“But I’ll need to be left alone too.”
She smiled at me. “Big Brother is watching you.”
I smiled back at her.
Even when I wanted to hate my mother, I loved her. I wondered if it was normal for fifteen-year-old boys to love their mothers. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.
I remember getting into the car. I had to stretch out in the backseat. It was a pain in the ass to get me in. It was a good thing my father was strong. Everything was so damned hard and my parents were so afraid of hurting me.
No one said anything in the car.
As I stared out, I looked for birds.
I wanted to close my eyes and let the silence swallow me whole.
Six
THE MORNING AFTER I CAME HOME, MY MOM WASHED my hair. “You have such beautiful hair,” she said.
“I think I’ll grow it long,” I said. Like I had a choice. A trip to a barber shop would have been a nightmare.
She gave me a sponge bath.
I closed my eyes and sat still for her.
She shaved me.
When she left the room, I broke down and sobbed. I had never been this sad. I have never been this sad. I have never been this sad.
My heart hurt even more than my legs.
I know my mom heard me. She had the decency to let me cry alone.
I stared out the window most of the day. I practiced pushing myself on the wheelchair through the house. My mom kept rearranging things to make it easier.
We smiled at each other a lot.
“You can watch television,” she said.
“Brain rot,” I said. “I have a book.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of hard. Not the words. But, you know, what it’s about. I guess Mexicans aren’t the only poor people in the world.”
We looked at each other. We didn’t really smile. But we were smiling at each other on the inside.
My sisters came over for dinner. My nephews and nieces signed my cast. I think I smiled a lot and everyone was talking and laughing and it all seemed so normal. And I was glad for my mom and dad because I think it was me who was making the house sad.
When my sisters left, I asked my dad if we could sit on the front porch.
I sat on Fidel. My mother and father sat on their outdoor rocking chairs.
We drank coffee.
My mother and father held hands. I wondered what that was like, to hold someone’s hand. I bet you could sometimes find all of the mysteries of the universe in someone’s hand.
Seven
IT WAS A RAINY SUMMER. EVERY AFTERNOON, THE clouds would gather like a flock of crows, and it would rain. I fell in love with the thunder. I finished reading the Grapes of Wrath. Then I finished reading War and Peace. I decided I wanted to read all the books by Ernest Hemingway. My father decided he would read everything that I read. Maybe that was our way of talking.
Dante came over every day.
Mostly Dante would talk and I would listen. He decided that he should read The Sun Also Rises to me aloud. I wasn’t going to argue with him. I was never going to out-stubborn Dante Quintana. So every day he would read a chapter of the book. And then we would talk about it.
“It’s a sad book,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s why you like it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s exactly right.”
He never asked me anything about what I thought of his sketches. I was glad about that. I had placed his sketchbook under my bed and refused to look at it. I think I was punishing Dante. He had given me a piece of himself that he had never given to another human being. And I hadn’t even bothered to look at it. Why was I doing that?
One day he blurted out that he’d finally gone to see a counselor.
I was hoping he wouldn’t tell me anything about his counseling session. He didn’t. I was glad about that. And then I was sort of mad he didn’t. Okay, so I was moody. And inconsistent. Yeah, that’s what I was.
Dante kept looking at me.
“What?”
“Are you going to go?”
“Where?”
“To see a counselor, you idiot.”
“No.”
“No?”
I looked at my legs.
I could see he wanted to say “I’m sorry” again. But he didn’t.
“It helped,” he said. “Going to the counselor. It wasn’t so bad. It really did help.”
“Are you going back?”
“Maybe.”
I nodded. “Talking doesn’t help everybody.”
Dante smiled. “Not that you’d know.”
I smiled back. “Yeah. Not that I’d know.”
Eight
I DON’T KNOW HOW IT HAPPENED, BUT ONE MORNING Dante came over and decided he’d be the one to give me a sponge bath. “Is it okay?” he said.
“Well, it’s kind of my mom’s job,” I said.
“She said it was okay,” he said.
“You asked her?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh,” I said. “Still, it’s really her job.”
“Your dad? He’s never bathed you?”
“No.”
“Shaved you?”
“No. I don’t want him to.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
He was quiet. “I won’t hurt you.”
You’ve already hurt me. That’s what I wanted to say. Those were the words that entered my head. Those were the words I wanted to slap him with. The words were mean. I was mean.
“Let me,” he said.
Instead of telling him to go screw himself, I said okay.
I’d learned to make myself perfectly passive when my mother bathed and shaved me. I would shut my eyes and think about the characters in the book I was reading. Somehow that got me through.
I closed my eyes.
I felt Dante’s hands on my shoulders, the warm water, the soap, the washcloth.
