by Lauren Asher
It takes one second for my world to crumble around me. One second to realize my life has ended before it ever truly began. One second to wish I could take it all back.
I stare down at my body. My right leg is bandaged and wrong. So fucking wrong I can barely look at it, with acid crawling up my throat. I gag and look away. Someone places a plastic container on my chest as bile escapes my mouth.
I’ve never experienced pain like this before. The emotional kind that borderlines on physical, as if someone set off a bomb inside of my chest.
I’m not sure who shoves the sheet over my body, but I’m grateful for it. I shut my eyes and tell myself how none of this is real. Except my mind has other plans, not allowing me to think past anything but my leg.
Everything below my right knee is missing. The foot I use to press against the pedal. The calf muscles I work on daily in the gym to make me stronger. The very part of me I depend on during every race is gone, like it never existed in the first place.
Tears escape my eyes. I hate the feel of them sliding down my cheeks. I’m quick to brush them away, not wanting anyone to see me break down. Everything remains eerily silent as my world is destroyed around me. A hollow space takes up the spot in my chest where my heart once belonged, matching my missing appendage.
The doctor’s voice breaks the quiet. “I’m very sorry, Santiago. I’m hopeful that we can help you have a speedy recovery. With our patients, it’s normal to feel overwhelmed from the shock—”
“Shock? You know what’s shocking? Finding out my sister was dating the one man I didn’t want in her life. Or maybe learning I would sign with the best F1 team after only a couple years of racing. This? This is fucking catastrophic,” I hiss. “So don’t pretend it’s anything but a death sentence.” I stare at the doctor with every amount of hate I can muster. Hate feels better than the numbness seeping into my blood, erasing everything I once was. Hate is something I can hold on to. Hate is something I can remember when all else fails me.
“Santiago.” My dad speaks in a meek voice, lacking his usual assuredness.
I can’t find it in me to care and apologize. I can’t find it in me to do anything.
“I want everyone out,” I say it low, yet the sentence carries a sense of finality.
Mami’s cries become louder. Papi tugs her into his chest, muffling her sobs.
“You shouldn’t be alone right now.” Maya’s small hand clutches onto my shoulder.
Noah looms behind her like the fucking shadow he is. I can’t look him in the eyes. Acknowledging his presence reminds me of everything I’ve lost. My whole life’s work down the drain in the matter of twenty-four hours.
“It’s all gone. One wrong move and my entire life is done. One stupid fucking move of driving on the wrong part of the pavement.” I hide my face behind my trembling hands. I don’t want anyone to see my pain or my tears because it feels like another thing stolen from me. My pride. My manhood. My dignity. All of it robbed after one mistake. One devastating, career-ending mistake.
Fuck that.
Life-ending. One life-ending mistake.
“Your life isn’t over. We’re going to fix this,” Maya says loudly over my heavy breathing.
Noah places his palm on top of hers, giving my shoulder a tighter squeeze. “Your life isn’t over because I won’t let you give up on yourself. This isn’t the end.”
I refuse to look up at him. My family ignores my protests and stands by me as I lose my shit in silence, giving in to the emotional and physical pain.
1
Chloe
Present Day
“Hey, Mom. This is a surprise. Brooke isn’t coming home until eight.” I open the door to my apartment.
She walks into the space, running her shaky hands down her disheveled clothes. Her dark, greasy hair sticks to the sides of her head, emphasizing the paleness of her skin. Everything about her resembles a corpse. From her jutting collarbones to her hollow cheeks, it’s as if someone vacuumed the life straight out from her.
The way she stares at me sets me on edge. It’s the same look she had every time the social worker tried to have us reconcile, only to have Mom screw it up again. Most people have a devil and an angel on each of their shoulders. My mom was stuck with two devils who support her preferred vices—drugs and bad decisions.
“Sweetie. I’ve been meaning to call you.” Her sickly-sweet tone sends goosebumps across my skin. She gazes at me with bulging blue eyes. “I know we had plans for tonight, but I need to cancel. I’m not feeling well.”
More like she’s not feeling high. Crossing my arms, I lean against the kitchen counter. I might as well make myself comfortable for another round of disappointment. I thought it would be different this time between us. I thought she would be different.
Stupid Chloe. When will you ever learn?
She rattles on, taking my silence as acceptance. “I’m in a tough spot. See, I owe Ralph some money, and you know how he gets when I don’t pay him.”
“Rough and handsy?”
Ralph is the reason my social worker revoked my mom’s custody. When my mom’s boyfriend wasn’t heavy-handed with Mom, he was creepy with me. The social worker pulled me out of the house and determined Mom could try again in a few years if she worked on herself and ditched her boyfriend. Mom decided Ralph being her usual drug supplier served a greater benefit than the fat check she received from the government for half-ass parenting. That is if someone could call leaving me to fend for myself in a roach-infested apartment parenting.
She scoffs. “I wouldn’t ask you for money if I didn’t need it.”
“No, Mom. You would ask. That’s our problem. Every time I give you money, you promise to pull yourself together.” And every time you say you’ll get clean, I fall for it because I still can’t move past my stupid hopeful mindset.
