by C, Mitzi
“How severe are her injuries?”
“Oh, just bruises and scratches. Nothing too serious.”
“Nothing that would require medical attention?”
Jim frowns and shakes his head. “Nah, I just get some ointment and bandages if it ever comes to that.”
“Do you suspect she is suicidal?”
A slight pause, followed by Jim clearing his throat and replying slowly, “I don't know, honestly.” He rubs the whiskers on his face and sighs.
Doctor Boon nods. “Leyla Hendricks has suggested returning her to Blue Skys. What do you think?”
Blue Skys. That's where I spent four years in a white padded cell eating food from plastic cups and hallucinating as a result of the drugs forced into my system.
“I don't think that is a good idea. Kandi's improvement may be slow and arduous, but when it all comes down to it... I don't think Blue Skys has anything to offer her that I can't offer myself.”
“What about your financial situation? You've been living off welfare for a year. Your fiancé left you, and you've been unemployed ever since. Aren't you a bit overwhelmed with the responsibility of nurturing Kandi? It would be understandable... maybe even ideal... if you left her in the care of others who had the means to provide for her special needs.”
My uncle licks his upper lip and winces, as though what the man said physically hurt him. Ouch. He doesn't like blows to his precious ego. “I have the means.” He takes a breath and skewers Mr. Boon with his pale blue eyes. For a brief moment, he hesitates, possibly conjuring up a way to retaliate for his insensitivity and bluntness. “What Kandi needs is someone who can provide more than meds and basic physical needs – someone who is capable of showing love and compassion toward her. I strongly feel that Kandi would only deteriorate further in a mental institution. I am her best option right now, since we are family and I treat her the way she deserves to be treated.”
The old man smiles, apparently interpreting the 'deserves to be treated' part the way my uncle intended, which is a miracle. “In that case, you need to get a job as soon as possible. I have some...” he pulls a stack of papers out of his satchel, “job applications if you're interested. I know it must be hard to get a job the way the economy is these days, so I took the liberty of narrowing down your search to companies in your vicinity that are actually hiring. I hope you don't mind.”
My uncle takes the stack and glances through it. “Not at all. I appreciate it. Beggars can't be choosers.” Behind his appreciative smile, I can see the flame emerging from the embers that are perpetually smoldering within his eyes.
“No doubt.” Mr. Boon then turns his attention to me. “Now it's time to decide what you two need. It is the Holiday season, and we have raised quite a bit of money from our recent fundraiser. So let's get down to what you need, and if we have any room left, what you want.” He flips his clipboard documents to the last page and retrieves a pen from his suit coat pocket. “Let's start with food and preferences. Any food allergies we should be aware of?”
“I am allergic to nuts, but Kandi will eat just about anything.”
Finally, he speaks the truth.
“Okay.” Mr. Boon writes something down. “What about hygiene products, like soap, shampoo, and so forth?”
“We are almost out of soap,” Jim answers, “and Kandi could use some more... feminine products.”
“Yes, of course.” Write write write. “Is your car in need of any repair?”
“No.”
“Okay, let's move on to clothing. We will provide Kandi some clothes from our stash of donations since it appears she's wearing clothes that belonged to people three times her size, at least.” Ouch. “What about you, Mr. Levinson?”
Blah, blah, blah. I'm so tired, I don't think I can listen to them anymore. My eyelids begin to droop over my blistering eyes, and my mind wanders...
After what feels like fifty years, Mr. Boon inspects the entire house and, seemingly satisfied, shakes my uncle's hand and departs.
My uncle wastes no time returning to his normal self. He looks at me accusingly and huffs, then walks swiftly down the hall and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
In my bedroom at about five o'clock in the evening, I'm lying on my bed admiring the small box wrapped in beautiful golden/scarlet/green paper. A small tear leaks from the corner of my eye and slides down my face, hitting my flat white pillow and soaking into the fabric.
