Twelve
It was dark by the time we reached my mother’s house in northern New Jersey. We had been on the road for nearly five hours. I wasn’t comfortable speeding. The guys at Intel would be able to track us to Boston, where we rented the car using one of the fake IDs that they had given me. My hope was that eventually, as long as we spent cash and stayed out of trouble, they’d lose our trail. It was still two weeks before I was supposed to check in. We were supposed to have those weeks to lose ourselves among the masses.
I pulled into the driveway of my mother’s little house and killed the lights. You were asleep when I pulled up. You’d been sleeping a lot. Thus far, it was really the only sign that you were pregnant. I knew my mother hadn’t heard us pull up because I didn’t see her peer out of the kitchen window the way she did whenever she had visitors. This was going to be a surprise. I looked at you, asleep in the passenger seat, and realized that this was going to be a series of surprises. I thought about how long it had been since I’d actually seen my mother. Three years? Five years? When was the last time I’d seen her? I couldn’t even remember. I looked at the house. I had so many memories of that house—some good, some awful.
I leaned over and shook you awake. “We’re here.”
You woke up slowly and gazed out the windows, turning your head to get a sense of your surroundings. All you could really see from the car were trees and forest. “This is New Jersey?”
“Yeah,” I whispered, leaning over to kiss your forehead. I was happy—as happy as I could be under the circumstances. Happy to be home, happy to be bringing you home with me. “It’s not all toxic waste dumps and highways.”
“It’s beautiful,” you said. You opened the door and stepped out of the car. The air was brisk but still much warmer than in Montreal. It smelled like pine trees and burning wood. Mom had a fire going inside. You couldn’t see another house from the driveway, just woods. “You grew up here?”
“For most of my childhood, yeah. We moved into this house after Dad died. This was supposed to be our little hiding spot. We probably should have moved after they killed my sister but I think my mom just thought, Fuck it. If they wanted to come get her, let them come. They never came back. My friend Jared lived only ten minutes from here and my friend Michael lived a couple towns over. I met them when I lived in this house, so not all the memories are bad. Where they grew up, it’s a little more civilized.”
“This is where they killed your sister?” I nodded. You began hugging yourself and rubbing your arms to fight the cold.
I slammed the car door behind me, as I had every evening coming home as a teenager. It was a signal that my mother and I had. We were supposed to make noise when we came home because they would never make noise. You flinched when the door slammed. The cool night air had been so peaceful. “Sorry about that.”
“That’s okay,” you replied.
After slamming the door closed, I stood there for a few seconds, peering into the kitchen window, waiting. As if on cue, my mother’s face appeared. She pushed aside the curtains and looked down at us. She looked old—old and tired. I waved into the window as she looked down. When she realized who it was her face began to beam. Then it disappeared again. I knew she’d be making one last mad dash around the house to straighten up. She’d want it to look good for guests. We were probably the first guests she’d had in years. “Let’s go,” I finally said to you. You started walking down the thin stone path toward the front door. “Not that way,” I called out to you as you walked. “We’re family. We go in through the side door.” I led you around the side of the house toward the door that went directly into the kitchen. You huddled behind me as I knocked on the door, hiding yourself from my mother’s view until I was able to make a proper introduction.
My mother was at the door in a flash, pulling it open and grabbing me in a giant hug before we even had a chance to say hello. After a minute, she finally eased up on her grasp of me but she didn’t let go. As she held on to me she said, “This is such a wonderful surprise. Just wonderful.”
“Good to see you, too, Ma,” I said as she finally let me go.
“Now come inside. It’s cold out,” my mother ordered. That’s when I stepped aside to give her a view of you. “And who is this?” my mother asked me with a triumphant smile on her face.
“Mother,” I went forward with the formal introduction, “this is my girlfriend, Maria. Maria, this is my overbearing mother.” My mother gave me a playful slap across my arm.
You reached your hand out, expecting my mother to shake it, but in seconds she was all over you with a hug nearly as long as the one she’d given me. I looked over my mother’s shoulder at your face as she hugged you. You were in a daze. I had told you so much about the horrors in my life that my mother must have seemed an anachronism.