She tugs her cracking lip between her teeth. “I’m sorry. You know how I am.”
“A liar?”
Her laugh borders on cackling. “Oh, Chloe. Don’t be that way.”
“Truthful?”
It seems like her mood appears to take a turn for the worst as her eyes darken. “Snappy comments are cute for picking up boys, but they lose their charm when used against your mother.”
I release a tense breath from my lungs. “I don’t have money.”
“You’re lying. It’s the end of the month. You’re the responsible type with your bills.”
Of course, she would come on payday. How could I have been this dense to think she wanted to actually see me on my birthday? “No. I’m not lying.”
“Just give me three-hundred dollars and I’ll leave. That’s all I need.” She chews on a ragged nail.
“No.”
My mother’s eyes dart from me to my purse hanging on a hook by the door. The very purse that houses my monthly rent payment.
“Don’t even think about it.” I mean to snap, but my voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper. Please, don’t think of stealing from me. I’m your daughter, for God’s sake. My throat tightens at the idea.
“You don’t understand. The spasms are getting worse without my stuff.” She makes her addiction to opioids sound like a casual need for ice cream. It’s always been this way, with her craving her stuff more than she craves being a mother.
“You promised to quit.” My voice rasps, sadness eating away at my faux coldness.
She sneers, her patience apparently thinning. “Yeah, well, I lied. I’m sorry. I did try, but it was terrible. I can’t live without it.”
Even though I spent most of my life listening to sweet lies and empty apologies, the words still sit heavy in my chest every time she says them. It’s like I’m taken back to the time I was a little girl.
I’m sorry I didn’t show up for today’s session with the therapist, Chloe. I’ll come next week, I swear.
I’m sorry Ralph walked in while you were showering. You know how he forgets to knock on the door.
I’m sorry I missed Chri
stmas this year. I got tied up, but I’ll make it up to you next time.
Mom takes advantage of my distraction and rushes toward my purse. I grab onto the hem of her shirt to pull her back, and she spins around. The crack of her palm hitting the skin of my cheek echoes off the paint-peeled walls.
She actually fucking hit me. Me, a goddamned adult. I step back and press my palm against my stinging cheek. The rush of pumping blood fills my ears, making it hard to hear her.
Mom searches my purse like a woman possessed. She whimpers as she finds my wallet and snatches the bills in her bony fingers. Her greedy hands clutch onto more than three-hundred dollars, but I do nothing to stop her. I’m too stunned at the animal she reverts to when she doesn’t get her drugs. How does she stand looking at herself in the mirror? I’m surprised her skin doesn’t crawl off her body in a repulsive rebellion.
Mom drops my wallet on the floor. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I’ll pay you back one day, I promise.” She looks over at me with an empty stare, just like her words.
I hate myself for wishing she showed an ounce of pity about how she treats me. The hate molds into something dark and ugly inside of me. A toxic anger building up within, threatening to explode on her. “We’re done. Don’t ever bother coming back here. Do what you do best, and forget I exist. Forever.”
“You don’t mean that.” She has the audacity to frown.
“Get out of here!” I lunge toward her.
She scurries out of my apartment. The door shuts with a soft thud in her absence.
I turn toward the kitchen and search for a cold pack to soothe my burning cheek.
As I ice my face, it hits me that my mom didn’t even wish me a happy birthday. It was the whole reason she was supposed to stop by in the first place. The only stupid reason I invited her in years.
This is what I get for thinking with my heart rather than my head. Now I’m two cents away from being broke again because all my rent money is gone.
My mother brings nothing but destruction into my life, and this time it’s worse because it’s my fault. I believed her when she called and told me how she wanted to change. How she started attending a free rehab program because she was ready to be a better mother.
A fresh wave of sadness douses my anger. The first tear falls down my face, silent and mocking. I rush to erase it from my skin because I hate how pathetic I become when my mom enters the picture. I’m not that desperate child anymore, begging for Mommy’s attention.
The thought produces more tears instead of extinguishing them. Before I know it, my face becomes blotchy and my nose clogs. Refusing to give her betrayal any more of my attention, I redirect my energy.
While positivity keeps me going, perseverance is what gives me the courage to fight for another day. To move forward and start a new life for myself pursuing whatever makes me happy.
I grab my wish journal off my bedroom nightstand. The thick notebook is the one item I’ve kept with me over the years, following me through random foster homes. Every time I make a wish, I write it down. With a random pen, I scribble the first thing that comes to mind.
I wish to find someone who appreciates my presence instead of destroying it.
Brooke’s scowl makes the golden skin above her brows wrinkle. She grabs her thick brown hair and pulls it into a messy bun.
I cringe at the gesture. Brooke only does that if she’s upset or working on her latest project for school. She’s the type who doesn’t usually fuss over the waves she inherited from whichever unknown parent. And after everything that went down with my mom earlier, it’s hard not to envy Brooke right now not knowing who her parents are. It would save me a load of pain.
Okay, that’s shitty of me to say. I know how upset Brooke gets about her deadbeat parents. Not that I blame her. At least my mother had the decency to give birth to me. Brooke wasn’t as fortunate. She was ditched as a newborn on the cold steps of a Brooklyn fire station with a note written in Tagalog—the only hint we have about her Filipina heritage.
