by Mara White
So what if I’m lit, who gives a fuck if I’m violent? Ese dolor is filling up inside me, sometimes spilling out and taking prisoners wherever it can find ’em. I’ve fucked people up for less than looking at you the wrong way. I can’t live my life like this. But I can’t stay away.
See, part of me wants to run and hide and take back everything we ever done, but there’s another side that won’t quit—that ain’t afraid of no shade they throw or no one.
Anybody would say that me and you ain’t right, that it’s evil—that we holding hands with the diablo mismo, going against God and what’s natural. I been around long enough to know that what I feel for you is real. People don’t get to feel that way, shit, sometimes never in their lives, so even if it’s wrong, I still want it—whatever it is that we got.
I know I’ll never give this to you. You got enough to deal with—y no quiero meterte en esa vaina. But still, for some reason, I need you to know how I feel about you.
Course we always been tight, you always been a mi lado far back as I can remember. Fuck. Then one day it changed and there was no going back from where my mind had taken me, from where my body was going. My feelings were moving forward no matter how much it cost me. Like the bridge done fell all the way down and there ain’t no going back across that water.
Sometimes I’m so lost, sometimes I get so fucking angry. And there’s nothing in this world that can soothe me ’cept the sound of your voice or the way that you touch me.
It’s like there’s a war taking place and the battleground is my life—there’s two sides to me, and all they ever do is fight.
Bey, I’m not a bad guy, it’s just that nobody gets me. I swear to fucking God. I’d do right by you if someday you’d let me.
No soy malo, sólo malentendido.
But you set that straight, Belén, you douse out the fire.
Ain’t shit in this world that can touch me when I know that you love me.
Lucky
I don’t remember reading this note and I wonder if I was supposed to, or if it was left here by accident. Maybe Mami found it and put it with my things. Maybe it’s been waiting here this whole time for the exact moment when my eyes would finally be ready to see it.
The bowl of milky, honeyed water fits right next to his photo. I light the white candle and with its flame, burn the note. I want to break the tether and set Luciano’s spirit free. He shouldn’t be chained to my memories, my need to hold onto the pain. God gave me a son and Luke is more than enough; I’m grateful. I’ve got to let go.
Lucky and I ignite one another’s hearts and I’m the only one left to put out the fire.
The flames lick higher and graze my fingertips, sending sharp bites of heat and singing the baby hairs on my wrist. I plunge the flaming letter into the bowl of goat milk and honey.
Go free, Luciano. You don’t belong to me.
My Lucky, born with fire on his heart, gave me the most exhilarating love for the first twenty years of my life. But it’s not fair to him, my husband or my son, for me to keep holding on to this so fiercely, clutching what’s now and forever left me.
Goodbye, Luciano.
My love spells didn’t work.
Después
Flight time from Amman to Miami is sixteen hours. Then another two hours for a puddle jump to Santo Domingo. I haven’t seen my mother in four years and I feel like the world’s biggest asshole for putting her through this shit. But we’ve spoken every Sunday since I first called her. She’d send me care packages and I sent her pictures of me and the boys.
Probably the hardest part was getting her to agree to my plan, to not tell Belén and Tía Betty. She thought that plan was the “worst mierda she’d ever heard in her life.” But then she shut up ’cause Belén found a husband and got pregnant. Maybe she wanted out all those years and all she needed was an escape. I let it go a whole year before I called her and let her know I was okay. It might have been selfish but I wanted to know I was in the clear before giving her false hope—wanted to know that my brain was okay. And it was for the most part; the physical stuff was grueling. I’m glad nobody but God and the hospital staff had to witness that recovery. I was so angry, just raging away. Used to using to get rid of the demons inside. So I learned the hard way how to take it out in the gym. Blood, sweat and tears, and almost three years. I came out a better man than when I went in.
So my ma put up with it and kept her mouth closed, but after that year mark when she found out, she couldn’t handle lying to Betty. So she sublet the apartment and jumped ship back to the motherland. Took up work cleaning hotel rooms and got herself a little house halfway between her job and the ocean. Ma started hanging out with friends and family she hadn’t seen in decades. She made it sound good, like it was where she belonged, a place I could come and be welcomed back to.
I don’t know what I’ll do there, or how I’ll keep my presence on the down low, but I know that I can’t stay here and I got no place else to go.
Off the air-conditioned plane and into the deep humidity, a world away from Amman and the military. The airport is hopping with thousands of tourists, straw hats and cameras, suitcases and sunburns.
My ma is standing behind the barrier right outside the baggage claim. She hasn’t aged a day. I take off my sunglasses and wave. Her hand flies to her mouth and she’s crying before I can even get a hug in.
Next thing I know, she’s sobbing in my arms.
“You grew, mi hijo.”
“Yeah, Ma.”
“You have scars,” she says like it’s a scandal, hand covering her mouth again.
“You should see the ones on the inside,” I say. Can’t help but rub the one that creeps down my face.
“Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Would you like some Dominican food?”
“Ma, what is this, Fantasy Island? Yeah, I want it. They serve something different here?”
She laughs and smacks my arm. Bey and I used to watch those reruns dubbed in Spanish on one of the cable channels.
