by Mara White
Adam laughs loud like he does when he’s feeling totally carefree. It gets me hysterically laughing with him and I feel like maybe we’re both in need of a visit to the insane asylum.
A man in slacks and a cardigan sweater walks in while we’re laughing.
“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Bennington, didn’t realize you had a visitor. I can come back around two thirty,” he says as he looks at his watch.
“Oh hey, Doc, no, that’s fine, this is my wife, Belén, you can come in.”
I stand up to shake the doctor’s hand and move to the chair on the other side of Adam’s bed. My husband and I wipe the smiles off our faces like we’ve been caught misbehaving. Adam has dark stubble peeking through and he scratches it with his thumb and forefinger. The lazy look of his post-suicide attempt reminds me of our vacations. But his usually bright-shining blue eyes are flat and his smile is fleeting. I’ve looked to Adam so many times to take care of me, and as I study him, I wonder if I’m guilty of neglecting his feelings.
“Well, I looked into the transfer and it’s going to be a little difficult, considering all the red tape we’d have to go through to arrange transportation and record transfers, not to mention insurance. But, I wanted to assure you that everything will be absolutely confidential, and I’ve already let the other doctors in the department know about the sensitivity we’re dealing with since you and your wife are both employees. They’ve assured me that we’ll take every measure necessary to keep this case confidential and handled discreetly.”
“When will they move him? And any idea how long he’ll have to stay?”
“We can do the transfer later today. A suicide attempt requires a minimum watch of forty-eight hours, but ultimately, it will be up to the team to decide when they think Mr. Bennington is stable enough to go home.”
Adams eyes shoot to mine nervously. Suicide attempt. I can’t concentrate on the doctor’s words. My brain is grasping for anything other than hearing him. Instead, I stare at his salt and pepper curly hair and think about how nice it looks. He’s got great frames too, must be from Warby Parker. My brain refuses to swallow that my husband, the man who usually helps me to feel better, is currently on suicide watch.
“We’ll also be going through a detox process at the request of your husband. There’s a methadone clinic nearby that he can continue to use upon discharge.”
My face is frozen into a terrible smile, a fear smile to mask feelings, to not show my real reaction. My husband a drug addict? What the hell happened to my beautiful life from last week? Last month? How long have we been slipping for? I’m a chronic enabler. I already knew that, but maybe I just refused to see it, to acknowledge it was happening again.
Adam and the doctor talk a bit more and he signs some papers. I cross and uncross my legs at the ankles and try not to hyperventilate.
When we’re alone again, Adam smiles at me and we both start smiling. The doctor walked in on us and we were hysterical after a suicide attempt, probably not a normal reaction. I can’t tell if we’re scared or crazy or if something is actually funny about the situation. But I want us to be like this, silly, like two teenagers in love. Instead of two broken adults, who are always falling apart and then trying to pick up the pieces, constantly sweeping the memories from our pasts under the rug. Opiates? Oxycodone? Really, Adam? Where do we even start?
“Did you really want to die, Champ?”
Definitely not funny. Adam’s face sobers up quickly.
“I don’t even know if I can answer that question. I was messed up, B, and I just wanted the pain to go away so I kept drinking and I kept taking more pills and it wasn’t like a conscious thing where I said, this is it, I want it to be over.”
Adam is adorable in his hospital gown. I want to crawl in the bed with him.
“All because you thought Luke wasn’t your son? Are you still thinking that? He’s one hundred percent yours!”
He never brought it up before. How long has he been harboring these feelings? I’m scared for my son. I hate to think that Adam has treated him any differently because he was questioning his paternity.
“No, B, nothing like that. It was like one more failure. One more not-being-good-enough that I just couldn’t handle.”
I take his hand and gently caress his arm.
“How long have you been using drugs, Adam? I knew about the prescriptions, but how the hell did you get all the way to Oxycodone?”
He shakes his head and rests his cheek on his fist. “It’s not hard. Actually it’s way too easy. The first prescription I got from the dentist, after I had that root canal done. Obviously, it’s addictive. I knew that, I just wasn’t prepared for how much.”
