The Way Back from Broken (5 page)

“Rakmen,” Jacey demanded, pulling on his arm. “Why didn't Jordan have his own angel to keep him safe?”

“Angels are bullshit.”

Jacey stared at the baby's picture. “Yeah . . . ” she said, finally. “That's what I think too.”

On the next page, a dark-skinned boy in a toddler-sized University of Oregon jersey clutched a football to his chest. “Is he their brother?” Jacey asked, nodding toward to the twins.

Molly nodded. “That's D'Shawn.”

“What happened to him?”

“Cancer.”

Jacey pointed to the dates under little boy's picture. “It's almost his birthday.”

The pressure of the air around Rakmen changed. The mildewed basement choked him. Calendars were dangerous. Dora's birthday was a month away and then two weeks later, the anniversary of her death. They were coming for him.

Jacey pushed off the couch, taking the memory book with her.

“Coming to do some art?” Keri asked, flashing a too-wide smile.

The girl shook her head and went to stand beside D'Vareay, fidgeting until he looked up at her

“Whatchya want?”

“I don't know about the birthdays,” she said.

D'Vareay squinted at her. “Huh?”

She opened the album in front of him. He dropped his gaze then tore it away in an instant. “What do you want?” he growled.

“I don't know what to do when it's my brother's birthday. What do you do for D'Shawn? Is there cake?”

“No cake.”

D'Vareay and D'Mareay looked at each other, and Rakmen was sure there was an understanding between them, an agreement, a plan.

Trouble.

The art therapist tried to deflect Jacey. “You know, honey, the Jews light candles when someone dies.”

Jacey considered this. “At the baby shower, we got this candle with numbers on it from one to twenty-one. You're supposed to light it on each birthday and let it burn down to the next number. Can I use that?”

“You mean . . . like . . . on your brother's birthday?” Keri seemed confused by the question.

“Yeah.”

“But the candle's supposed to mark the child's age, right?”

Jacey nodded.

“Throw it away,” Rakmen said. “They don't get to grow up.”

“Don't be mean,” said Molly. She patted the spot next to her on the couch. “Come here, Jacey. I'll tell you a story.”

Rakmen checked his watch. He wanted out.

“When Rissa turned six and I was eight, there was a big storm on her birthday. She was afraid and climbed into bed with me. I ate a piece of chocolate and breathed on her with my chocolaty breath and she wasn't scared any more. So that's what we did every birthday after that.”

“Chocolate breath?” Jacey asked.

“Yup.”

“You were a good sister.”

Molly tried to smile at her.

“What are you going to do now?” Jacey asked.

Molly shrugged. “Keep eating the chocolate, I guess.”

“I really wanted to be a big sister,” said Jacey, continuing to turn the pages of the memory book.

“I know you did.”

Molly turned to a blank page of her sketch pad. Under her fingertips a nest of blankets took shape. A tangle of arms and hair and Rissa laughing in spite of the lightning crashing down.

Jacey tugged on Rakmen's arm. “I want to know something else.”

Annoyance buzzed through him. Enough already with the questions that didn't have proper answers.

“Am I supposed to be working?”

He held up a hand to ward her off. “There are child labor laws. Now go away.”

She shoved the open book in his face. Rakmen refused to look at the baby's picture. He did not need to know another one. She jabbed at the page. “It says, ‘Her work on Earth is done.' She was a baby. And she was done?” Jacey's voice rose into a question.

Keri came up, wild-eyed. At least he wasn't the only one who didn't know what to do with Jacey.

“I'm ten,” the girl announced, “and I haven't done anything.”

At least Keri had the good sense to say nothing since she obviously didn't know what to say. Not like Rakmen's neighbor who'd said
I know how you feel; my dog died
or Great-Aunt Cecelia who'd reminded his mom that it was
for the best
as Dora would probably have been a sickly child.

It seemed to Rakmen that some people's work on Earth should be to shut the hell up.

“It doesn't mean crap,” said Rakmen.

“How about this?” said Keri, finding her voice. “You can make a scrapbook page for Jordan next time you come. Bring a photo and I'll help you.”

“I'm not sure I'll be back,” said Jacey.

“Sure you will,” said Keri.

