We Are Called to Rise (24 page)

32

Luis

SOME THINGS YOU DON’T
think about when you sign up for the Army. Like how the system’s going to work when you get out. Which in Vegas means it isn’t. There’s a veteran’s hospital at the base, or half a hospital. The Air Force has the other half. Though, of course, if you’ve got anything really wrong with you, they send you to California. I guess that’s why they left me in DC so long. But I don’t need a hospital. I just need a lot of therapy. And in Vegas, there are twenty-two different places for a vet to go for medical help. And apparently there isn’t anyone who’s really sure where I should go.

Vera, who answers the phone after twenty minutes of soft-rock covers, tells me she thinks that the clinic on Desert Inn would work, but they might send me out to the clinic on Shadow Lane, or I might have to go to the base first and get an order from
there
for Shadow Lane, and then Shadow Lane sends some of its people to a care center on Torrey Pines. My head sort of spins. I can’t drive—not now, anyway—and there isn’t any set of buses that is going to take me on that route; not in a day, anyway. Which means Abuela will have to drive me. Which means I’m not a hell of a lot more independent than I was back at Walter Reed. Fuck.

Talking to Vera wears me out—it doesn’t take much lately—and I start thinking about Bashkim. He’s out there somewhere, right here in Vegas, which is weird, because it was easier to think about him when he was far away, when there was no chance that I’d see him somehow. Not that I’d know him if I did, but his school’s not that far from our house, he lives in the same part of town.

Of course, who knows where he lives? He’s in foster care.

It starts bugging me, wondering just where he is, just where he used to live, and I get on Google Maps and try to figure a couple of things out. Pretty soon I’m reading whatever I can find about what happened, which isn’t that much. Bashkim’s principal already sent me most of the articles I find. Except when I look those articles up on the Internet, I can see these online comments that readers have posted. And man, they’re fucked. It’s all immigrants and Muslims and terrorists. I mean, the lady sold ice cream to kids. But “Vega$Truth” thinks she was taking down the Constitution. And “BeenHereDoneThat” says that people who don’t speak English should be driven to the border and told to run before they get shot. Somebody named “MoonStar” says LVPD’s been out of control for years, so some other posters forget about Bashkim’s mom and call MoonStar names. Shit.

There’s a coroner’s inquest coming up, and I wonder what that means. What happens? Will Bashkim be there? I think about Googling the cop, Nathan Gisselberg, to see where he was in Iraq, what he did, but I don’t know, that could be bad. I might not want to think about that.

I’ve still got the envelope that Dr. Moore sent me. I pull it out and look through Bashkim’s letters again. I see how hard he tried to tell me without telling me:
Do you know that a lot of soldiers come back and are policemen? I’m really tired of bad things. My baba doesn’t like policemen or soldiers.

I try to imagine Bashkim. I don’t know anything about Albanians, whether they’re dark or fair, but I picture a little boy, something like myself when I was eight, and something like the boy in the market, whose face I will never forget. That face makes me think about his mother, about the way she sounded, the way she fell right on top of him, and I feel myself starting to slide, starting to get overwhelmed. That boy, his mother’s keening, Sam’s face—they’re at the back of my mind all the time. They come forward at night, and leave me twisting and terrified and never sure if I am awake or asleep.

That boy. Bashkim’s mother.

When I was a kid, I used to want a mom. I used to imagine Maricela picking me up at school instead of Abuela. Pretty weak stuff compared to Bashkim, compared to a kid whose mom was killed right in front of him. A kid whose dad can’t even get it together enough to keep him out of foster care. Nobody came to his mom’s funeral. That detail sticks in my head from the stuff Dr. Moore sent. No wonder he kept writing me letters. How is it that I’m the guy they picked for your pen pal, Bashkim? How the hell did that happen?

LATER THAT DAY, I START
thinking about Mike Rodriguez again. Uncle Mike. I’m not mad at Abuela anymore. I mean, I got no business judging her, and I wonder if there’s some way to bring this up. I want to know more. I want to know everything.

So at dinner, I just ask her.

“Abuela, a guy came to visit me when I was at the hospital.”

“Sí?”

“Yeah. He said he was my uncle. Miguel Rodriguez. He said I looked like my dad.”