“Do you think the department will let you go?”
“I’m going to step down. I spoke with them this morning and that’s what we decided is best. I’m going to rehab. In New Mexico.”
I’m not sure at this point if I can take much more input. Adam is making decisions without me like we’re not even a couple.
“New Mexico? How long?” I ask in a whisper.
“It’s a one-hundred-and-twenty-day program to start with.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding my head. “And what about me and Luke? Are we not in this together anymore?”
Adam glances down and I don’t like the evasive look. He’s cutting us off. My fears were right. He doesn’t want to continue on with our family. It feels like he doesn’t want Luke to be his child. Tears start falling right away. Not for me or for us, but for my boy who only deserves love and not a fractured, broken family. I don’t want his life riddled with secrets from the past that affect his future. That was my childhood. I want his to be perfect. I wanted a real and present mom and dad for him, no secrets, no lies. My whole life, I always felt less than, felt like I wasn’t normal. I’d give anything for my boy to have parents so run-of-the-mill that it bored him. A mom and dad who married for love, who didn’t have dark pasts they felt the need to hide from.
Antes
First Party
I’m fucked up, but not so bad I don’t see what she’s doing. Bey coming to this party, looking perfect in a blue dress, hair down, gloss on her lips. I feel sick when I try to dance with Yari. Jealousy got me scrambling like a rat in a trap. One minute she’s with the rich trust-funder and the next minute she’s gone. My palms sweat, my heart speeds and I can’t stop looking over my shoulder.
I wander around his huge fucking apartment, pretend I’m exploring. I pocket cash I find sitting in a drawer in the hallway. Then later a watch that’s been tossed aside on an end table. Can’t leave that shit out, bad guys are gonna take it. Who’s got oriental carpets and oil paintings in the Heights? Statues that look African and other weird shit you might buy on a safari. They got art and crazy fancy furniture, none of which is covered in plastic, but velvet and silk. Furniture that will likely get to see both drink stains and cigarette burns on it just from this party.
My ma would kill me, smack me upside the head. I’m looking in bedrooms with giant canopy beds, overflowing with pillows in every size, but every bed is empty. Empty! I’m overjoyed and nervous. How you gonna fucking hide in a Manhattan apartment? Maybe they split and went to the store. Maybe Bey deserves a crib like this instead of whatever I could get for her.
I find the back entrance and it leads out to another set of elevators. I light up a smoke in the hallway and marvel at the fact that this douche has his own private elevators. I’m so upset I grind my teeth until they make an awful squeaking sound. Just one hit of blow would do me good right now. I slam my fist into the wall, not hard enough to break my hand but hard enough to hurt.
Jaylee is blowing up my phone so I call him back.
“Cops are on this party, boy. Get your stash and hit it quick. I got a call they’re busting it and pulling casualties. If you don’t want to go to jail, grab your girl and get the fuck out of there.”
Jaylee means Yari, but he doesn’t know Belén’s here with me. I take the elevator down
to the basement. When I step out into the courtyard behind the building, I can already hear the sirens and the blue and red lights wash up along the bricks twenty seconds later. I light up a smoke, throw my weed in one of the garbage cans along the wall. I dial Jaylee’s number and tell him I’m clear.
“I’m across the street. Your girl’s here,” he says.
“Yari?” I ask him.
“Yeah, she’s shitfaced.”
“Take her home for me, would you?” I ask. I spit on the ground, shake my head at my own stupid ass because I know I’m going back into a burning building. “Belén’s still up there. I’m going back in.” I’m in deep shit. If they see me, they’ll arrest me, no doubt about it. I gotta keep my record clean for the Marines. I weigh that shit for less than one second; Belén’s more important to me.
“All I can do is tell you, not save you, maní,” Jaylee says. He lets out a short laugh. He thinks I’m stupid, whipped. He has no idea how far gone I really am.