“Wow, Luciano,” she says, punching the muscle.
I been working out for five years, I’m nothing but muscle.
“You remember Manuel who owned the hardware store on Broadway? You were friends with his son, Alfonso?”
“Ponzo? Yeah, that kid was smoking eight balls in middle school. He still alive?”
“Well, his mother passed and he’s here on the island. I thought maybe we could invite him over, you two could get together? For old times.”
“Ma, the last thing I want is to see assholes from the neighborhood. Woulda moved back to the Heights if I wanted anything to do with those guys. What you hear from Bey and Betty? Anything lately?”
Ma gets quiet and stuffs her hands in her pockets.
“It’s hot out there, Luciano. Is that all the luggage you have?” she asks. I heft my green, Marine-issued duffle bag up over my shoulder.
“Something wrong or what, too sensitive a subject?”
She worries her hands and looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. I can see the years now, what my absence and the stress have cost her.
“Sorry, Ma. I keep trying not to fuck up and turns out I’m not very good at it.”
“Luciano, you are my son and God made you perfect.”
“Far from perfect, Ma.”
“You are not a fuc- you are a hero, you almost died for your country. I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were the president.”
I rub my scars and raise an eyebrow at her. You’re really gonna go there, Ma? Of course you are. A mother’s love is blind.
“Wear those scars with pride, hijo, you survived for a reason. One that’s bigger than you. This is all part of God’s plan. Have faith.”
The energy is light here and so happy-go-lucky. I’m used to the oppressive sun and the foreign-to-me culture of Jordan and the Middle East. Arriving in the Dominican Republic feels like I’ve been invited to a non-stop party. The food is off the chain, t
he beer is cold, the chicks are hot and everybody can understand me when I talk. I almost feel like the old Lucky. Ma surprises me with a moped when we get to the house. She’s got a room all made up for me and it feels like home.
“Don’t know why I didn’t listen to you and come home right away. I’ve had more fun on my first day than my whole time over there. It feels good to be back.”
“I’m glad, son; get some rest. It will take time to adjust.”
“You want to tell me about Belén now or is the subject off-limits?”
Ma keeps her back to me and busies herself with the blinds. She wipes invisible dust off the sill and when she finally turns around, she crosses her arms.
“He asked her for a divorce and Betty says she’s cut up about it. Her son is only five so of course it will take a toll on the both of them.”
“What the hell? Who’s gonna divorce Len? What’s his fucking problem?” In my mind my cousin is perfect and could never be a burden. Besides, my ma brought me up with certain values and one is to respect women, not leave them for something better the minute the opportunity arises. The thought makes my blood boil and then I see red. Who the hell would leave a beautiful wife with a five-year-old kid?
“I don’t know all the details, Luciano, but it sounds very complicated. Her husband went to rehab because of his own personal problems. He overdosed, thankfully not in front of the child, but he’s asking for a divorce as a precautionary measure, I guess. It’s strange, the drugs and all; I thought he was a doctor.”
I’m wringing the bed pillow to death in my hands. I want to hit a heavy bag and pretend it’s him.
“Yeah, Ma, well, let me tell you something about drugs. They don’t care who you are and they slide pretty easily down anybody’s throat. Being a doctor just means he’s got better access to the legal ones. What about Bey? She gonna be okay and everything or is she taking it hard?”
I hate the guy’s guts, but I can relate to the overdose. It’s easier than you’d think to slip over the side. They make you feel like you’re in control of the situation when you’re anything but. But my heart’s twisting for Bey; she deserves better than this.
“Betty didn’t say, but she found him when he overdosed.”
Black guilt sludge comes over me like I’m swimming in molasses. I feel guilty as fuck for all those years dragging Len through my habit. She saw me strung out, dealt with my moods. She’s a fucking saint for putting up with all the shit that I put her through. She definitely had practice for the situation she’s in now. I only ever wanted her to catch a break—wanted her health and her happiness.
“Are you clean now, son?”
Ma asks it like it’s painful to even say, like I might fly off the handle at her for wondering. She’s embarrassed. Feels like she doesn’t have the right to ask me. More guilt. More shame at the total mess that was my younger self.
“Yeah, Ma. Clean and done with the painkillers, four years and counting. Like fifteen hundred days or something. I want to make it up to you, all that time that I was using. Craziest I ever get these days is maybe a beer or two on the weekend and even that wasn’t easy to come by in Jordan.”
“I can tell by looking at you,” she whispers with tears in her eyes. “Your eyes are clear, your voice. You walk with more confidence than before.”
I nod my head and gaze at the floor.
“Is she in love with him? Did he break her heart?” I can’t bring my eyes up to hers. The regret hits me hard; it’s a debilitating emotion. Nothing I can do anymore but wish the best for my girl.
“I don’t know, son. Belén is strong. She’s survived worse, that’s for sure.”
Worse meaning me, either dead or alive. I’m a burden to Bey and all I ever did was break her heart.
With that she flicks off the light and steps out of the room. The whirr of the ceiling fan and the buzz of the power lines soothe my hot temper. I’m livid at Len’s husband for leaving her and I hate myself for ever having tainted her.
