“Hey, yes, Ms. Brickman has showed up to pick up her boy. Ok, thanks.” She drops the cradle back on the phone and keeps typing on her computer, without giving me another glance. “You can take a seat, Lieutenant Rogers will be out here in a sec,” she waves her painted nails in the general direction of the chairs against the wall behind me.
I turn around and cross the floor. If this lady is any indication of what the cops are like at this station, then maybe my theory on why Chris got picked up is right. Before I make it to the tired looking light blue seats under the window the door to the hallway opens.
Standing in the doorway is a thirty-something, black man with a shaved head and a strong jaw. He smiles at me, “Ms. Brickman? Come with me, please. Down this way,” he guides me.
Maybe not.
Officer Rogers holds the door for me as I pass through, closing it carefully behind him. “Right this way,” he holds out his hand like a signpost. “Now, Chris is sitting with my partner right now in another office,” he walks slightly ahead of me and opens another door for me. This one leads into a small office decorated with little more than a desk and chairs. “But, before you go get him, I wanted to have a chance to talk to you about what happened today in private.” Again, he holds his hand out, guiding me to a seat at the desk.
“Sure, ah, is he alright? I’m not even clear on what happened today.” I ease back into the chair and watch Lieutenant Rogers as he sits down. He looks so relaxed, leaning back in his chair with his hands draped off the arms, I can feel my own anxieties melting away a little.
“Oh, he’s fine. Not a scratch on him, don’t worry about that. Now I can see that you’ve rushed over here from work,” he nods at my exercise gear, “so I won’t take up too much of your time. The reason Chris got detained today is because he and his friends decided to skip school today and vandalize the 7-11 on Havana street.”
I don’t tell him that Chris wasn’t skipping class because he was already expelled. I don’t think that will help anything.
“What did they do?” I cling to hope that “vandalism” means the same thing to this officer as it did to Chris’s principal. Does my son just have a strange obsession with cherry bombing public restrooms?
“They swarmed the store at around 10:50 this morning, Chris and seven other boys, and they started ripping juices and milk out of the back fridges, smashing them on the floor. Chris ran down the aisle and cleared the racks of chips and junk, sweeping it all onto the floor. Then, when the other boys started to run off, Chris knocked over a newspaper rack into the store window, shattering it.”
Okay, so not cherry bombs then. Holy shit. What is going on with him. I open my mouth, but my throat is a desert so all I can do is make a strange clicking sound.
Officer Rogers looks at me with sympathetic brown eyes, “I can see you’re upset. This is probably a lot to take in. The thing is though, we caught all of the boys and questioned them here. It seemed pretty clear that Chris wasn’t just following the crowd on this one, Ms. Brickman. From what we’ve gathered, this little operation was his idea and the other guys were following him. Even the store clerk mentioned that it was your son who broke the most stuff and then also took it upon himself to take out the window too.”
I try to imagine Chris being so violent. Not only heading down a path of self-destruction, but leading the pack. Instead, all I can think of is how only two years ago I had a sweet seven-year-old who still told me he loved me when I tucked him in at night. Now, I apparently have a nine-year-old delinquent going on twenty. More like, gonna get locked up for twenty, if I can’t get him straightened out.
“I don’t know what to say. This is, well, I knew he was getting out of control, but this is shocking.” Tears build up in the corners of my eyes and blur my vision. I don’t want to break down right now, but my throat burns as I struggle to keep them from falling.
“I can see that,” the Lieutenant lifts a tissue from his Kleenex box on the desktop and hands it to me. I dab my eyes, sniffling. “Chris mentioned that his father died last year when we were talking to him. It’s the only time he showed any emotions. I’d like to propose that Chris goes to a group therapy session in town here that’s specifically for boys who are tweens and teens who’ve lost a parent. I think that it might do him a world of good to learn to cope with his emotions constructively, and see that he’s not alone in grieving his loss.”