When my mother finally let you go, she took two steps back and looked you up and down as if eyeing a piece of artwork. “Well, aren’t you the cutest little thing?” she said. “Well, Maria, you can call me Joan. It’s wonderful to meet you.” You didn’t reply, still dazed from the welcome. “Now, let’s get both of you inside before we all freeze to death.” Then my mother ushered us inside. I limped up the steps.
“Oh my, Joseph, are you okay?” my mother shouted when she noticed the limp. The wound was healing well but it still hurt. The pain had dulled but spread over my entire leg.
“Just a small work injury,” I replied. She took that as a signal to let it drop for now.
The place was exactly as I had remembered it. The spatulas were even in the same place. My mother led us through the kitchen and straight into the tiny living room. She sat you down right in front of the fire, trying to warm you up. I hadn’t brought a girl home since I was seventeen. I really didn’t know how my mother was going to react. I sat down in the love seat opposite my mother, who sat in the middle of the couch. We were each, at most, five feet from each other. My mother looked us both over again in silence, as if trying to paint the picture with her mind. Eventually she spoke. “So, to what do I owe this visit?” She looked at you when she asked the question. You looked at me. Perhaps we should have prepared for the questions in the car. I hoped she didn’t think we’d come to announce an engagement.
“I got a couple of weeks’ vacation, Ma. Maria and I decided to take it together.” You looked relieved when I spoke, relieved that you didn’t have to talk yet. “I wanted her to meet you.” I knew that this last part would make my mother happy and hoped, in vain, that it would stop the questions for a little while.
“Where did you guys drive from?” Again, my mother looked at you when she asked the question. Again, I answered the question anyway.
“We drove from Boston after taking a bus from Montreal. Maria’s a college student in Montreal.” The conversation was a little dance with neither you nor my mother knowing exactly what you were allowed to say. My mother handled it by asking questions. You handled it by shutting up completely.
“Really? A college girl? That’s wonderful. We could use a little education around here. And what are you studying, dear?” You looked up at me to make sure that you could safely answer this question. I nodded to you to let you know that it was safe to speak.
“I’m still trying to decide between Psychology and Religion,” you replied.
My mother nodded. “Aren’t we all,” my mother replied with a laugh. “Well, those sound like wonderful choices. Montreal? Are you Canadian?”
“I’m going to grab us some food, Ma,” I interrupted. “You got anything in the fridge?”
“Oh, my, where are my manners?” My mother started to stand up. “You guys have been traveling all day. I should have offered you something.”
“Sit down, Ma,” I said. “I know my way around our kitchen. You stay and keep Maria company. By the time I get back, I’m sure you’ll know more about her than I do. You hungry, Maria?”
“Starving,” you replied, dropping your guard when you spoke to me. We’d stopped to grab a snack in Connecticut on the way down but hadn’t had a real meal all day.
“You want anything, Ma?”
“Well, I’m not about to let my son and his girlfriend eat alone.” My mother’s voice sounded ecstatic just to be saying the word girlfriend. I almost thought she was going to trill her r’s. I made my way into the kitchen and left you and my mother to your own devices. My mother knew the game. She wasn’t going to say anything controversial. She’d leave all that for conversations with me later. I just wanted you two to talk. I wanted you to get to know each other. I knew that these fleeting moments would likely be the only time the two of you would ever get to spend with each other. Despite everything that happened, I still treasure those moments.
The refrigerator was predictably empty. My mother had virtually given up eating about the same time that we moved into this place. The cupboard, however, had enough for me to throw a meal together. I could hear you and my mother, mostly my mother, chatting away in the other room as I put on a pot of spaghetti. The house was warm. It was cozy. I set the table so that we could all eat together in the kitchen. The kitchen table was pushed up against the wall so, without moving it, there was only room for three people. That was plenty for that evening. I set it up so that you would sit on one side of me and my mother would sit on the other. As the pasta cooked, I opened up a can of crushed tomatoes and took out some seasoning to make some sauce. “Do you have any wine for the spaghetti sauce, Ma?” I shouted from the kitchen, interrupting whatever topic the two of you had moved on to.
“Sure,” my mother replied. She got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of wine from her little wine rack. “We’ll have to open a new bottle, but I don’t think we’ll have a better occasion for that anyway.” She handed me the bottle and came over and kissed me on the cheek. “She seems lovely,” my mother said to me in a whisper. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
“I know,” I replied.
