The Burning Side(69)

“It’s what you always do. Your students, the kids, your dad, my dad, me. You offer little bandages to people with gaping wounds, and then you take your money and your perfect family, and you go on vacation and feel good about yourself.”

I clench my teeth, my fists. Leo doesn’t know me one single bit. If he did, he would know that I never feel good about myself.

He gets out of the car and slams the door.

As he stalks toward the trailer, I throw the car into reverse.

But then I shift it back into park and squeeze my eyes shut.

Leo is in pain. He just lost his mom. Actually, he didn’t even get to lose her. He didn’t get to say goodbye or feel his heart shatter as her coffin was sealed. I imagine her last moments and wonder if she thought of him. He must be wondering it too. I think about how often one suicide follows another, how despair can be an epidemic, and I yank my keys out of the ignition. I walk across our empty property, and I open Leo’s door without knocking.

He is facing away from me, hands on the counter on either side of him as though he might otherwise collapse. He doesn’t turn around, and I stare at his shoulder blades, the knotted muscles beneath his shirt. He is angry, and I’d rather be anywhere else. But I set down my keys and say, “I’m staying here tonight.”

Without turning around, and devoid of the energy that was in his voice a minute ago, he says, “I’ve lived without her most of my life. Nothing’s different.”

But we both know that isn’t true. The difference is permanence.

I stand behind him until he mutters, “Do what you want. Like always.”

Then he goes into the bedroom.

After a few minutes, I realize he’s not coming back out.

So I wash dishes, turn out lights, and lie down on the futon.

I pull out my phone and text Mom. I LOVE YOU.

Despite the hour, she responds right away. LOVE YOU TOO. WHAT’S THIS FOR?

I exhale, my gratitude as heavy as sorrow. IT’S FOR EVERY DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE.

I put down my phone and stare up at nothing, thinking of everything.

Later, in the darkest hour of night, I am woken by Leo’s hand on my shoulder.

I make space, and he lies beside me.

The smell of his shampoo, the warmth of his breath, the weight of his wound.

I wrap my arms around him, and I hold on for dear life.





DEB


August 19, 2022

I’M UP TO MY NECK in pecans. April took the kids out and Billy is tootling around in cargo shorts, his bare chest boasting a layer of gray fur, a spot on his abdomen shaved smooth where the laparoscope went in.

There’s a soft knock at the front door, and we frown at each other. It’s early. The coffee is still hot in the Breville. Billy goes to get a shirt, and I go to the door.

“Well, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” I say. “How’s my favorite kid this morning?”

Leo bends to hug me. Mothers learn to read hugs like we learn to read cries—need, anger, pain, or fear. This one has it all, and I usher Leo inside.

“Pleasant surprise.” Billy offers his son-in-law a mug of steaming coffee.

“Thanks.” He looks between us. “I was hoping to talk to Deb, if that’s okay?”

“Of course.” Billy dries a dish, and I put the eggs back in the fridge. The wedding pies will wait. Billy gives Leo a squeeze on the shoulder and says he has some work to get done in the garage. He reassures me: “No lifting, of course. Just cleaning my bike.”

I frown. Even before his surgery, he was cleaning his bike more than actually riding it. I make a mental note to look into getting a stationary bike after his abdomen heals.

As Billy heads to the garage, I rinse my hands and smile up at Leo. “Would you like a little bite to eat?”

Leo smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sure, thanks.”

I whip up omelets, fruit salad, and toast. I look him over and decide to add bacon. It will do him good. By the time it’s all served, Leo has told me about Rico and Ana. This is a wonder of cooking: people talk because you’re not staring at them. Chopping and measuring take just enough focus that the kitchen becomes a safe place to spill the beans.

I set two plates on the table and triple-check the stove, a Pavlovian habit since the fire. Then I sit down and spread a napkin across my lap, trying to process the information that the selfless, silver-toothed manager we met in Waco was Leo’s dad. And that Leo was meant to have a sister.

He spears a slice of banana with his fork. “I know you lost your parents too…”

We both look down at our honey-slathered fruit.

I sigh. “Yes.” My grief has been private, and I rarely talk about my parents. When the kids were young, Billy’s parents were “the grandparents.” He and the kids thought so rarely of my parents that they didn’t bring them up. Conversely, I thought so frequently of them that I didn’t bring them up.

I think now of Ana having a son to raise and a stillbirth by age twenty. I think back to hiding in April’s room when she was a baby, feeling like I couldn’t go on.

Ana. I didn’t even know her name. I, of all people, should have thought to ask.

Leo mindlessly breaks his bacon into bits. “I should have done something.”

It takes me a minute, and then I frown and lower my fork. “Leonardo.” I have never called him this. I’m summoning Ana, not to replace her but to imagine what she might say if she were here with him now.