“Is that expensive? I mean, I’ll make it work, but I’m just not sure how …” my thoughts begin to spiral as I start calculating how much I have on my line of credit.
“No, it will be free. I’m going to contact the program co-ordinator and recommend Chris to the sessions like a community service program. That way it won’t cost you anything. Also, if you do agree to send him, I can use that as a deal to prevent the store owner from coming after you personally for damages.”
“Me? Oh my God, I definitely don’t have that kind of money.” The very idea of being tied up in legal litigations makes my head feel like it’s about to split open. “No, of course I do want him to go. Even if it wasn’t for the damages part. I just want him to get help.” Tears roll down my cheeks and I quickly raise my hand to soak them up with the tissue.
“I can see that, Ms. Brickman. I think you’ll find it will make a big difference. Chris is young and he’s troubled but he has a mother who truly cares about him. I think with this group therapy, you’ll see him turn around. He’s already got a lot more going for him than almost every one of those kids he was vandalizing that store with this morning.”
“Thank you, I do care,” my voice cracks. “He’s my world, I’ll do whatever it takes to get him back on track. I swear to you, before his father died, Chris would never have even thought of doing stuff like this. Never. All he wanted to do is play sports, video games and normal kid stuff. Now the only sport he gives a crap about, sorry,” I look up at him, but Officer Rogers just smiles back. “The only thing he still cares about is football, everything else is a wash. I just want my old kid back.” I choke on my words as tears form again, but this time I can’t hold them back. The dam breaks and a stream of sadness and worry flows down my face.
Lieutenant Rogers waits patiently for me to get myself back under control, handing me more tissues. Thankfully, after a few deep breaths, I manage to stop crying.
“Thank you,” I mumble from behind a handful of crumpled Kleenex.
“Certainly,” he answers with a friendly smile. “If you’re ok, I can take you to the other office to pick up Chris now?” He doesn’t stand up or try to rush me out of his office, even though I’m sure he has other things to do today. Instead, he waits for me to answer.
“Yes, thank you. I’d like to take him home now.” I blow my nose and throw the tissues in the trash bin at the side of the desk.
“Great, ok, follow me. And remember, Ms. Brickman, your son is clearly dealing with a lot right now, but your little boy is still in there. Don’t give up on him, take him to those sessions, I think you’ll find the kid you miss before long.” He looks at me softly and I swallow the lump in my throat before it has a chance to rise and spill over into another bout of crying.
“Thank you, Officer. I will.”
“And you are going to march into your grandmother’s house and apologize to her and your aunt for what you’ve put everyone through today. Do you understand me, Christopher?”
He shrugs without breaking his stare out the passenger window. The tears I spilled in the Lieutenant’s office a few hours ago have long since been steamed away by my anger.
After spending the better part of my day at the police station, filling out forms for my son’s upcoming group sessions and to get him released into my custody, I’m kinda over the crying thing.
I pull the car into my mother’s driveway and throw the car in park. Chris doesn’t move, still staring out his window.
“Let’s go, young man! Now!” I bark at him, but he moves with sloth like speed to unfasten his seatbelt.
/> “Whatever.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I know he’s testing me. I have no idea why, but it’s clear as day that he is. Instead of giving him the reaction he’s clearly searching for, I just leave the car and wait outside the door. I send a silent prayer up to God to give me the strength I need to deal with my boy.
Chris reluctantly joins me as I walk up the short path to my mother’s front door. Before I have a chance to grab the handle, the door flies open with my sister, Chelsea standing in the doorway.
“Oh my goodness! Ma! It’s Chris and Lauren. Are you alright, Chris? What happened, Lauren? I’m so glad you’re home!” she rambles, blocking our entrance to the house.
“Everything is sorted out, for now. You wanna let us in?” I gently remind her to get out of the way. Chris, on the other hand, pushes past his aunt like a linebacker.
“Chris! Apologize to Chelsea right now. You don’t push her around.”
“Sorry,” he rolls his eyes. I can feel heat rising up the back of my neck as I try to keep the flames of my temper extinguished.