Then my mother gave me a look. It was just a quick glance but I knew that it meant that she wanted to talk to me later, alone. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of her?” she asked me with a smile. I simply shrugged and lifted my eyebrows in response. She’d have more questions later. I wanted her to get to know you a little bit before I had to answer them. It had taken me all of ten minutes to fall for you. I figured that it shouldn’t take my mother more than an hour.
I uncorked the wine and poured a full glass into my spaghetti sauce. My mother went back into the living room and the two of you continued to chat. You never told me what you talked about while I was cooking. The entire subject of my mother eventually became taboo. When I called the two of you in for dinner, you were happy. You glanced at me before sitting down at the dinner table and your eyes twinkled.
“Look at my son, the chef,” my mother purred as she sat down. “It didn’t take you long to domesticate this one, did it, Maria?”
“Don’t look at me,” you replied, staring down at the food. “This is the first time he’s ever cooked for me.”
“How shameful, Joey. Didn’t I teach you how to properly treat a woman?”
“Sit. Eat. Let’s see if it’s edible before we start complaining that I don’t cook enough.” Just as I sat down at the table my mother got up. She stood up from her chair and ran over to one of the cabinets to retrieve three wineglasses.
“Before we eat,” she spoke as she came back over to the table, “a toast.” She filled each of the wineglasses with what was left in the bottle of wine I had used to make the spaghetti sauce. “I guess I’ll have to make up for my son’s bad manners.” This was the happiest I could ever remember my mother. At least I gave her this moment. She lifted her glass. “To my son, who I don’t see nearly enough, and to his new friend, who I hope to see more of.” All three of us clinked our wine-filled glasses together. “Anything to add, Joey?” My mother looked at me. I have no idea what she expected me to say.
“To not drinking alone,” I added, barely remembering where I had heard the toast before.
“Very classy,” my mother scolded me, but we all clinked our glasses together again. My mother and I each lifted the glass to our lips. You slipped yours back onto the table. My mother noticed. There was never any chance that she wouldn’t. “You’re not drinking, sweetie?”
“I’m not much of a drinker, Joan,” you responded.
“Well, just a sip, dear. It’s not a real toast if you don’t have a sip,” my mother pressed on. She watched you carefully.
“That’s birthday wishes and fortune cookies, Mom,” I butted in, eyeing my mother to let her know to drop the subject. “It’s been a long day. Let’s eat.” I forked some of the spaghetti onto each of our plates. I started with equal portions. My mother didn’t finish hers. I had seconds. You had thirds. I was amazed by how much you could eat already.
We chatted through dinner. My mother asked us how long we were planning on staying. We hadn’t even discussed this yet. I told her that we were staying for two nights. That just sounded right. There were a few things that I wanted to show you in town before we left. I didn’t think two days was too long. We’d still have ten days to make our run for it. Then my mother asked us where we were going on our vacation. Again, I didn’t know. You looked at me when she asked this as if you were wondering yourself. Even if I knew where we were going, I wouldn’t have told my mother. I wouldn’t tell anyone. The fewer people who knew the better, for them and for us. South, I said. Maybe we’d go to Graceland, I said. You seemed to be enamored with that idea.
“Well, don’t let him make you stay at any of the cheap hotels, dear,” my mother said to you, reaching across the dinner table and placing her hand over yours. “He’s got to learn a little class someday.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you replied with a giggle. I hoped you remembered that this wasn’t a vacation—that we had to stay diligent. For now, I let it go.
When we were done eating, you helped my mother clear the table. Both of you insisted that, since I had cooked, I got to relax during the cleanup. Once the kitchen was back in order, you told me that you were tired and ready to go to bed. My mother showed you to my sister’s old room. My mother hadn’t touched it since my sister died. Pictures of her and her friends from high school still sat in frames on the bookshelves. A few pictures of her with her college friends were hung with thumbtacks on the wall above her desk. Her high school French award was still prominently displayed as if she’d won it yesterday. I carried your bag up the stairs and dropped it off in the room. “So I guess I’m alone in here tonight, huh?” you asked me as you placed your nearly empty duffel bag at the foot of the bed.
