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Inside the house, everything is dark. Shapes dance on the living room wall visible from the foyer, where I stand watching them shift. Blue, white, gray ... the changing frames from the TV screen reflected on the white paint.
I stand there, hypnotized by them, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and Mom’s rhythmic breathing. I sigh, weighted down by all the sadness that hangs like a haze inside this house, a haze that obscures everything, even ourselves. Out there, I hide from the world and put on a tough exterior. In here, I hide from Mom and wish for so much more than I’m given.
The only place where I don’t have to hide is my bedroom. My sanctuary, where I can listen to heavy metal, read poetry, hack computers and cry my eyes out all in the same hour, without anyone thinking I’m a basket case. I want to run in there, lock the door and, for a short time, just be who I really am, but Mom’s been waiting for me. I should at least let her know I’m home.
After a moment, I walk into the living room and watch her sleep on the sofa in front of the muted television. She looks sad, even in her sleep. Her hands are sandwiched between her face and a cushion. Her sandy blond hair spills over the sofa’s dark fabric, and her pale skin serves as witness to how little time she spends outside. Her job at a small fashion magazine keeps her tied to a desk. She’s still wearing her fashionable clothes and, for some reason, that brings a knot to my throat. She used to model and desperately clings to that prettier, younger version of herself. She takes a deep breath and her face turns my way a little, as if some part of her knows I’m watching. Her long lashes flutter, then her eyes open.
She looks unsurprised by my presence. She sits up, arches her back and rubs her eyes. Aided by the coffee table, she stands and walks toward me.
“You’re home,” she says. Her tone suggests she wishes I wasn’t. Her blue eyes are cold and expressionless, but I can still see the disappointment in them. Why does she wait for me? So I can see in her gaze how much I let her down? She leans in and gives the mandatory kiss. I close my eyes as her lips touch my cheek and wish for so much more than this formality. Mom turns toward the hall, pats my shoulder and heads off to bed.
So much pain, so little to say to each other. She used to yell at me when I was late. It still didn’t mean she cared, though. She was only worried the neighbors would gossip. These days she doesn’t even care about that.
***
IN MY BEDROOM, I CLICK the light on. The bed is unmade, inviting. It’s past 1 A.M. I should crash and get some sleep, so I can make it to school on time. But I want to check my probes, see if they found any unprotected servers when they scoured the web looking for vulnerable targets.
I kick an old motherboard out of the way as I make my way to the computer, shedding my jacket. I sit and rejoice in front of my rig. Three wide-screen HD monitors, the best gaming keyboard money can buy, a laser sensor mouse—all hooked to a blazing-fast, custom-made CPU. I smile, tap the keyboard and enter my password. The monitor in the middle displays a black screen with a few IP addresses written in white. I started the probe this morning, and it’s already found some vulnerable servers. I smile to myself. The algorithm is working. Of course. I’ll let it run a full twenty-four hours, and tomorrow I’ll peruse through those systems.
On the left hand side monitor, I start my heavy metal playlist. On the right, I log into the H-Loop and take a quick look around to see who’s online tonight. As I wait for it to load, I slip out of my leather pants and look them over. Several holes run from my thigh to my knee. Great, looks like I’m going to need a new pair. I’m reminded of Xave, so I throw the pants on the floor and push thoughts of my friend out of my head. I can’t worry about him. I won’t.
After I change into a pair of pajama shorts, I examine my leg. There are a few spots where it looks as if someone attacked me with a sheet of coarse sandpaper. In four different spots the skin’s split open, and there’s dark, dry blood caked on the wounds. Not too bad. Nothing some soap and ointment can’t take care of.
SMASH and Hazard-Us are logged into the H-Loop. Those two never seem to have anything better to do, which is sad because, for some reason, I imagine them as middle-aged men without real jobs. I bet they never take a bath.
$SMASH> Late night, Warrior?
I crack my fingers and begin to type.
$Warrior> Yep, just got in.
$SMASH> Ur outta luck, I’m off. Sleepy. L8r
$Hazard-Us> Night, sissy!
$Hazard-Us> What u been up to, Warrior?
$Warrior> Testing some new probes, u?
$Hazard-Us> Unleashing a few viruses here n there, fun stuff!
––––––––
HAZARD-US AND HIS VIRUSES. Doesn’t he get sick of doing the same thing all the time? I play along, though, tell him he should send me the code. He promises he will, but I know he won’t. He’s a script-kiddie. We chat for a bit before he hops off the loop. The cursor blinks next to my handle name. I need to quit staring at the computer screen and go to bed.
I’m about to log out when Mom screams. My heart slams against my chest. When the burst of panic passes, I sigh. I should have known she’d have one of those nights tonight.
In her room, I find her sitting up in bed.
“You okay?” I ask from the threshold. Light from the hall spills on her, revealing a pale face with strands of sandy blond hair matted to her cheeks. Sweat stains the front of her gray tank top in a V-shape.