My mother walks into the living room with us, with worry etched on her mahogany face. “Oh, Christopher! I’m so glad you’re back. You gave me a real scare today. What were you thinking?”
Chris just shrugs, refusing to look any of us in the eyes.
“Apparently he was thinking that him and his friends should go trash a 7-11 for fun and the cops picked him up. They told me that if it wasn’t for the minimum age for delinquency charges in Colorado being ten, Chris would be looking at real charges right now. Luckily, they made us a deal so I won’t have to pay for the damages he caused, like smashing out a window,” my mother and sister gasp.
“Christopher!” Mom interrupts.
“Yeah, so if he goes to a group therapy thing in town, the police are going to kindly let it drop.”
“Wow, Hun, what’s going on in there?” Chelsea rubs his head affectionately.
“Leave me alone,” Chris shoves her hand off his head.
“Christopher! Apologize right now.” I barely grit the words through my teeth.
Chris sighs exaggeratedly, “Sorry. I’m soooo sorry. Sorry for being alive, ok? Is that what you want? Can you stop being such a bitch now?”
Rage prickles my skin and my mind flashes red. My open hand swats him on the back of the head and everyone stares in silence. I’ve never hit my son before. Never. It’s the one thing I’ve never done.
“I hate you!” Chris’s voice cracks and he flees the front door and stomps down the sidewalk to the car. The passenger door slams and I burst into tears.
“Hey, it’s ok. I would’ve smacked him too with that mouth. He’ll come around, don’t beat yourself up,” my mother wraps her arms around me and I cry into her shoulder.
I don’t know what to do. It’s like everyday that passes is just pushing more distance between me and my son. I don’t even know him anymore.
I’m losing him.
16
Mack
2014
The stairwell echoes as I run up another flight at the hospital. With every step my prosthetic leg thuds against the concrete, despite my best efforts to hit it lightly. I want my feet to sound the same when I walk. I won’t stop practicing until I can’t hear the difference between them anymore. It’s not because I’m ashamed.
Far from it.
I lost my leg so two men could live. I’d call that a fair trade. No, it’s not shame. It’s that I don’t want anyone knowing that I have a prosthetic leg just by looking at me, or by listening to me. I don’t want to deal with people’s questions all the time. And even worse: their pity.
The muscle fibers in my ribs wrench angrily, making me stop dead in my tracks. When did I become such an old man? I throw my arms over my head and lean back against the cool wall closing my eyes. I remember when I first went to West Point, I could march ten miles with a sixty-pound ruck sack in the morning, hit up the gym in the afternoon and then stay up all night fucking the brains out of my flavor of the week. The energizer bunny was a pussy compared to me. Fuckin’ pink rabbit.
Speaking of old men, I wonder how Cameron Armstrong is making out. When I went to Walter Reed to learn to function again, he made good on his word. He didn’t renew his next military contract and went to Colorado University instead. When I was first learning how to walk with my prosthetic, Armstrong sent an e-mail my way. He thanked me for doing what I did and for saving his life. He let me know that he made it onto the Buffaloes as a quarterback. He even got kinda gushy at the end when he said he’d never had a brother, but that as far as he was concerned I was his brother, not just in arms, but blood.
His e-mail was kind, thoughtful and uncharacteristically vulnerable.
It pissed me the fuck off.
Instead of being happy to hear about him following his dreams, I was jealous. There I was, sweating my sack off trying to learn to walk like a damned toddler again, and he was set up to be the star of his college football team. Yeah, jealous doesn’t really cover it.
I should really look him up now that I’m here. Let him know I’m happy for him.
I pop my eyes back open, dropping my arms back by my sides. Time to get back at it. I pull the air deep in my lungs and get mentally prepared to continue my run.
Thud!
A door opens into the stairwell a couple floors above me. I tilt my head and listen. Just because the door opened doesn’t mean anyone’s in here. Several floors above me I hear a huge sigh. So much for that theory.