Dante’s hands were bigger than my mother’s. And softer. He was slow, methodical, careful. He made me feel as fragile as porcelain.
I never once opened my eyes.
We didn’t say a word.
I felt his hands on my bare chest. On my back.
I let him shave me.
When he was done, I opened my eyes. Tears were falling down his face. I should have expected that. I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to tell him that it was me who should be crying.
Dante had this look on his face. He looked like an angel. And all I wanted to do was put my fist through his jaw. I couldn’t stand my own cruelty.
Nine
THREE WEEKS AND TWO DAYS AFTER THE ACCIDENT, I went to the doctor’s office to get new casts and x-rays. My father took the day off. On the way to the doctor’s office, my dad was very talkative—which was very weird. “August thirtieth,” my dad said.
Okay, so that was my birthday.
“I thought maybe you’d like a car.”
A car. Shit. “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t drive.”
“You can learn.”
“You said you didn’t want me driving.”
“I never said that. It was your mom who said that.”
I couldn’t see my mom’s face from the backseat. And I couldn’t exactly lean over. “And what does my mom think?”
“You mean your mom, the fascist?”
“Yeah, her,” I said.
We all busted out laughing.
“So, what do you say, Ari?”
My dad sounded like a boy. “I think I’d like, you know, one of those low-rider cars.”
My mother didn’t skip a beat. “Over my dead body.”
I lost it. I think I probably laughed for five minutes straight. My father joined in the fun. “Okay,” I said finally. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“I’d like an old pickup truck.”
My mother and father exchanged glances.
“We can make that happen,” my mother said.
/> “I only have two questions. The first question is this: Are you getting me a car because you feel bad that I’m an invalid?”
My mother was ready for that one. “No. You’ll be in invalid for another three or four weeks. Then you’ll do some therapy. Then you’ll be fine. And you won’t be invalid. You’ll just return to being a pain in the ass.”
My mother never cussed. This was serious business.
“What was your second question?”
“Which of the two of you are going to give me driving lessons?”
They both answered at the same time. “I am.”
I figured I’d let them fight it out.
Ten
I HATED LIVING IN THE SMALL AND CLAUSTROPHOBIC atmosphere of my house. It didn’t feel like home anymore. I felt like an unwanted guest. I hated being waited on all the time. I hated that my parents were so patient with me. I did. That’s the truth. They didn’t do anything wrong. They were just trying to help me. But I hated them. And I hated Dante too.
And I hated myself for hating them. So there it was, my own vicious cycle. My own private universe of hate.
I thought it would never be over.
I thought my life would never get better. But it did get better with my new casts. I could bend my knees. I used Fidel for another week. Then my arm cast came off and I could use my crutches. I asked my dad to put Fidel in the basement so I wouldn’t have to look at that stupid wheelchair ever again.
With the full use of my hands, I could bathe myself. I took out my journal and this is what I wrote: I TOOK A SHOWER!
I was actually almost happy. Me, Ari, almost happy.
“Your smile is back.” That’s what Dante said.
“Smiles are like that. They come and go.”
My arm was sore. The physical therapist gave me some exercises. Look at me, I can move my arm. Look at me.
I woke up one day, made my way to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. Who are you? I made my way to the kitchen. My mom was there, drinking a cup of coffee and looking over her lesson plans for the new school year.
“Planning for the future, Mom?”
“I like to be prepared.”
I sat myself down across from her. “You’re a good girl scout.”
“You hate that about me, don’t you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You hated that whole thing, that whole scout thing.”
“Dad made me go.”
“You ready to go back to school?”
I held up my crutches. “Yeah, I get to wear shorts every day.”
She poured me a cup of coffee and combed my hair with her fingers. “You want a haircut?”
“No. I like it.”
She smiled. “I like it too.”
We drank coffee together, me and my mom. We didn’t talk a lot. Mostly I watched her look through her folders. The morning light always came through the kitchen. And just then, she looked young. I thought she was really beautiful. She was beautiful. I envied her. She had always known exactly who she was.
I wanted to ask her, Mom, when will I know who I am? But I didn’t.
Me and my crutches walked back into my room and took out my journal. I’d been avoiding writing in it. I think I was afraid all my anger would spill out on the pages. And I just didn’t want to look at all that rage. It was a different kind of pain. A pain I couldn’t stand. I tried not to think. I just started writing:
- School starts in five days. Junior year. Guess I’ll have
to go to school on crutches. Everyone will notice me. Shit.
- I see myself driving down a desert road in a pickup,
no one else around. I’m listening to Los Lobos. I see
myself lying on the bed of the pickup truck, staring up
at all the stars. No light pollution.
- Physical therapy will be coming up soon. Doctor
says swimming will be very good. Swimming will
make me think of Dante. Shit.