I want my voice to be neutral here, I’m not mad, and I hope I’ve done it, because there’s some things Abuela doesn’t like, and if she thinks I’m trying to slip in some sort of criticism, underhanded, not up front, she’ll get mad.

She’s quiet. She doesn’t say anything. She just keeps stirring the pot on the stove, which I’m pretty sure is done cooking, since I’ve already got some of it on my plate.

I don’t say anything either. Me and Abuela, we give each other time.

Finally, she does speak.

“Miguel. Yes, I know Miguel.”

She knows Miguel? I wait.

“He’s a lot older. A lot older than your dad. He wasn’t living with him when your dad—when Maricela and your dad—were going out.”

She hesitates with that last bit. My mom got pregnant in high school, and for my abuela, that isn’t going out. That’s something she doesn’t really have a word for.

“Yeah, he came around. After. You were already crawling. Maricela had never met him. She didn’t know who he was when he knocked on the door. She told him to leave.”

Abuela gives up on the pot now, and she sits down. Not right at the table with me but on the bench under the window, where she likes to watch the birds. She looks out the window now. I can see the side of her face, but not her eyes.

“He came back, though. When I was home. Maricela was out. She was already gone a lot then, Luis, she was already going, already lost, but I didn’t know it. I was trying to keep her. Keep her with us.

“And I guess that’s why I didn’t let Miguel in either. Maricela was so mad about him, so scared, and I didn’t want her getting mad at me, I didn’t want to do anything that would make her leave. I thought she’d take you. I never thought she was going to leave you. So I didn’t know what would happen if I talked with Miguel. I didn’t want to do anything that might make things worse.”

She doesn’t look at me. I keep quiet.

“He wanted to see you. I could tell he was a nice man. Real broken up about Marco. Trying to figure out what happened. I don’t know where he’d been, I don’t know why he hadn’t been around.

“And I felt terrible, not letting him in, not giving him a chance. So I told him that I’d bring you out to him—that if he’d just stay in the yard, where we could watch for Maricela coming back—that I’d bring you out to him.

“And he agreed. He said it was okay, he understood. So I went in and got you. You were just waking up. You were hot, so your hair was kind of matted on your forehead, and your cheeks were red, but you were a happy little guy. You used to shriek when I came in, you were so happy.

“And you went right to your uncle. He held out his arms, and you just bobbed right out of mine and into his.”

Abuela stops now. I hear her take a deep breath. I think I see a tear on her cheek, but I’m not sure. She’s not looking at me, and I’m not saying anything. I can hardly breathe.

“He held you, and he talked to you. He talked in Spanish, about your papi, about your abuelos. He kept saying he was sorry.”

Her voice is ragged now. I can’t believe she’s telling me this. I can’t believe this happened. Isn’t this the kind of thing she should’ve told me? Why don’t I know this?

She doesn’t talk for a while, and when she does, her voice is calm and steady.

“He was pretty upset when he gave you back to me. He was a nice man, Luis.”

So finally I say something. I want to say a lot of things, but I focus, in case I never get a chance to hear about this again. I ask the important question.

“Was that it? Was that the only time you ever heard from him?”

She shudders, so I know the answer before she speaks.

“No. He came by another time. When you were about three. And he sent letters. Not too many. But some.”

He sent letters.

He sent me fucking letters.

Where are they? Did she read them?

The anger’s coming over me like a wave now. I’ve never felt this way about Abuela, I mean never. Not like this. And it scares me. It scares the hell out of me.

I start trying to picture Dr. Ghosh, trying to think about the little girl in her dress, trying to remember what Terence would say. I’m breathing heavy, which is actually some of what they told me to do in the hospital; some of how they told me to cope. And Dr. Ghosh would say to feel it, to let the feelings come. Not the anger. The other feelings. He’d say, “Luis, what is the feeling? What are you feeling?”

So I try.

And what I’m feeling is so fucking lonely, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

THREE DAYS LATER, ABUELA AND
I get a visitor. It’s a woman named Roberta Weiss, and she works for something called CASA. She’s a sort of caseworker for Bashkim Ahmeti, and Dr. Moore has told her about me.

I’m shocked.