“I think so. My mom’s a little old fashioned,” I replied. “Are you going to be all right?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s so peaceful here.” You stood up on the tips of your toes to give me a small kiss on the lips. “Your mother’s sweet.”
“Yeah, to you,” I teased. “Now that you’re going to bed, you’re leaving me alone to face the inquisition.”
“So we’re staying here two days?”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“And then we’re going to Graceland?”
“We’ll see.”
When I got back downstairs, my mother was waiting for my return.
“She’s lovely,” my mother said to me before I reached the bottom of the stairs.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I replied with a smirk. I was a little boy again, showing my mother the gem that I’d found in the woods.
“How long have you two been together?” She was trying to gauge how serious this was. She should have known simply by the fact that I’d brought you home.
“Long enough to know that I never want to be with anybody else.”
“Well.” My mother paused, taken aback by my response. Then she sat back down on the couch. I sat across from her. “How long has that been?” She smiled again.
“A few months, but it seems like longer. We hit it off instantly.”
“She’s young, Joe. She’s young to be making this type of commitment.” I thought she was trying to protect me.
“She’s young in some ways. She’s not so young in a lot of others. She’s smarter than me. Sometimes it feels like she’s older than I am.”
“How old is she?”
“She’s a sophomore in college, Mom. That’s not that young,” I used the same half-truth that you had used on me. My mother had put me on the defensive. Something seemed off.
“Is she one of us?” Finally, she asked the question that I was sure she was dying to ask from the moment she first laid eyes on you.
“No, Mom. She’s not. She’s just a person. She’s not one of us. She’s not one of them.”
“Does she know about things?” She meant the War, though my mother would never use the word.
“Yes.”
“So you told her?” My mother stared momentarily out the window into the dark night. She didn’t expect me to answer the question again. “Well, I guess there’s no going back now, then, is there?”
“I told you, Mom. She’s it for me. Even if I could go back, I wouldn’t.” I wanted her to be happy for me.
“It’s a hard life you’re leading her into, Joe,” she said. She looked sad. My mother was a living embodiment of just how hard that life could be. I imagine that she was thinking about my father, about my sister, about her parents. All of them died violently, all before their time, leaving her to grow old alone, hiding in a small house in the corner of the world.
“Would you have given any of it up, Mom?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Would you have traded your life for an ordinary life, knowing that you’d never get to spend time with Dad, never would have had known Jessica, never would have had me?”
She looked aghast that I would even ask the question. “Of course not.” Some strength was returning to my mother’s voice. “It’s a hard life, sure, but for us, it’s a just life and worth the sacrifice. You know that.”
“Well, then, be happy for me, Mom.” I stood up and walked over, taking a seat next to her on the couch. I put my arm around her shoulder. “The world’s not perfect, Ma, but it’s better for me when Maria’s around.”
“Then I’m happy for you,” my mother said. I could tell that there was some truth in what she was saying but it was only a partial truth. “I’m just worried about her.”
“I think she knows what she’s getting herself into, Mom.” I didn’t believe the words even as they left my mouth.
“Let’s hope so,” she replied. Then she turned to me, her eyes glistening as if she were holding back tears. She hugged me again. The hug at the door was for the past, this one was for the future.
“Listen, Mom,” I finally said, breaking away from her grasp. “I’m going to show Maria around tomorrow, maybe take her up to Rocky Point. Besides, I need to get some sleep. I’m exhausted.” I stood up and limped toward the stairs. My leg was throbbing.
“Okay, Joe,” my mother replied. She never asked for more information about my injury. She knew not to ask me about the details of my job. “Good night,” she said, not budging as I slowly made my way to the stairs. When I was about to place a foot on the first step, she called out to me. “Joseph?” I could tell from the tone of her voice that there was something she’d been waiting to say, something she’d been holding back.
I turned around. She was sitting on the couch, her hands folded in her lap. She looked nervous. “Yeah, Mom?” I asked.
“She’s pregnant.” I don’t know how she knew. She just knew.
“I know, Mom.” I stood for a second at the bottom of the steps debating whether I should say anything else. I decided against it. Then I limped up the stairs and went to bed.