“She’s my cousin, yo,” I say. I silence the phone, but not before I hear Jaylee grumble, “Yeah, right she is.”
I head back in through the back door and the place is fucking crawling. I hear cops talking and handing out drinking tickets. They’ll be looking for me, I’m pretty sure they got my number. I step into the back kitchen right as a cop walks past. I take one step, open another door and hide in a broom closet.
Thank God for these idiots and their love of stupid fucking carpets because they drown out my footsteps. Enough so that I can case the joint at the exact same time los azules are busting the party. Easy.
Now if I were Bey, where would I be? In the library. I find it, but alls there is are books, some empty drink cups and magazines spread all over the floor. I creep into yet another bedroom that I hadn’t seen yet and I hear something. Bed’s empty, but I hear Belén, making noises, the kind that only I should be hearing her make.
He has her in the fucking bathroom? I will kill this worthless ass. What kind of trash takes her virginity in a bathroom?
Jesus Christ. She’s naked when I bust open the door. Tits out, flushed, panties on the fucking floor. I break his nose with my fist. The kid cracks open his own head on his way to the floor. Piece of fucking shit. I’m raging, want to yell that I’ll cut his dick off if he goes near her again. I reel it in, get it under control. I grab Bey, I grab her underwear. I can’t do nothing about her dignity, but I’ve seen her naked before. I try to keep my eyes glued to the floor.
In the elevator she cries.
“He’ll bleed to death! Call an ambulance!”
“He’s not going to fucking die, Belén. At the very worst he cracked the back of his head open. A couple of stitches, some Neosporin. That prick will be just fine.”
She pulls on her clothes; still worried about the idiot and his loss of blood. I ignore her concern. She’s so fucking beautiful it hurts. In the dress, now halfway on, with her hair tangled and falling around her shoulders, her face flushed from drinking, lips swollen from kissing and eyes red from crying. Bey falling apart is like a flower blooming at night. Even if no one’s there to witness it, it still does its thing, bursts open fresh and raw, offering itself to the dark moonlight. Maybe nobody’s supposed to see it, it’s too intimate, but it’s still a perfect fucking moment. She gave it to the douchebag and maybe he caused it, but I’ll stand here and witness her blossom and I’ll thoroughly fucking enjoy it. Someday she’ll fall apart under my hands.
Staring her down, I give her no space. I won’t let up, Belén. This is about you and me, it always has been and it will always be.
She blinks wide-eyed and looks to me for guidance. I pray in my mind that any hands that ever touch her will only touch her with love, never any other intention.
I hand a sniffling Belén back her underwear, which are soaked with her arousal.
“Why didn’t you get caught?” she says, trying to change the subject.
“I searched the whole goddamned place for you and then I hid in a closet when they busted down the door! Where was little Lenny? She was hiding in a closet too, letting a fucking asshole pop her cherry!”
I’m angry, jealous, getting too worked up.
“That’s not fair!” she yells. Her eyes plead with me. “What about all the things you do with girls right in front of me? What about Yari? What about fucking my best friend so I have to hear every terrible detail? How about ignoring me until you broke my heart? You think you’re better than me? You’re a coward and I hate you!”
Bey clutches her sandals to her chest and runs as soon as the elevator doors open.
She called me a coward and she’s right, I am.
If they can’t be my hands that touch her then I pray they will only ever be the hands of a good guy. Belén is not an object or something to conquer. She’s my cousin, my own blood, my one and only true love.
Después
It’s in a glass jar and who knows how far it’s traveled to get to my apartment. I wonder if Mami got it directly from Irma or if she went all the way to El Mercado in East Harlem. I bet she did, schlepped it on the crosstown bus hidden in her shopping basket.
Goat milk. I make the mistake of smelling it when I open the lid. So gamey, so goaty. I make a face and dump it in. It looks pretty in the bath, gives it a soft, inviting, milky tone. I empty the whole bottle of honey under the faucet and the scent of the milk and honey together is so strong it’s overwhelming. I toss in the red beach glass I salvaged from my collection. Why not add my own special ingredients when practicing love medicine?