- When I’m well enough, I’m going to start lifting
weights. Dad has his old weights in the basement.
- Dante’s leaving in a week. I’m glad. I need a break
from him. I’m sick of him coming over every day just
because he feels bad. I don’t know if we will ever be
friends again.
- I want a dog. I want to walk him every day.
- Walking every day! I am in love with that thought.
- I don’t know who I am.
- What I really want for my birthday: for someone
to talk about my brother. I want to see his picture on
one of the walls of our house.
- Somehow I’d hoped that this would be the summer
that I would discover that I was alive. The world my
mom and dad said was out there waiting for me.
That world doesn’t actually exist.
Dante came over that evening. We sat on the steps of the front porch.
He stretched out his arm, the one that had been broken in the accident.
I stretched out my arm, the one that had been broken in the accident.
“All better,” he said.
We both smiled.
“When something gets broken, it can be fixed.” He stretched out his arm again. “Good as new.”
“Maybe not good as new,” I said. “But good anyway.”
His face had healed. In the evening light, he was perfect again.
“I went swimming today,” he said.
“How was it?”
“I love swimming.”
“I know,” I said.
“I love swimming,” he said again. He was quiet for a little while. And then he said, “I love swimming—and you.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Swimming and you, Ari. Those are the things I love the most.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” I said.
“It’s true.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t true. I just said you shouldn’t say it.”
“Why not?”
“Dante, I don’t—”
“You don’t have to say anything. I know that we’re different. We’re not the same.”
“No, we’re not the same.”
I knew what he was saying and I wished to God he was someone else, someone who didn’t have to say things out loud. I just kept nodding.
“Do you hate me?”
I don’t know what happened just then. Since the accident, I’d been mad at everyone, hated everyone, hated Dante, hated Mom and Dad, hated myself. Everyone. But right then, I knew I didn’t really hate everyone. Not really. I didn’t hate Dante at all. I didn’t know how to be his friend. I didn’t know how to be anybody’s friend. But that didn’t mean I hated him. “No,” I said. “I don’t hate you, Dante.”
We just sat there, not saying anything.
“Will we be friends? When I come back from Chicago?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Do you promise?”
I looked into his perfect face. “I promise.”
He smiled. He wasn’t crying.
Eleven
DANTE AND HIS PARENTS CAME OVER TO OUR HOUSE the day before they left for Chicago. Our moms cooked together. It didn’t surprise me they got along so well. They were alike in some ways. It did surprise me how well Mr. Quintana and my dad got along. They sat in the living room and drank beer and talked about politics. I mean, I guess they more or less agreed about things.
Dante and I hung out on the front porch.
For some reason, we were both into front porches.
We weren’t really talking very much. I think we didn’t really know what to say to each other. And then I got this idea into my head. I was playing with my crutches. “Your sketch pad is under my bed. Will you go get it for me?”
Dante hesitated. But then he nodded.
He disappeared into the ho
use and I waited.
When he came back, he handed me the sketchbook.
“I have a confession to make,” I said.
“What?”
“I haven’t looked at it.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Can we look at it together?” I said.
He didn’t say anything, so I just opened up the sketchbook. The first sketch was a self-portrait. He was reading a book. The second sketch was of his father who was also reading a book. And then there was another self-portrait. Just his own face.
“You look sad in this one.”
“Maybe I was sad that day.”
“Are you sad now?”
He didn’t answer the question.
I flipped the page and stared at a sketch of me. I didn’t say anything. There were five or six sketches he’d done of me the day he’d come over. I studied them carefully. There was nothing careless about his sketches. Nothing careless at all. They were exact and deliberate and full of all the things he felt. And yet they seemed to be so spontaneous.
Dante didn’t say a word as I looked over his sketches.
“They’re honest,” I said.
“Honest?”
“Honest and true. You’re going to be a great artist someday.”
“Someday,” he said. “Listen, you don’t have to keep the sketchbook.”
“You gave it to me. It’s mine.”
That’s all we said. Then we just sat there.
We didn’t really say good-bye that night. Not really. Mr. Quintana kissed me on the cheek. That was his thing. Mrs. Quintana placed her hand on my chin and lifted my head up. She looked into my eyes as if she wanted to remind me of what she’d said to me in the hospital.
Dante hugged me.
I hugged him back.
“See you in a few months,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’ll write,” he said.
I knew he would.
I wasn’t so sure I’d write back.
Me and my mom and dad sat out on the front porch after they’d left. It started to rain and we just sat. Sat and watched the rain in silence. I kept seeing Dante standing in the rain holding a bird with a broken wing. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not. What if he’d lost his smile?
Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe Page 10