I recall waking up early Christmas morning when I was eight, unable to sleep any longer – my excitement growing as I thought about what could be under the tree. A new bike? A doll? Candy? I had to know. I had to. I couldn't sit still in bed and wait until my parents woke up.
So I climbed out of bed and padded down the hallway in my princess nightgown and walked as quietly and ninja-like as possible down the stairs. As soon as I saw the Christmas tree lights illuminating the wrapped packages that concealed who-knew-what, I almost squealed. Luckily, I was able to contain myself.
My father was sitting in front of the old fireplace stoking the fire.
I turned to go back upstairs before he saw me, but apparently he already knew I was there. “Kandi?” He looked up and smiled. I faltered. “You're supposed to be asleep.”
“I couldn't sleep,” I told him innocently.
“Come here.” He gestured with his hands to come sit by him. I obeyed, walking down the stairs and through the living room. I sat next to him, inhaling his rich, unique scent.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“For ruining the surprise.”
“What surprise? You knew what you were going to see. There was no surprise.”
He placed the stoker down with all the other fire-kindling tools and brought me closer to his side. “I love sitting in the soft light alone in the middle of the night. It's very relaxing, don't you think?”
I nodded.
I wake with a start and look at the clock. 7:59. The house is quiet. The air is still and relatively clean. I feel at peace, at least for the moment. I am alone and calm as I'll ever be.
I was reading a book in the basement while Traci was playing with her toys when suddenly I heard my mom yelling upstairs. Traci and I, nine and twelve years old, looked up, startled, but otherwise did not move a muscle.
I heard more yelling; my parents were fighting again. Traci's big coffee-brown eyes widened and looked at me for reassurance. I nodded, assuring her with my gaze that this was just another one of “those fights” that usually lasted a few minutes, after which my parents would be back to normal.
But the argument never reached an end. I finally stood up and walked upstairs to investigate, worried that they were arguing about me.
Another crash. It sounded as though a glass vase fell and shattered on the tile floor in the kitchen. I halted at the top of the stairs and listened cautiously through the door.
“You told me you'd call him as soon as you had the chance! You promised, Jeremy!”
“Yes, and I apologize. Just... stop throwing things, honey. This does not warrant such aggression!”
“Are you insane? Our lives depend on it!”
“I cannot call him.”
“Don't give me that again! Of course you can!”
“Talia, I told you before!”
“You're serious. You're seriously giving me this excuse right now? Oh my heck, I can't look at you right now! Give me that! No, stop it! I will call him! Hey! Let go!”
Another crash. Tears sprung in my eyes.
“Stop it!”
“Put that down!”
“I will not let you hurt this family again! I have worked hard to keep us together!”
“If you had but an inkling of the measures I have taken to preserve this family...”
“From what? I don't understand! You're always saying you're trying to protect us, but you never tell me why!”
“The truth would break you, Tal.”
“So you haven't been telling
the truth all this time?”
“Had I been completely truthful with you from the beginning, you would not have married me, and Traci never would have been born! There are greater things than truth in this world.”
“What is the truth, Jeremy? What is it? Tell me!”
I fly out of bed and rush to the bathroom, where I dry heave over the toilet until I have so little energy that all I can do is sit on the floor in the bathroom in a daze, unable to move or think... I just exist.
At about 8:30, I stumble back to my bedroom, lightheaded and ravenous. I blackout for about two seconds and come to on the floor, groaning.
That's when I hear my uncle's raspy voice call my name. “Kandi, Kandi, Kandi” over and over and over. I know I should get up, but I don't. We've been out of food for two days now. I haven't eaten a thing for two whole days, which isn't much less than the amount I ordinarily eat, so the effects of forty-eight-hour starvation are even more detrimental.
I lie on the floor, thinking of my father, the man who changed my life forever, the man who stole my dreams and ripped my heart and soul from me.
I am an empty shell. Nothing more.