I woke up in the morning to the scent of frying bacon wafting up from the kitchen. I felt like it was Saturday morning and I was twelve again. I climbed out of bed. The leg felt better. It still hurt but it felt better. I grabbed painkillers from my bag and swallowed a few without water. I got up, got dressed, and began to head downstairs. On my way, I knocked on your door to see if you were awake yet. I didn’t hear anything, so I thought I’d let you sleep. I walked down the stairs alone. The walk down the stairs was twice as painful as the walk up had been, but there wasn’t much to do now but grit my teeth and bear it.
I was surprised, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, to hear your voice echoing out of the kitchen. Apparently, you were already awake and bonding with my mother. Now that my mother knew that you were pregnant, the bonding frightened me. I don’t know why. It was a classic case of paranoia. I should have remembered to trust it.
My mother had you hard at work, mixing pancake batter as she flipped the bacon in the frying pan with a fork. You both looked happy, free of worries. At least for the time being, I decided to join in the fun. I smiled and sat down at the kitchen table.
“Nice to see that my mom is already teaching you how to domesticate yourself.”
“Morning, Joseph,” my mother turned and said to me as I stared at you, hard at work. It was the first time I’d ever seen you cook. You looked dangerous.
“Forget that college education, forget working, all you need to know how to do in this man’s world is cook and clean, right, Ma?” You shot me a dirty look. My mother walked over and slapped me on the shoulder with a dish towel. “How long have you two been up?”
“I got up early to run to the store to make sure I had some food for breakfast. When I got home, Maria was already awake. She was kind enough to offer to help me cook.” My mother wore an apron as she cooked. She looked like a Bisquick ad from the fifties.
I walked over to the frying pan and picked out a piece of bacon with my hands, reaching in quickly to try to avoid being burnt by the bubbling grease. “Can’t you wait ten minutes?” my mother cried out as I popped the sizzling bacon into my mouth.
“I could wait three days,” I replied, “but I’d rather not.” You hadn’t said anything yet. “Has my mother been treating you okay?” I finally asked you, only half teasing.
“It’s been really nice,” you said, your tone much more serious than I expected. You almost sounded sad. Someday maybe you’ll tell me what you were thinking about.
We sat around the table together and ate breakfast. Once again, my mother barely ate and you ate twice as much as I did. The conversation over breakfast moved from one inconsequential subject to another, each of us hoarding our own secrets. Mostly we discussed our plans for the day. I told my mother how we had a few errands to run and then I was planning on taking you up to the top of Rocky Point, an old rock ridge above town where Jared, Michael, and I used to camp when we were kids. You seemed genuinely excited to see some of my history firsthand.
“You sure that’s a good idea,” my mother chimed in, “considering”—and then there was a pause. The pause spoke volumes. It said quite clearly, “Maria’s condition.” Eventually, however, my mother finished by saying, “Considering your leg.”
“We’ll be fine, Ma,” I responded. “The fresh air and exercise will be good for both of us.” I placed my hand on top of yours on the table. It just felt good to touch you.
Soon the food was gone. Shortly after that, you and I climbed into the car and headed into town. We left our things upstairs, knowing we’d be back in only a few hours. My mother stayed at the house, alone.
The first thing that we had to do was to gather supplies for when we left New Jersey. We went to a bank and I used the cash machine to take out four hundred dollars, the maximum amount that the machine would let me take out in a day. The account was my spending account. I had the ATM card and the pin number but the account wasn’t in my name and I didn’t have any control over it. The actual account was controlled by headquarters. I’d go to get money and money would be there. We were told not to spend extravagantly. If we did, we’d be cut off. That’s all I knew. Along with the ATM card, I had five different credit cards, each under a different name. I never saw a single credit card bill. They went straight to headquarters. Again, I never had a problem using any one of them. The rules were the same as the ATM card. Do your job and keep a low profile. We couldn’t live like James Bond. Allen made that clear enough, but we never had to worry about money. It was something that I had always taken for granted, but I wouldn’t be able to do so much longer. The plan was to take out four hundred dollars every three days until we had over sixteen hundred in cash. We’d do all our spending on the credit cards, buying supplies that we could use while on the run. I hoped that the spending wouldn’t raise any red flags. After all, I was supposed to be on vacation. After two weeks, we’d throw everything away, abandon it all. The free ride would be over, because as long as we used their ATM card and their credit cards, they’d know where we were. As long as we kept using their money, we couldn’t be free.