I haven’t discussed Bashkim even with Abuela, and I haven’t written him or tried to get in touch with him since Dr. Ghosh and I got the news about his mother.

Abuela’s not shocked. Abuela has already talked to Roberta Weiss, and she’s talked with Dr. Moore too. She knows everything about Bashkim and about our letters, so I was right that she must know everything about me.

She and I haven’t done much talking in the last few days. That conversation about Uncle Mike threw me hard. I went to my room and stayed there awhile. Abuela didn’t push it. She brought me food, she tried to talk a little. She said she was sorry, that she meant for me to know, for Mike to be able to see me.

I shook my head, though, and didn’t let her talk. I got to take things slow. That’s one of the things Dr. Ghosh taught me. To control how much I’m taking in. How much stimulus is coming at me.

Abuela knows this too.

So we haven’t talked much, real superficial, and then this Roberta lady shows up. Talking about Bashkim. And me. And Abuela’s been talking to her.

I thought that when I got out of the hospital, I’d have more control. But when this Roberta comes in, I feel as if I’m a child. When I was a soldier, I was a man. Nobody looked after me but me. I had a private life. When I shot myself, I gave that up. Being a man. The right to privacy. I was a patient, in a public place, for so long. I want my life to be my own again.

Abuela is telling Roberta Weiss to sit down. Telling her she has some coffee ready. I guess I’m curious, and maybe I even think I can take a little stimulus, because I go in the extra bedroom and get on the computer. I can hear them talking from in there.

They act like they know each other. They must have talked on that phone quite a while. I hear Roberta’s voice, deep for a woman.

“It looks like they’ll be in foster care for another month at least. Their father could take them at any time, he’s out of the mental health ward, but he’s not in good shape. And he’s staying at a Budget Suites, so I don’t think the judge will release the children there. Catholic Refugee Services is trying to get him a Section 8 apartment. He hadn’t paid rent for a couple of months, so the minute the landlord heard the news, he evicted the family. The CPS caseworker went crazy over that, so at least he hasn’t yet disposed of their stuff. It’s sitting in a garage where they used to live. Can you imagine if the landlord had thrown out all of those children’s things? All of their mother’s things?”

Abuela murmurs, asks questions. I wonder if she’s taking notes. There are these pauses as they speak. I’m trying to figure out what is going on. Why this woman is in our house. How my letters to a third-grade kid could somehow have put my abuela in the middle of his life. My mind drifts to some of the things Bashkim wrote me—about his soccer team, about his baba. I wonder how much of what he wrote was true. I wonder if his baba was his coach.

“Child Protective Services is open to options on this family. Their ability to do anything for these children will be over as soon as the father takes them back. But everyone knows that’s going to be a disaster. He was probably violent with their mother, he’s paranoid, he’s very Old World. Nobody can imagine him taking care of a three-year-old. I’ve spoken with him. I don’t think he can imagine it. If he had family, if they had any connections here, it would be one thing. But they were really isolated.

“And the thing is, by all reports, the kids are fine. They’re nice kids. Everyone wants to do something before it’s too late. Before they’re the worst part of this tragedy.”

Roberta and Abuela talk on and on. I stop listening, even though I’m interested. I can’t really walk out of the room without saying something to them, so I plug my headset into the computer and listen to some music.

After a while, I see Roberta Weiss walk past my door. Abuela is right behind her. I try not to let Abuela see me looking. I shut my eyes, like I’m listening to the music.

THAT NIGHT, I’M UPSET ABOUT
the visit from the woman from CASA, and about Abuela somehow being interested in Bashkim. I tell myself that I’m going to talk to Abuela about this, that I have to talk to her, but I get myself so worked up that I don’t even go to the kitchen for dinner. I take a walk outside, too far, until everything hurts, and then I go to my room, and shut my door. Abuela does not come up.

It goes on like that for another day and night, and I’m thinking that it’s crazy for me to be living here with my abuela, who lied about my dad’s family and who has somehow inserted herself into my letters to Bashkim, and, man, I got a lot of other stuff to worry about without this shit.

Still, Abuela doesn’t say much.

She makes food, she offers to call Vera and see if she can figure out where I should go first, but she doesn’t say much else. It’s weird. It’s uncomfortable. And finally, I just break down and blurt it out.