Jacey ignored her and leaned into Rakmen. “Mom told Dad that she couldn't look at that empty crib another second and that she was leaving. I don't know what that means.”

Leaving meant gone. It meant holes in everything. The walls and low ceiling pressed the air out of Rakmen. When the scraping of chairs upstairs signaled the end of the meeting, Rakmen shot out of the couch. Molly and the twins followed him upstairs.

Their moms were talking on the porch.

“Hi, guys,” said his mom, stuffing a crumpled tissue into her pocket. Rakmen and the twins nodded at her.

Molly's mom slid an arm around her daughter's waist. “How was group?”

“You know . . . .” Molly shrugged. “It was group.”

Why, Rakmen wondered, did they always need a status report from the basement? He didn't want to know what happened up here.

“So,” said his mom, filling the empty space, “we're having a barbecue for Memorial Day. You're all invited. Four o'clock, okay? And bring a side dish or something.”

A warm, damp hand slithered into his.

He couldn't get away from the little stalker.

“We'd love to come, wouldn't we, Jacey?” said Mrs. Tatlas.

Of course, they'd love to come. Just what Rakmen needed—more face time with those two. He shook off Jacey's hand. “I'm going to the car.”

“Be right there,” said his mom, writing down their address for Molly's mom.

“Bye, Rakmen,” Jacey yelled. He ignored her.

Mrs. Tatlas caught up with him at the car, and instantly his hackles rose. The last thing he needed was a lecture.

“I brought you some extra study materials for the final. Your grade will be okay if you learn this stuff.” She handed Rakmen a stack of papers and gave him a thin smile, which made the jaggedness behind her eyes seem somehow more dangerous.

“Uh . . . thanks,” Rakmen stammered.

“See you in class.”

He nodded and watched Mrs. Tatlas tug Jacey down the sidewalk. The girl wasn't making it easy. She lagged behind, throwing glances at him over one shoulder. Her eyes begged him to call her back. He felt a rush of panic for the girl but shook it off.

Don't be stupid, he told himself. Her mom is fine. But as he buckled his seat belt, his unease grew. Sometimes there were cracks no one could see.

CHAPTER 5

After the last bell, Rakmen beelined for his locker. Juan was waiting for him, cap pulled low over his eyes and a basketball under one arm. “Let's go shoot hoops.”

Every day, he asked.

Every day, Rakmen said no.

He couldn't remember the version of himself who loved the pebbled surface of the ball on his fingertips as he dribbled on the cracked courts in Pier Park.

“I've got to drop off some job applications on my way home,” he said, “and then I have to study.” Mrs. Tatlas's stack of notes was waiting.

Juan gave him a dirty look. “You don't have to be so perfect, you know.”

“Perfect? That's a joke.” He was the opposite of perfect—second-rate, defective, broken. “I just want to buy a car. That way I can take off when I want to.”

“Come on, man. After the game my cousin will buy us beer.”

Rakmen shook his head.

“Rakmen—” Juan was right in his face now. “You used to have fun. What's with all the goodie-two-shoes shit? Trying to impress that white girl you're lusting over?”

Heat raced up Rakmen's neck. His hands balled up at his sides. “Don't talk about her.”

Juan laughed. “Oh, come on. You wanna tap that, and you know it.” Before Rakmen knew what he was doing, his fists were up and Juan was backing off. “Take it easy. I'll lay off your girlfriend. No harm. No foul.”

Rakmen dropped his fists, breathing hard.

“Good luck with the studying.” Juan slipped into the crowded hall and disappeared.

Rakmen leaned against his locker and shut his eyes. Molly wasn't his girlfriend. Would never be his girlfriend. They weren't like other people. They never would be. Not as long as they met up in that musty basement once a month.

As he went back to loading his backpack, a sudden, sharp noise froze him in place. A thin, newborn cry. It was a sound that didn't belong in the halls at Roosevelt. Terror filled Rakmen. In one thudding heartbeat, he held Dora in his arms, smelled talcum powder, and felt the way she nestled against his chest. The baby cried again. The last thing he wanted was to see baby.

Or think baby.

Or know baby.

Yet the sound drew him to the door of Mrs. Tatlas's biology room.