After the bank, we headed to the grocery store. We shopped like we were going on a camping trip: no perishables; lots of things that we could prepare easily; lots of things we could eat without cooking; lots of bottled water. We bought granola bars, beef jerky, ramen noodles. I also picked up enough prenatal vitamins to get us through your entire pregnancy. Now was the time to spend.
We filled up most of the trunk with our supplies from the grocery store. Then we headed down the highway to a camping supply store. We brought two sleeping bags, two flashlights, a first-aid kit, and a tent.
The shopping took up the rest of the morning and started to eat into our afternoon. Still, I wanted to show you around before we left so that you could see the world I knew when I was still innocent. I wanted you to see the best of me. I parked the car at the end of a small cul-de-sac. We cut through the backyard of an old house and hiked through the woods for a bit. I checked to make sure that you were doing okay, but it quickly became clear that my leg was holding us back more than your condition. You were full of energy. We crossed a small stream and gradually started making our way uphill. Nothing had changed. It was like the forest had been frozen in time. I had changed. My world had changed. The forest hadn’t. As we headed deeper into the woods, the trees grew taller and farther apart. The woods opened up, only the random beam of sunlight finding its way through the forest canopy. “It’s beautiful,” you said as we hiked up the ever steepening slope.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” I replied. My leg throbbed with each step but it was worth the pain. After covering in thirty minutes what used to take me fifteen, we reached the base of the rock. From its base, the rock shot straight up, nearly a hundred and fifty feet. You craned your neck and looked straight up to the top as it jutted just above the top of the tree line.
“Wow,” you said when we reached the rock, holding the word in your mouth. You walked up and touched the rock, feeling its texture. “This is amazing. How high is it?”
“Almost a hundred and fifty feet,” I replied. “We used to climb it growing up.”
“Really?” you asked, surprised you didn’t know this about me already.
“Yeah.” I remembered the first time I climbed it like it was yesterday. Jared had read all the books and had done all the prep work, so he volunteered to man the rope during the first climb. It fell to me and Michael to see who got to climb up first. I offered to shoot for it. Michael wouldn’t have it. “It’s your rock, Joe. You brought us here. You go first.” The first climb took over two hours. I made my way up slowly, dangling a hundred feet from the ground, holding on to tiny rock ledges. Jared and Michael yelled out the whole time, encouraging me upward. We were still more than a year away from our eighteenth birthdays. The world was still simple.
“So how do we get to the top?” you said. There was mischief in your eyes that I hadn’t seen since the first weekend we met.
“There’s a path around the side. It’s pretty steep. Do you think you’re up for it?”
“You think you can hold me back, Gimpy?”
We hiked on. My leg burned. A few times you had to turn around and reach your hand out to help me. I tried not to pull too hard on your hand, worried what it might do. Eventually, we made it to the top together. From the top, it felt like we could see half of New Jersey spread out beneath us. We walked up to the edge and sat down, dangling our legs over the hundred-and-fifty-foot drop, the tops of the trees barely reaching our feet. You leaned against me and rested your head on my shoulder.
“How long have you been coming up here?”
“Since I was seven. I’d come up here whenever I wanted to get away. After my father died, I came up here all the time. I’d ride my bike over from our new house. When me and Michael and Jared found out about the War, all of us came here. When we came here, it was just us. No War. No death.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It was.”
We spent another twenty minutes just gazing out over the world, watching the little matchbox cars move along the street, watching the miniature people move about their yards. We sat up there, your head resting on my shoulder, looking at the world we weren’t a part of anymore. As the afternoon wore on, it started to get cold and we decided that we had to head back.
We pulled up to the house in the early evening. When we walked inside, I went up and gave my mother a hug. She hugged me back, but her heart wasn’t in it. Something was wrong. I ignored it. I didn’t want to get into it with her. We walked into the living room. You sat down on the couch and I turned on the TV. I excused myself so that I could go to the upstairs bathroom and check on the hole in my leg. I went into the bathroom and pulled off my jeans. I stared at my leg in the full-length mirror in the wall. There was no blood and no pus. It seemed to be healing well.