Mami said it would help. Irma swears by it. A hesitant toe enters first. I shiver at the contrast between the cool air and hot water. The little hairs on my body rise and stand at attention. The water feels silky, soft. It’s soothing.
Adam is an in-patient at the psych ward; he’s resigned from his position, he’s dead-set on New Mexico and going to rehab. He doesn’t, however, say he’s doing it for us. He talks about going into a sober-living facility once he leaves the program. It’s as if Luke I and come second to his desire to take care of himself. I understand, the experts say you have to first take care of yourself, but at the same time I feel forgotten. Luke still needs a dad and I still want my husband.
This tub hasn’t seen my body in years. It’s the same one I soaked in during high school and scrutinized the changes taking place. I asked the mirror in this bathroom a thousand times if I was pretty. I held out for Lucky and whenever I slipped, like the night with Jeremy at his party, Lucky stepped in and made sure that I didn’t stray from my path.
Mami’s cooking dinner in the kitchen while Luke watches cartoons. We’ve been staying with her because the bathroom in my own apartment feels like a crime scene, even after Mami and I scrubbed it down with bleach and burned the candles and smudge sticks Irma recommended we use to clean up the spiritual mess still lingering there.
My hair soaks into the milk bath and I hold the pieces of smooth red glass in my hands. I let them fall into the water and they make no sound when they hit the bottom. My heart is silent like Luciano’s heart is silent.
“Mami, can I watch another one?” Luke barges into the bathroom without knocking. He’s wearing shorts with his socks pulled up his calves. So absolutely adorable, the cutest kid on the planet. “Why is your bath like that?”
“It has milk and honey in it,” I tell him matter-of-factly. He peeks over the rim of the tub and I ruffle his hair with my wet fingers.
“Are you going to drink it? Is it good?” he asks me. I laugh out loud at his logical question.
“I’m just going to soak in it because Grandma said it would be a good idea. And you know Grandma; she always has all the best ideas.”
“She’s making fish and she says I have to eat it.”
“You’ll like it the way Grandma makes it, trust me,” I tell him.
“Is Daddy coming home soon?” Luke asks. He looks forlorn, poor kid.
“He’s going to call tonight after dinner just to talk
to you. He loves you. You know that, right?”
“Yes!” Luke says, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes. He walks out of the bathroom like that, like I’m already a pain in the ass and he’s only five. I remember the trouble Lucky gave Titi when he was a teenager. I hope that Luke takes after me when it comes to drugs and working hard at school, all the difficult stuff he’ll inevitably have to go through just like we all did.
The milk feels delicious on my skin. Caressing, soothing, nurturing, I swear I can feel it seeping in. As for how much it’s curing me of my ailments, that’s anyone’s guess, but there’s something to be said for self-care; I feel much clearer in the head.
I pat myself down with a dry towel and save a small bowlful of the bathwater before I drain the tub. This one goes on the altar and makes me realize I might be just as superstitious as my mom.
Four garbage bags full of old clothes and books for the Goodwill. I promised Mami I’d clean out my room so she can use it as a real guest room. I leave the boxes under my bed for last; they’re filled with letters and pictures, yearbooks and school notes from when I was a kid.
Every letter from Lucky that I ever received lies under this bed. I’m afraid to even touch them. Irma says it brings bad luck to touch things that belonged to the dead. So all I really end up doing is shuffling the boxes around, dumping some half-filled ones into others to consolidate the mess. I’m emptying one when a letter floats to the floor. Lucky’s handwriting. His words. My heart and all of my skin immediately catch fire.
I stare at it without breathing for what seems like an eternity’s worth of cascading memories scrolling through my mind. I pick up Lucky’s words with a trembling hand and hold the yellowed paper to my heart first before raising it to my eyes.
Belén,
You got me chewed up and spit out, girl. I can’t do this anymore. I’m twisted and fucked up, thinking about you more than is normal.