean is, I was a rebellious kid, too. I did the same thing to my mom, so I could understand what you were going through.”
“But you think Lucy’s okay?” I asked, mostly for the reassurance. “I think I would have that gut feeling if something were really wrong, you know? She does this so often I feel like I should be more concerned, but I know it’s just the same story as last time. With friends.”
“I hope she’s okay,” he said, his words lacking the co
mfort I was looking for. He seemed to be maintaining his composure, making me wonder if he was a nightly drinker. “That group of kids is dangerous. They have dangerous affiliations. Do you know the boy she’s dating?”
“I think she said his name was Gabe.”
“Gabriel Alvarez. His brother was in Crazy Eights. Have you heard of that gang?”
I shook my head.
“They’re dangerous kids, Rachel. They’ll get her in trouble.”
Talking about it made me scared. “Well what am I supposed to do about it? Stay up all night and watch her? She sneaks out. She doesn’t care what I say.”
“I don’t have kids...” He took a sip of his wine as if it would help him think. “Take off her bedroom door? I’ve heard of parents doing that.”
“Maybe.” I’d try anything.
The obsessive urge to rush home and check the house for any sign of her needled me until I gave in.
“I think I should go. I can call a cab,” I said standing, but the room spun and I lost my balance.
He jumped to catch me as I fell clumsily onto the couch.
“Are you all right?” he asked, helping me to sit straight. Those intense yellow-brown eyes didn’t look so startling up close. “Maybe you should stay here.”
* * *
I remember the night in pieces. Everything up until his apartment is pretty clear. That last glass of wine did me in. As I sit awake next to him in bed, contemplating my phone call with Lucy, I wonder if this will become more. If he’ll call. If I messed it up by drinking too much.
At first the feel of a man next to me set off my internal alarms, but he is fully clothed and sleeping atop the covers with his back to me. I smile at it, the back of a gentleman.
I pull myself together in a hurry, grabbing my purse, phone, and shoes.
She’s home.
I had a wonderful time.
-Rachel
I leave the note on the kitchen counter, but even as I make my way out I think of his back. The small gestures of respect, treating me as an equal, his creased brow and listening eyes, all make me realize what I’ve been missing. One night with Art, and I already feel like more of a human. Worthy of love, of friendship, and happiness.
Carry Me Home Page 16