“Kandi! Open it! Open it!” Traci squealed, grinning to display the holes in her mouth where her two front teeth used to be. She jumped up and down beside me as I quickly tore the paper away from my last birthday gift.
I smiled and poked Traci in the stomach, causing her to squeal even louder and finally give me some space. I twisted the gift around and around and looked up at my parents. My mother was smiling with a fork full of cake slowly approaching her mouth; my father was also, but the smile didn't quite reach his moss-hued eyes.
I fidgeted a bit, uneasy. Fortunately, I was able to shake it from my mind and focus on my party. My mother had told me I could invite friends over... but I didn't have any friends. I never did, and I suspected at the time that I never would.
I was right.
Traci gave me a makeup kit for my ninth birthday. We played with it for the rest of the day, and our mom styled our hair for us. We dressed up as princesses and my dad took pictures.
It was a good day. A normal day.
I recall pulling Traci into my arms when she was three after a mean girl stole her doll. I can still smell her sweet toddler shampoo and the fresh scent of grass on the lawn where we embraced. I can still feel the tears on my shoulder that fell from her eyes. She lost her most precious possession, and I was there to comfort her.
Memories of my mother coaxing me to make friends in school bring me to tears once again. Those memories are still so fresh in my mind, so crisp, like I am staring at photographs taken just the day before.
Every moment of my life is that way. My dad always said I had an eidetic memory – just like him. We are like twins. He often told me stories of his own friendless childhood where he would be strictly controlled by his father. Those stories always made me feel better knowing that my father was able to pull through it all.
But, now that I think about it... Maybe he never did.
I abruptly return to consciousness the moment my uncle picks me up by the arms and shakes me like a rag doll.
“What are you doing asleep on the floor? I've been calling you for fifteen minutes!” He throws me down in disgust and shakes his head. “Get in the kitchen, now. I bought food. Whip something up for me while I pay the rent.”
He bought eggs, milk, flour, cheese, a variety of vegetables, a 12-pack of beer, and bread. I almost pass out merely by exerting the energy required to look at it.
Still half asleep and moaning miserably, I cook two omelets and set the table for the two of us. Memories of similar nights long ago pour into my brain, almost summoning more tears.
Jim returns with a hungry look in his eyes, takes the food from the table to the living room, and plops in front of the television. My heart plummets to my stomach. Nostalgia gone. We're going to eat separately as usual.
Quietly, I sit at the table and, with as much discipline as I can muster, slowly piece at my omelet. When I am finished, I take my dishes, place them in the dishwasher, and saunter into the living room.
I gather Jim's dishes and look at the TV. My uncle is watching the news. He never watches the news.
“... who, seven years ago, killed his wife and his two daughters, has escaped Utah Valley Prison...”
My brain doesn't give me the option to listen any further. I drop the dishes I'd been holding and look at the screen, unable to see anything beyond it. An icy blanket constricts my lungs so they can't expand. A tremendous amount of pressure builds up behind my eyes and in my throat. A soft, high-pitched buzz pierces my skull.
My head explodes. I lean my weak body against the corner of the wall between the kitchen and the living room and sob, the pressure only building as the tears flow. Dad is back. Dad is still in my life.
Jim turns off the television and grunts as he rises from the sofa. He awkwardly pats me on the back and leaves.
My father is still in my life. I am not okay with that. Not. Okay.
Later that evening, as I am staggering into my room clutching my clothes in my arms, I remember the gift Doctor Boon gave me. It is still sitting on my dresser, unopened, untouched.
I can't wait any longer. I rip the paper off the box and carefully remove the lid. Inside, to my astonishment, is a note written by my mother the day before she died.
April 17, 2009
Dear Kanidie,
If you are reading this, I am already dead. I never wanted this to happen. I wish I could be there to hold you and tell you that everything is going to be okay. But it turns out I did not know your father as well I as I thought. I hope you can forgive me.