I was in the bathroom for maybe five minutes when there was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I asked.
“It’s your mother, Joseph. We need to talk.”
“Hold on a minute. Let me get my pants on.” I pulled my jeans back on and opened the door. My mother was standing there, not more than three inches from the door. Her eyes were full of tears and her upper lip was trembling. Everything was crashing down. Time froze.
“She’s seventeen, Joseph,” my mother said through trembling lips. The last time I saw her cry like that was when Jessica was killed.
“How do you know?” I responded, trying to stay calm.
“Her passport,” my mother responded coldly.
“You looked through her things?”
“I had to, Joseph. I knew something wasn’t right. I was just trying to look out for you. She’s seventeen years old, Joseph. You know what that means!”
“Keep your voice down, Mother. She’s downstairs.”
“She’s asleep. She’s asleep on our couch, Joseph. She’s seventeen, she’s pregnant, and she’s asleep on our couch!”
“I didn’t know until it was too late, Mom,” I said to her.
“You knew?” My mother’s face turned ugly. I’d never seen her that way before. “She’s a child, Joseph. You slept with that poor child and now you’re going to ruin both your lives.”
“She’s no more a child than I am.”
“Then you’re both children—spoiled children who are throwing away your lives!”
“Listen, Mother, I didn’t know,” I repeated.
“She can’t have that baby.” The words came out cold and bitter.
“She’s going to have it.”
“You’re going to let her have it?” She gasped.
“We’re going to have it together. It’s what we both want.” I meant it when I said it.
“And what do you plan on doing? You know the rules!”
I got quiet. I wanted her to calm down. I hoped that if I stayed calm she would calm down. “We’re going to run, Mother. That’s why we came here. I wanted to introduce you to the mother of your grandchild and then I wanted to say good-bye.” I wanted to cry but I promised myself that, if my mother didn’t cry, I wouldn’t either.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Joseph? If you run . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her lips continued to tremble. “If you run, you’ll be giving up everything. You’ll be giving up on everything that your father fought for, everything that your grandfather fought for! You’ll be giving up your future. You’ll be giving up on everything that you’ve been fighting for!” Her voice got louder as she spoke.
“And what are we fighting for exactly, Mom?” I asked. “You tell me.”
She just stood there aghast. I looked into her eyes and didn’t recognize her.
“I’m sorry, Mother, but we’ve made our decision.” I stepped past her, into the hallway.
“I don’t think you’ve thought this through, young man,” my mother called out to my back as I walked away from her. I turned toward her and gave her a look that was meant to tell her that I had thought it through and that she couldn’t stop me. “Your father would be very disappointed in you,” she said to me as I stood there staring at her. It was like she had just slapped me the face.
I stayed calm. My voice was soft. “It was nice seeing you, Mom. Maria and I will spend one more night. I’ll let you sleep on all of this. If your opinions on the matter haven’t changed by tomorrow, we’ll leave in the morning.” Then I walked down the stairs. I wanted to be near you. I had a sudden urge to protect you.
When you woke up, I suggested that we go out for dinner. You thought it was strange but said okay. During dinner, I ate slowly. You ate a lot. As I’d hoped, my mother was already locked away in her bedroom by the time we got home. The lights in her bedroom were off. I knew she wasn’t asleep.
When we got upstairs, we kissed good night and you headed toward my sister’s old room to sleep. “Maria? Can you do me a favor?” I asked as you walked away from me.
“Sure, Joe. What do you want?” you asked, a little confused.
“Lock your door tonight.”
“Why?” you asked, confused.
“Just in case,” I replied. “Do you mind sleeping with the door locked tonight?”
“You’re scaring me, Joe. Is something wrong?”
“Maria, please. Just lock the door. I’m sure everything will be fine by morning.”
“Okay,” you said, afraid to ask any more questions.