She shakes her head in response.
“I’ll get you some tea.” I head to the kitchen.
I pour two cups of water in the electric kettle, open the tea drawer and select the Sleepytime variety for the both of us. Four spoonfuls of sugar later, I walk into Mom’s bedroom. Her bedside lamp is now on. Her room is tidy. She sleeps on one side of the bed, as if she expects Dad to come back one day. I wish she’d just use the whole stupid bed and stop reminding me of his absence. He’d be here if he could, but the dead can hardly make someone’s bed warm.
She cradles the mug between both hands and I sit by her side, holding mine the same way. We both sip quietly.
“Sorry to wake you,” she says, though her eyes are unapologetic, and still seem lost in the folds of her nightmare.
“I wasn’t sleeping. Just double checking my math homework.”
Her eyebrow lifts, an indication that she knows I’m lying. Homework has never kept me up at night. School’s too easy for my overactive brain. Besides, I learned long ago that marginally good grades keep you out of the spotlight, both ways.
My eyes gravitate to the picture on her nightstand. In it, Mom looks radiant with Dad’s arm around her and the ocean sparkling in the background. I stand in the middle, a toothless grin on my face, my chubby body stuffed into a pink bathing suit. Hard to believe I ever liked that horrendous color, harder yet to recall ever being that happy.
Dad’s wide smile gleams on his tan face. He was tall, handsome and strong, with deep brown eyes that inspired trust. I’m glad I look like him and love those rare occasions when I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror.
Back in those days, my brother’s kidnapping never weighed so heavily on Mom’s mind. Since Dad died though, it’s like she lost her grief compass and went off the deep end. While Dad was alive, she never lit an extra set of candles on my birthday cake and wept as I blew them out. Or told near-strangers she had two kids just to have them ask later why one of them was never around. Or kept a box under the bed full of baby outfits Max never had a chance to wear.
No, when Dad was alive, she was normal.
“We were happy then, weren’t we?” Mom asks, as if she’s read my thoughts.
The question makes me recoil. She knows I hate talking about it, yet she insists. Maybe to torture me.
“Yeah.” I slurp my tea and shift my body toward the door.
“I dreamed about Max,” she says.
I clear my throat. Let’s not go there, please.
“A memory, really,” she adds. “His tiny body whisked away, prodding needles, doctors. He was so small. Only three pounds. He never made a peep. You, on the other hand, came out ten minutes after Max, kicking and wailing.” She makes it sound as if I came out with two heads. I can’t help but wonder ... if I’d been the one taken away, would she hurt Max the same way she hurts me by saying stuff like this?
She must notice something in my expression because she adds, “You had a head full of black hair already, spiky and shiny.” This is one of the things Dad used to say when he fondly talked about the day I was born. The words sound empty on Mom’s lips.
“It still sticks out if I cut it too short. That’s why I keep it long,” I say, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. I don’t like where this is going.
Mom puts her tea down on the night table. Her hands fall to her lap, where she worries at a hangnail. Her eyes lose their focus and her expression grows pained.
Oh, no.
“When I saw Dr. Dunn at the hospital and then that horrible alarm shrieked, I knew what had happened. I told everyone, but they didn’t believe me. Not even your father. That man took your brother, Marcela.”
“I know, Mom.” She’s told me this story a million times, as if talking about it will make the outcome different.
My teeth grind, as her memories swim in my brain. They’re lodged in there like a splinter, as vivid as any movie I’ve seen on the big screen, as vivid as if they were my own. This is why I hate these conversations. They awaken these images, which have no business being in my head. I already have enough in there that doesn’t belong. They make me understand Mom’s pain all too well and, even if I never knew Max, his loss hurts. Every time Mom brings this up, the splinter digs deeper—so deep that I think it will split me in two one day.
I imagine Dr. Dunn as a balding, short man with small hands and Vienna sausages for fingers. He wears a spotless white coat over an equally white button-up shirt and dark blue tie. He smiles with thick, fleshy lips. He winks at me and my heart skips a beat.
Damn, my overactive brain. I shake my head. “Mom, uh, I think I should ...”
“Why would he take him? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Because he was a sick man, I want to say. Why else would he have tracked Mom’s pregnancy after doing the fertility treatments? Why else would he have stolen a newborn baby in need of neonatal care?
Mom clings to this hope that Max is alive somewhere. I know because one night she woke up screaming that she had failed Baby Max and now that he was a teenager, we both failed him every day by not bringing him to his real home.
Does she really want him growing up with that bastard? I want to shake her, ask her if she’s crazy. I pray to God my little twin brother didn’t survive after he was taken from his incubator. I pray he’s an innocent little angel with wings and a halo, floating on fluffy white clouds.
And like always, as I pray for his redemption, I think: it could have been me, that monster could have taken me.