Happy That It's Not True (7 page)

              “So it’s all just luck—you have to hope that you have the right scent?”

              “Pretty much.”

              “I think you’re full of it.”

              “Hey—there’s always a little bit of truth to everything.”

              “I think if something is meant to be—it’s meant to be.”

              “You’re such an artist—hey, I’ve got another theory.  This one explains everything.  Top down processing.”

              “Top down?”

              “Yeah, our minds imagine everything.  Once we think we see the big picture, our minds are tricked into thinking that everything supports what we believe.  So maybe people fall in love and they become deluded.  We create our own realities.  But how much of what is real is really real?”

              “I worry about you sometimes, Fathead.”

              “Hey, are we going to the Cosplay festival?”

              “Maybe, but I’m not getting dressed up this year.”

              “Why not?”

              “I’m too old to be an anime character.”

              “We were so awesome together last year.  Sure you don’t want to?  You can be Chihiro.  I’ll be No-Face.  And when I see greedy people, I’ll become a gluttonous monster, eating everything and everyone.”

Chapter Seven

            
 
The difficulty of taming nerves on a first day of work was exacerbated by the morning’s calamity, which had left Cara only half a person as she walked into the glass and steel building with large screens tuned to financial cable stations.  Where was the drawing book?  How could her mother do such a thing to maim her heart? 

              The office manager, a thin, hyperactive woman in her late thirties with a raspy cigarette voice was wrapping up the brief training session.  “If you can’t find someone, just page ’em—press the direct page button—oh, and one more thing: if UPS or FedEx arrives with something, call the person and let them know their package is here.  I’ll sit with you for a while this morning, until you get the hang of it.”

              Cara’s cell phone made a humming sound as it vibrated on the desk.  She noticed that the incoming call was from Adriana and silenced the ring. 

              “Your first call was a personal one,” the office manager said offering no clue as to whether she was amused or displeased.

              “That was my mom; I don’t want to talk to her.”  Cara said, immediately regretting sharing her personal life.

              “Having problems?”

              “No, I’m just really upset with her.  She keeps calling and leaving messages.  She just doesn’t get it.  I don’t want to talk to her.”

              This was definitely not the first impression she wanted to make.  She didn’t want to be thought of as the problem employee, living under a dark cloud, always carrying a weight of personal issues.  She shook it all off with a smile.  “So, what can I do to help—need me to stuff envelopes or something?”

              Adriana left several messages.  The tone of each became more and more panicked, making them difficult to bear:  Cara, I don’t understand why you won’t return my calls.  I’m your mother—I’ve never done anything bad to you.  You know I love you... 

              Cara could almost see her mother weeping and clinging to the phone—pleading for her child to return from the dead—and it made her almost want to forget her drawing book and forgive.

...

              “Where-are-you all the time?” Luciano roared.

              Adriana was devastated that Luciano had waited for her—shocked to see that he had found her liquor stash. It was tantamount to leaving a loaded weapon within reach of a child.  Her exhaustion, Luciano’s questioning—the tearing into her being by large, cutting words that fell from a tower of a man forming cracks in her heart.  She knew that she was only human, at some point she would crumble, but hoped that it would only happen when she was properly anesthetized.  It was vital for her to say something, to explain how she had spent more time at the VA; however the day had finally come that she no longer thought anything mattered. 

              “What—were you with another man?  You love those soldier boys don’t you?  You wish you were back with your soldier husband—right?  Why won’t you get rid of the wedding pictures?”

              Adriana’s eyes were listless.  She shook her head, wishing that someone would come and save her, knowing no one would.  She fantasized of death, maybe not death, just fainting and waking up in a hospital, being cared for by her friends, the other nurses, their faces full of compassion, holding her hand and assuring her that they indeed loved her.  Adriana had not anticipated the slap that felt as if it had dislodged her jaw.  Nor had she expected to bounce so hard against the wall.  She looked up at Luciano and saw in his face an expression of dark knowing, his eyes having already decided her fate. 

              “No, Luciano—no,” Adriana cried.

              “Puta!”  He threw her across the dining room the way he would baseball equipment into a dugout.  “Let me show you how a woman needs to be treated—this is how you have to be with women—” 

              Luciano’s nails scratched into Adriana’s scalp, and with a hand full of hair he dragged her through the living room.  He lifted her by her throat and pinned her against the wall.  Luciano looked deep into her eyes, searching for hidden secrets, unable to decipher an expression preoccupied with fear.  Adriana saw rage consume his face, first with the flaring of his nostrils, then the widening of his eyes.  She even had time to see his enormous closed fist reeling and in a blur she felt her face shatter.

              Adriana’s body dropped to the floor like a crumpled letter containing a death announcement.  And it did seem as if her spirit were abandoning her, lifting, departing.  She felt herself falling asleep, unable to feel or see, but still hearing something.  Luciano had picked up his bat and was smashing.  The blasts seemed like they were miles away.  As an almost insignificant realization, she could tell that it wasn’t her body that he was beating.  Luciano was demolishing the apartment.  The sounds faded into silence.  There was a pinpoint of light and a ringing in her ears and finally rest for her mind.

...

              Later, Adriana drifted back into a fragile consciousness.  For a moment, she thought that she was in bed.  She felt wetness around her, pieces of ice melting into the carpet.  What seemed like a cold vapor hung in the air, a ghost of inattention, an absence of love, an absence of empathy.  The pinpoint of light was back and her mind dissolved into a flight over a river in Hades where she could drink from the waters of forgetfulness. 