Marissa stood, hip-cocked in low-rise jeans, holding her son. Through her sheer, tight shirt Rakmen could see the outline of a red bra. On the other side of the room, fleshy specimens floated in jars. Mrs. Tatlas's lips were compressed to a skeletal line. Like matching pits, the dark circles under her eyes sucked in light.

The baby cried again.

Marissa jiggled him and chomped her gum. “Little Tyrone was sick all week. That's why I missed class. Do I have any makeup stuff?” Wordlessly, Mrs. Tatlas handed her a packet. Marissa shifted the baby to her shoulder. Her gum made slobbery noises. “He didn't sleep last night. I'm so tired. You know how it is, since you're a mom and stuff.”

Rakmen leaned forward, hands on his knees to try and calm the pitching in his stomach.

“Your son is very cute,” said Mrs. Tatlas.

Oblivious to the sharp edges in her voice, Marissa giggled and cooed at the baby. “Yes, you are a cutie, cutie pie!”

“I'm late,” said Mrs. Tatlas, grabbing her coat and bag. “Do the work. Take care of the baby.” She barreled, blank-faced, past Rakmen, and he thought of what Jacey had said about her mom wanting to leave. She'd said that she was going away. He'd thought that meant moving or going on vacation, but the devastation spewing from Mrs. Tatlas made him wonder if she owned a gun.

He had a sudden flash of her fingers against cold metal, an ear-deafening blast, and the quickest way to get out of the dark. Rakmen followed Mrs. Tatlas out of the school, stunned by the realization that they had something in common. More than anything, they wanted out of Promise House, but they were so very stuck. As much as Mrs. Tatlas repulsed him, Rakmen was also drawn to her.

In the parking lot, she threw her bags into the trunk of the car and slammed it shut, but instead of driving away, she left the car and walked off campus.

He should leave.

Rakmen knew that, but he trailed her anyway. The street ended at a high bluff overlooking the river. She turned onto the walking trail, which paralleled the silvery water. Mrs. Tatlas moved quickly, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She looked like a woman who would break all the plates in the house. She looked like she wished she could follow that river right out to the sea. Rakmen stopped walking and watched her go. Jacey was wrong about him being able to help. The best he could do was try and remember how things fall apart.

He sat on a bench overlooking the river and opened his notebook. He'd taken notes from the morning paper.
Abused and neglected Chihuahuas flood local animal shelters. Bomb scare at local high school. Girl, four, dies from E. coli poisoning.

The surface of the river took on an oily sheen in the afternoon light. It ran deep and fast with the spring rain. Anything could be down there. On the next blank line in the notebook, he wrote
drowning, suicide, to the sea.

He would stay out of the way.

He would get a job.

He would get a car.

And then he would get as far away from Promise House as he could.

. . .

After Starbucks and Safeway, Rakmen went to Ray's Auto Parts and Salvage, a shabby place with a peeling red and blue sign tucked around the corner from a second-run movie theater and a cavernous liquor store. Ray was his dad's best friend and the best shot he had at a summer job. Rakmen breathed in the smell of tires and metal.

And space.

No one here would bother him with feeling words. No one asking for skinny, extra-hot, super foamy macchiatos. Working here would be alright.

“Well, hey,” said Ray, emerging from the crowded aisles of parts behind the counter. He was a short guy but muscled and wiry. His palms were perpetually etched in black grease from pulling parts out of junkers. “How's it?”

Rakmen shrugged.

“Your mom doing okay?”

“I think so.”

Ray raised his eyebrows like he knew about the muffled fights Rakmen heard through the floor most nights.

“Anyway,” said Rakmen, changing the subject, “I filled out the application you gave me. I'd really like to work here this summer.”

“Can you pull parts?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Until the first time you get a big splat of oil in the face.” Ray laughed. “Seriously though, wouldn't you rather go to basketball camp or Outward Bound or something?”

“What's that?” Rakmen asked, pulling the application out of his backpack.

“Hiking, camping, survival training. Real-life Man vs. Wild stuff.”

“Like in the wilderness?”

“Exactly—all full of bears and cougars.” Ray bared his teeth and pretended to claw at Rakmen. “And not the old lady kind.”