Después
There’s no filter I can put on these snapshots of my life. No way to blur the lighting and make everything look right.
Adam calls me at two in the morning. They use payphones in the facility so he warns me he can’t talk long. I know that it’s selfish and inaccurate to think this, but I can’t help but feel that Adam’s been rewarded for his borderline abusive behavior with a long-term vacation. From the weekly updates it sounds like rehab is better than summer camp. Among the attendees are some actresses, but he can’t disclose who. Everyone is so friendly and really open with one another in the program, is what Adam tells me. The bubbling salt baths are natural and the vegan food too. I’m glad his parents are footing the bill and not our joint bank account. I only ask of him that he speaks to Luke, that he sends him postcards so that my boy doesn’t think his father has chosen his recovery over his son.
But truthfully, that’s what it feels like to me. Abandonment. Desertion. Punishment for having failed his imaginary paternity test. Which of course came back a match to Adam’s DNA. Like I knew it would, like I told him, but obviously my word and promise aren’t good enough.
Oh, and I forgot the field trips. They leave in small groups on the weekends for special activities. Adam has gone hiking with the “actresses,” on a jaunt to the local flea market, where he picked up nothing for his son, but found a used guitar that he thinks he might polish up and start playing again, “therapeutically.” I don’t want to know what he’s doing up so late. I have to work in the morning so that there’s food on our table.
“Luke is asleep,” I whisper dreamily into the phone. I was dreaming of Lucky and I don’t even feel guilty about it.
“I figured as much. Thought maybe we could talk.”
“Maybe tomorrow after work would be better. I’m kind of exhausted. I’ve been working extra hours trying to make up for the time I missed last month.”
“I don’t know if it can wait, B. I’ve been thinking a lot, reevaluating everything. Including the grief dynamic you and I have been incubating together all these years.”
“Really?” I ask. I rub sleep from my eyes. I take the phone with me into my mother’s bathroom because he ruined ours, and pee while Adam starts lecturing me on every fault in our relationship. He falls just short of accusing me of every misstep possible, including just being who I am, a Dominican woman from the neighborhood. He’s criticized almost every aspect of my culture, openly disdains the people in my life. I drown out his voice as I chug a glass of water.
“Adam, do you think we could discuss it after work tomorrow?”
“I’ve got a workshop, B. Caressing the Void. The leader is some sort of famous guru. Everyone here signed up for it.”
“All day long?”
“B. We need to talk about where all of this is leading.”
“Rehab? The void, or our marriage?”
“I want a divorce.”
I have no words. None which are adequate. The ones that come to mind are the standard four-letter ones.
There must be some appropriate reply to this question. People get divorced every day, so there’s got to be a normal response. I’m not surprised or even angry, not devastated or distraught. The most prevalent feeling that I can identify is guilt: heavy, lingering, smothering guilt. Because I didn’t make sure, before I married him, that Lucky was cleared out of my heart. Because no matter how much I try to repair it, our marriage is dead. It died the night Adam overdosed and put his addiction ahead of his own son.
Sure, grief was always popping up, showing all of its deep fissures in both of us, but for a while I believed that I could compensate with love. But the sickness I have is one that will never leave me. I’ll never stop loving Lucky. I’ll never outrun my tainted history. Why drag Adam through it with me? He wants out—it shouldn’t surprise me.
“Why?” I ask him. The silence has gone on for too long.
“Don’t you see, Belén, that our relationship is toxic?”
&
nbsp; Maybe I’ve only had toxic relationships so I wouldn’t recognize a good one, maybe I thought we were making progress and healing each other. Maybe I’m just stupid. Any relationship that didn’t include being obsessed with Lucky seemed like an improvement.
Silently, in my rebellious core, I love that Adam is the one who gave up first. I resent Adam and his obsession with his own reflection, like our son isn’t good enough because he doesn’t look exactly like him. What if the test hadn’t shown a match? Would that be his reason for dropping us both? A child is your child if you raised them and they call you Daddy, no matter whose blood pumps through the innocent little heart.
I know his brother Luke was his identical twin, that his family didn’t have the option of an open casket because there wasn’t enough left of him to be recognizable. I get why it hurts that our son looks like me, I get it, but still, that’s a risk you accept when you reproduce. No one knows what they’ll get, you put your faith in the process, in God and nature, and you bolster the rest with love.
“I thought we were good for one another, healing in some way?”
“B, we messed up. We never should have gotten together in the first place.”
“What happens next? I want full custody of Luke. I will fight you in court if it comes to that, Adam, mark my words.”
“No, of course you’ll keep Luke, obviously, I’m in rehab.”
“Did you meet someone else?” This is too fast, too easy. He’s cavalier, flippant even. A man who just overdosed in a bathroom has recovered the meaning of life in New Mexico.
He’s joined up with one of the actresses. They’ve consoled one another in their time of need and mistook it for true love. Sounds like another love story I know.
“Nothing like that. I just know now that I really need to love myself in order to heal. I can’t patch things up by loving you or Luke or the ghost of my brother. I’ve got to go deep within and examine my relationship with myself, figure out who I am before I try to do anything else.”