...

              Cara’s eyes were filled with tears, her soul absorbing the poison of despair, her heart torn from top to bottom, her mind attempting to understand the lighting, environment, texture and mood of the day.  “Hey Fathead, I tried to get here as fast as I could.”

              Cara looked down at the carpet to see dry brown blood stains and pieces of white plastic—what was once the ice-maker tray—spread out like shrapnel from an explosion.  The mangled freezer door hung open in the kitchen.  Broken chairs and broken bats left splintered throughout the apartment. 

              “Tell me everything,” Cara’s voice cracked.             

              Alex moved away and paced.  “Like I said, she’s alive—in the hospital.  I got home—and John and some of the other neighbors told me that Mom was taken away by fire-rescue—and the police took away Luciano in handcuffs.  When I came inside, I saw the mess and that thing.”

              Cara noticed the pamphlet on the table, three white pages that had been folded in half and stapled.  On the back were the case number, incident information and officer name, the blanks filled in by Officer Irving Velasco.  She turned it over and saw the words, Hallandale Police Department, Victim Services.  She began to read the words:  No one, not even someone you live with or are married to, has the right to beat...

              She flipped to the last page and noticed about twenty phone numbers, some toll free, most with local area codes—numbers of courthouses, abuse centers and legal services.

              “Did you call the police officer yet?” Cara said.

              “I was afraid of Luciano!  I should’ve killed him for what he said to Mom.”  Alex looked at Cara as though her opinion was the only thing that mattered.  “Then he never would’ve hurt her.”

              “Did you call the number?”

              “I can’t deal with this—this isn’t happening!  It’s all my fault.  I thought they would just get a divorce and everything would work out.”

              Cara held Alex’s face with both her hands, “And I was a bitch to Mom—I didn’t even return her calls—I probably sent her over the edge!  She probably said something to provoke Luciano.”  She looked at Alex briefly, not saying a word, and then pressed the officer’s numbers into the phone.  Cara and Alex went to sit by the table in two of the remaining unbroken chairs, to stare at the phone in speaker mode.  They were surprised by the caring voice, the carefully worded facts.  Adriana...taken to Memorial Regional...serious injuries. 

              Officer Velasco spoke in an almost paternal tone.  “When we found your father-”

              “He’s not our father!” Alex interrupted.             

              Cara admired Alex’s fervor.  “He’s our stepfather.”

              “When we found your stepfather, he was breaking baseball bats on your refrigerator, screaming, this is what I want to do to you.  He is one disturbed human being.”

              Cara nodded and Alex returned her nod.

              “He’s already had a bunch of friends come by—talking about bailing him out of jail.  We get to hold him for thirty-six hours, but I bet he’ll be out after that.  Your mother might not be in any condition to file a restraining order, so we got a protective order—but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to get into the house.  Please change the locks, and don’t let him in—even if he says he’s dying of thirst and wants a glass of water.  I wish I was there for you guys, but you wouldn’t believe how much domestic violence we have to deal with.  Call me if you have any questions.  I hope your mom gets better.  Remember—call me if you need anything.  Okay?”

              “Thank you Mister—Officer Irving—Velasco,” Cara said.

              “You’re welcome, bye.”

              “Bye.”

              “All right, let’s go see mom—she’s at Memorial.”

              As Cara and Alex ran down the stairs into the parking lot, their lives began anew.  Home would be the earth itself—wherever they could cope together with life’s difficult lessons.  Alex felt for the first time that sadness had found victory over him.  Yet at that very moment, he felt as if he had become an artist.  The aroma of the car, the bite of the sun, the sweat on his face, the heat of the wind—all things were being brought to him by a strange quality of life.  Everything seemed more real after the near death of Adriana.

Chapter Eight

            
 
After a few words with Alex and Cara, and the discovery that the man who had assaulted Adriana was their despised stepfather, the doctor spoke candidly.

              “Everyone here loves your mom.  I’ve known her a long time—I consider her a personal friend.  She’s very special—we call her Sweetness.  The unfortunate part is that this’ll be deeply embarrassing to her—and we have to convince her that there’s no shame in what happened, that we accept her just as she is.”

              Cara nodded, imagining her mother’s need to create the illusion of a perfect, respectable family.  “Right,” she whispered. 

              Alex found it difficult to look at anyone.  Adriana’s face was swollen and covered in bloody bandages; a pool of blood seemed to fill one eye, nasal catheters and tubes in her mouth.

              “It's been difficult for all of us.  I can see why you hate your stepfather—a broken eye socket, broken nose, dislocated jaw, major contusions to the face, two broken ribs, a punctured lung—and some dental injuries.  Poor thing.”  The doctor, a man in his late fifties, pale with curly white hair and thinning lips made occasional side glances of outrage at Adriana.

              He looked at Cara with a pleading expression.  “I have a beautiful daughter, just like you. The thought that she might marry a violent man—” The doctor sighed and lightly patted Adriana on the shoulder.  “She’ll be all right—we’ll take good care of her.  Here’s my card.  I’ll be by again later.”

              The doctor left the room.  Cara and Alex felt lost, not knowing what to do.  Cara became animated by a thought.  “Hey, we should call Dad.”

...

              Alex and Cara moved along a walkway underneath shady palm trees, the sky was perfectly blue, the breeze concealing the sting of the sun.

              “Dad?”