Brooke’s brandy-colored eyes assess my face. “Promise me you won’t see her anymore. She’s toxic.”
I lower my head. “I know. You were right. She wasn’t ready for a relationship with me after all.”
“I hate being right about this, but you deserve better than her. You always have and you always will.”
My lip quivers. “I promise to let her go this time. For real. Today was awful and not what I was hoping for. She’s always been verbal or neglectful, but she’s never gotten physical before. Lesson learned.” The words sound as pathetic leaving my mouth as they did in my head.
Here I am, officially twenty-four years old and still taking shit from my mom. I thought me aging out of the system would’ve pushed her to change. Like a hopeless fool, I expected something different from our relationship as I grew older.
“None of this is your fault. She took advantage of your hope, but it’s her loss.” Brooke tugs me in for a hug.
“What would I do without you?”
“I don’t know. You’d probably get bored. I’m told I can be rather stimulating.”
I laugh and step out of her embrace. “Gross.”
“Perv.” Brooke sticks her tongue out at me. “Do you know what you want to wish for?” She passes me a plate with a single cupcake that has one candle in its center. It’s a tradition we have kept since we roomed together in our foster home all those years ago.
“Yes.” I smile.
“Same old wish?”
Brooke knows me better than anyone. We clicked the instant we met once I was placed in the same foster home as her. She was abandoned as a baby and grew up within the system, which gave her the opportunity to show me the ropes. Awful parents aren’t something two teens should bond over, but our survival instincts called for it. And together, instead of allowing our circumstances to ruin us, we supported one another through the darkest times.
With Brooke’s friendship, I did what others didn’t dare. I made wishes. Whether it was a birthday wish or a late-night entry scribbled in my wish journal, I dared to wish so freaking big, Walt Disney himself would be jealous.
Every single birthday, year after year, I make one wish. Despite the same result time and time again, I always gather a new hope that this will be the year I find out who my dad is. I never give up on my wish. Not even after my mom confessed one year how she had no idea who my dad was since she was drugged out of her mind at the time of my conception. While some girls are the product of two people who love each other very much, I’m the result of someone who cared more about the drugs in her system than protecting herself from an unwanted pregnancy.
To counteract the ugly thoughts inside of me over the years, I made up a grand story about who and where my father was. He became this hero in my head who had no idea I was born in the first place. If he knew about my existence, he would stop at nothing to find me.
Brooke lights the candle, pulling me back into the moment. “Dream big, Chloe.”
I shut my eyes and pull back my dark hair, not wanting to burn a strand with the flame. Please let this be the year I find some new clue about my dad. I release a gust of air and blow out the flame.
Brooke claps her hands. She grabs a knife and cuts the cupcake in half before sliding my half across our cracking Formica counter. Some people might turn their nose up at our fifties-inspired, closet-sized apartment. Brooke and I worked our butts off to afford a place in New York City, so we are proud of it. I work two jobs to cover my half of the rent. My mornings consist of taking care of kids at a daycare while I spend my evenings working as many shifts at a restaurant as I can. Meanwhile, Brooke has her life mapped out since she is a few semesters away from graduating with a degree in Fashion Journalism. Unlike Brooke, I can’t seem to think of next month, let alone what I want to do for the rest of my life.
Brooke pulls a wrapped present out of the spice cabinet.
I lift a brow. “Really? You decided to
hide it in there?”
“Since you can’t cook to save your life, it seemed like an appropriate place to hide this bad boy.” The package rattles as she shakes it once for good measure.
“I hope you didn’t buy anything—”
“Expensive. I know the rules.” She bobs her head in a mocking way.
I smile up at her. “You’re the best. You know that, right?”
“Open it!” Brooke cries.
I rip at the paper, revealing the last thing I’d expect.
“Oh Brooke, I thought we said we wouldn’t.” I run a trembling finger across the ancestry kit packaging.
“No. I said I wouldn’t. You only went along with my plan because you wanted to make me happy. But I decided to take your fate into my own hands.”
We both considered doing the genetic test last year but chickened out after we both considered the potential disappointment if the results didn’t work out. Brooke was adamant against it, and I agreed because I didn’t want to do it without her.
Leave it to my best friend to know me better than I know myself.
“You shouldn’t have.” This is the burden of being a dreamer. It’s all fun and games until Cloud Nine turns into a torrential downpour. And the reasonable side of my brain says this dream can morph into a category five hurricane.
But seeing the kit in my hands makes the dream of meeting my dad attainable. No, Chloe. It’s another dream that could break your heart.
Brooke grabs a bottle of cheap vodka from the top of the fridge. “There’s no time like the present. What do you say? Spit into the little tube, ship it off, and then we can get drunk off our asses to celebrate?”
This whole plan has the potential to explode in my face. I could either end up with an empty ancestry tree or find out that my father is some terrible human who knew about my existence this entire time. But—the irrational part of my brain intervenes—I could end up finding a father who didn’t know I existed in the first place. Someone who wants to get to know me and take me in as his family. A dad who wants to love me and make up for lost time, not because he has to, but because he wants to.