Suddenly sniffles ring off the walls. It’s a woman. At least I assume so, from the crying. Not to say I’ve never shed a tear or two, I’m well aware that men cry too. It just sounds different when it’s a lady, that’s all.
I guess that’s the end of today’s run. I should just head back down to the lobby exit and give this chick some privacy. I think about it, I have every intention of going, yet for some reason that’s beyond me, I keep moving up the stairs.
Now, I’m no white knight. Sure, you might be inclined to think differently because of how I lost my leg. You’d be wrong. I’ve never been the kind of guy to swoop in and dry some girl’s tears. Women cry too much and for too many reasons to get tangled up in that. Yet, I can’t stop my legs from guiding me up toward the sound of her cries. Something about the noise tells me her tears are deeper than a bad day. Her sorrow sounds like it’s rooted deep in her soul.
The space between us closes and her sobs shatter the quiet. The empty stairwell reverberates her pain from the walls. I come up around the last flight of stairs and my heart clenches in my chest.
It’s Lauren.
I stop dead in my tracks and my chest feels like it’s been hollowed out as I watch her. She’s sitting, slumped against the door with her knees pulled up to her chest and her head lying against them like a pillow. She’s got her arms wrapped around her legs in a hug she so clearly needs from someone.
From me.
She looks like someone who has lived two full lifetimes of pain and suffering. I’m not saying she looks old or haggard. Cause, damn it, I don’t know a woman on this earth that is more radiant or sexy than she is. It’s not at all that she’s aged, it’s that she’s defeated. She’s broken down. Stomped to the earth.
And it’s all my fault.
“Lauren, I’m sorry.”
As I close the final stairs between us, she looks up, startled. She wipes fat tears from her perfect face with her knuckles. I reach the landing and hold my hand open to her, to help her off the floor. Plan B is to sit next to her, if that’s what she needs. Instead, she grabs my hand and springs from the floor like a jack-in-the-box as I give her a tug.
“You’re sorry?” Her eyes travel over my face, searching for something. Maybe it’s for a shred of sincerity. It’s not like I’ve been very open with her since I showed up here. Maybe she’s searching for more.
“I’m sorry. I never meant to make you cry.” I brush the last of her tears away and cup he
r chin in my hand. She looks at my lips and it’s all the invitation I need. I wrap one arm around her, pulling her tight to my body.
“Oh! Um …”
She doesn’t get a chance to make actual words because I smother her sentence with my kiss. Tenderly, my lips find hers. I let my lips tell her everything. How much I’ve missed her. How much I need her. How sorry I am for breaking her heart. My lips spill all of my secrets, without ever speaking a word.
I feel the tension melt from her body as she sighs happily into my mouth. Our tongues gently collide and I run my hand up her back until I reach her hair. The rest of my body is coming alive from her kiss. Like she’s breathing life back into the void she left in my soul. Of course, with the rest of my senses waking, the urge to make her cry out in a different way builds up in me.
I walk her back until she’s pressed against the cold wall, without breaking our kiss. My hand slides down from her chin and I quickly reach up, under her uniform and unsnap her bra with one hand.
Haven’t lost my touch.
Her breasts drop slightly under the weight of her heavy tits. I can’t wait to run my tongue over her dark nipples and fuck her until the only thing she’s crying out is my name.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Lauren squirms sideways from beneath me, putting inches of space between us that feel like cold miles.
“I’m just trying to make you feel better. I want to say sorry for making you cry.” I give her a smile and she pauses, like she’s thinking about it.
Instead, she snakes her hands up under the back of her shirt and hooks her bra back up.
“What? Jesus, Mack, you can’t fix everything with your dick you know.” She smoothes her hands down over her shirt.
Ms. Professionalism is back. That cock-block.
“Are you sure? How about I give it my best shot? I bet I can make you happy for a while,” I murmur and step toward her, trying to shake off Lauren’s prim and proper act.
Quickies Page 25