I went to my room and lay down in bed. For the longest time, I simply lay there. Thoughts ran through my head but none of them were coherent. I just kept hearing voices. And what do you plan on doing? You know the rules, young man! Either they’re evil or we are. But what are you fighting for? I’m pregnant, Joe. Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you’re somebody? You’re nobody. They knew. She can’t have that baby. Good guys and bad guys. Cops and robbers. Cowboys and Indians. They’re all children’s games, Joe. I came here to kill you. They killed my daughter, Joe. They killed my wife and my daughter. Your father would be very disappointed in you. I haven’t been training to fight, Joe. I’ve been training to die. She’s seventeen, Joseph. I’m seventeen. Then, interrupting the voices, I heard someone crying. At first I thought it was just another sound trapped inside my head. Just another voice, only one that wasn’t even able to make out words. But as the crying persisted, I began to slip back into consciousness. Someone was actually crying. Not in my head, in real life.
I leapt out of bed, rushing toward the door. My immediate thoughts were that my mother had gotten to you, that she had done something to you. I couldn’t imagine what she would have done to you. I thought that maybe she woke you up. Maybe she woke you up to lecture you about how you were ruining my life. I regretted not telling you everything. I should have told you what my mother knew and how she reacted.
When I got outside my door, I saw that your door was still closed. The lights in your room were still off. The sounds of sobbing were coming from downstairs. I could tell by the sound that it was my mother. I hoped beyond hope that she had accepted my decision—that she was crying because she knew that she would never see me again.
All the lights in the living room were on. I walked down the stairs. My mother was sitting on the couch sobbing, the cordless phone in her lap.
“What’s the matter, Mom?” I asked. I would have assumed the worst if I could have imagined what the worst was.
My mother simply shook her head in response. She couldn’t get enough breath between sobs to speak.
“What happened, Mother?”
Finally, the sobbing slowed down and she was able to speak. “I’m sorry, Joseph,” was all she could get out before she broke into another series of deep sobs.
“Sorry for what, Ma?” My eyes moved from my mother’s crying face to the phone in her hand. “What did you do?”
She stopped crying. It was as if she was suddenly possessed by an entirely different person.
“I did what I had to do, Joseph,” she said, trying to keep her voice as strong as possible.
“What did you do, Ma?” I asked again, pleading this time.
“I told them, Joseph.” She held the phone up in her fist. “I did what you should have done already. I did what you were too weak to do. I told them. I did what I had to.”
“You realize what that means, Mom!” I screamed at her. She simply turned her head and looked away. “They’re going to come after me! They are going to come after me and Maria and our child!”
“I did what I had to, Joseph,” she said again, unwilling to turn to look at me.
“You did what you had to? That child is your grandchild!”
“Don’t you say those words!” she shouted back, lifting a finger toward me but still unwilling to make eye contact.
“That child is your grandchild!” I repeated, louder so that the words would ring in her ears long after we had gone. “Your grandchild!”
Finally, she turned toward me, her eyes large and red. “That child is no such thing. It is not my grandchild. THAT CHILD IS ONE OF THEM!” I looked into my mother’s eyes. The woman I knew was gone.
I had wasted enough time already. I turned and ran back upstairs and began banging on your door with my fist. “Maria! Maria! Wake up! Get your things together! We have to leave! We have to leave now!” It was the second fire drill I’d put you through in three days. It wouldn’t be the last. You opened up the door. “Get your things together. We have to leave now,” I said to you, lowering my voice. You simply nodded in response. You were ready to run. You were already growing accustomed to it. You started to pack. I ran into my bedroom and threw everything I owned back into my bag—everything but the gun. The gun I took out of the bag and tucked into the back of my pants.
When we got to the bottom of the stairs, my mother was still sitting on the couch, the phone still clutched in her hands. The tendons on her hands bulged out as if she would die if she let go of the phone. She looked up when we got to the bottom of the stairs. I looked into my mother’s eyes one last time. She was my mother again. Whatever creature had possessed her was gone. Too bad it was too late. People were coming for us. We had to go.
We headed for the door. You were about to turn to say something to my mother but I gave you a slight push on your shoulder to keep you moving toward the door. You took the hint and continued on. You never asked what had happened. I assumed that you had figured it out. As I was about to walk out the door, my mother finally stood up from the couch, tears flowing freely from her face.
“I love you, Mom. I always will,” I said before stepping out the kitchen door. She nodded in response. We threw our bags in the backseat of the car and leapt into the front. I turned the ignition and we skidded out of the driveway. As we left, I took one look back at the old house. My mother was standing at the window, crying, her one hand lifted above her shoulder. She was waving good-bye.