You have probably concluded by now that you are very special. Your father was too when I met him. He always knew what I was thinking and seemed to pass his stunning intellect down to you. I only hope you can use your intelligence for good and halt the corruption your father instigated. You are more gifted than you realize. Many people will want to use your gifts for nefarious purposes, but you cannot let them. Our survival depends on you keeping your true identity a secret.
I love you more than life. Though dead, I have not left your side for a second. My sole dying wish is that you will awaken to your full potential and stop your father’s plan from succeeding.
Love always,
Mom
I fold the note and return it to its box, then cover my face with my hands and bawl my eyes out. Without thinking, I sob, “I miss you, Mom.” It is not until I am able to breathe normally again that my blood runs cold with the realization that I still have a voice.
***
CHAPTER 4 – Juan
The Girl
Jan. 2, 2017
I spent most of my Christmas break alone, working out, eating, playing video games as promised, or watching TV with Grandpa. I have never had such an uneventful two weeks in my life. In California, I was often with my friends, looting stores, stealing cars, breaking into homes, or fighting with other gangs (maybe reading a book or two in my spare time). In Blue Skys, I wasn’t aware of how bored I was.
As unchallenging as my break seemed, however, I am still not cheerfully anticipating school. In fact, school and Blue Skys are the two items at the top of my list of Places I Want to Avoid for Eternity. The third item on that list is Hell.
My aides, whose “names” are apparently Tim and Mac – very original – come by in a large white van to drive me to school. I don’t know why they have to take me when my grandpa has a functioning vehicle. I won’t be able to tolerate their act much longer.
Tim, or Goon 1, cuffs my wrists and hauls me into the back of the van, securing the cuffs to a chain in the floor.
“Guys, is this really necessary?”
Mac gives me a dull look.
I wonder if they’re aware I could break through these chains like butter.
In Spanish class, I don’t see the kid who bothered me on my first day. In his place is a niña bonita with
smooth black hair, heavy eye makeup and a low-cut, form-hugging top. Thank goodness.
“Hey,” I whisper in her direction, “what’s your name?”
“Eliza,” she answers while texting on her phone.
I turn around and offer my hand. “I’m Juan.”
She takes it slowly, brown eyes lighting up with intrigue. “Hola, Juan.”
“Are you new here?”
She shakes her head, earrings clinking. “No, I just switched classes. You’re the new kid everyone has been talking about, right?”
“Everyone has been talking about me?”
“Yeah.” She props her elbow on her desk and rests her chin on her fist. “You are the hot new muchacho malo from San Diego.”
“Oh. Well…” I say, grinning humbly, “I would like to get to know you better. What lunch hour do you have?”
Eliza simpers. “First. Same as you.”
I narrow my eyes with pseudo suspicion. “Have you been stalking me?”
“Chavez, eyes up here, please.” I abruptly face forward toward Mr. Brown, who is sporting a green sweater over a gray-striped tie and brown slacks. Quite an appealing combination. “That is your final warning.”
I nod and pick up my pencil. The clock on the wall appears to be ticking backwards.
In Geometry, a class I share with one other senior, ten juniors, and fourteen sophomores, Mrs. Edwards’ monotonous lecture is blessedly interrupted by a voice on the intercom: “Juan Chavez, please come to the office. Juan Chavez.”
I rise out of my miniature desk and nod an apology to the teacher on my way out. I feel Tim and Mac breathing heavily down my neck and roll my shoulders uncomfortably.
I see nothing unusual as I stroll to the office. I wonder why I was called down. My nerves ratchet up the panic level in the stillness as I recall past dealings with school authorities. I hardly attended middle school because I was constantly given detention for misdemeanors I never committed. I attended a school dominated by full-blooded Latinos who liked to blame everything on the half white kid. It wasn’t until I joined a gang and made a name for myself that my peers began respecting me. I was finally able to improve my academic performance as a freshman in high school, although I never passed my freshman year because I was arrested before finals.