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After the funeral on Monday, the week has been strangely calm. Realizing I’ve nothing to share about Luke, Mom left me alone. The few times I’ve seen her, she’s been filled with anxious energy, jittery like a rocket ready to blast off into space.
Tuesday, she started to tell me about the social worker handling “Max’s” case. When I showed no interest in her efforts to reach out to Luke—a name she refuses to use—she was upset for a millisecond, then the glow of more important matters than me filled her eyes again. She’s too far up on cloud nine to notice her insignificant daughter. Her indifference has reached an unprecedented level.
That was until this morning, when she said I had to skip school to go with her to the child protective services office. She informed me that today Luke would hear the truth about his abductor. The social worker would then ask him if he’d like to meet his real family. Mom wants to be there, waiting for him to come out and meet us. It seems she expects him to come running into her arms as soon as he hears the news. I wonder if she’s considered the possibility he might not?
I wait in my room, reading in bed. Gently, I hold Dad’s copy of a Neruda book of poems between my hands. Dad’s full name is written on the first page in his beautiful rolling script—Marcela Victoria Guerrero is spelled in my third-grade, blocky letters right underneath.
I treasure the book, treasure the words of the poet my father so admired. He grew up reading Neruda’s work with Grandpa Roberto. They both liked him for his skill with words and for the fact that Neruda was from Chile, Grandpa’s homeland. This book has love poems, mostly. The rich language and word-play challenges my mind. Every time I re-read them they evoke different feelings and conjure new meanings.
My foot shakes nervously. I don’t want to imagine how Luke will react, so I shift my thoughts to James and his crew. As promised, Aydan sent me the code he used to hack my system. The jerk did it to boast. There’s no other explanation. Not when he named all his routines things like “ProbeKiddieCode,” “ChildsPlay,” and other condescending stuff like that.
The program told me a lot, especially the fact that leaving a way to access my own system remotely—a feature I used only once—was monumentally stupid. It also told me that Aydan is a thorough, methodical, smart son-of-a-gun. Man, I can’t wait to show him up. I hope I get a chance. Other than Aydan’s code, I’ve not heard another peep from IgNiTe, which is oddly comforting and disquieting at the same time.
Putting down the book, I heave a sigh and decide to check my email for the hundredth time. I push away from the bed and sit at my desk. I’ve been so bored that when I notice a new message from sender IgNiTe, I double-click it in a rush.
James, Aydan, whoever, has sent me a small challenge. The message is encrypted. I relish the game and the tiny clues they’ve given me to help solve the puzzle. It takes me fifteen minutes to crack the message. When I do, I’m almost disappointed.
Answers. Saturday night. Midnight. The bar.
A knock at the door startles me.
“It’s time,” Mom says.
I cringe at her beaming smile. Doesn’t she realize this won’t be easy?
“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks.
Ripped jeans. Boots. Tight olive t-shirt with black strokes of the Chinese symbol for “serenity.” Yep, that’s what I’m wearing. What does she expect? A skirt? A grin full of teeth?
“Luke’s seen me a thousand times, Mom. He won’t recognize me if I go in disguise.”
“I don’t understand your attitude,” she says, turning on her heels and clip-clopping down toward the kitchen. She wears a dress I’ve never seen before. It’s white and it hugs her slender body tightly. A thin black belt encircles her waist. Her normally straight hair curls at the tips and bounces as she heads for the door.
My feet shuffle forward. I give myself time to build some patience. When I enter the kitchen, Mom waits with a hand on the knob of the open back door.
“Hurry, Marcela. I don’t want to be late.”
We ride in silence, a silence loaded with Mom’s expectations and my dread.
She thinks Luke will be delighted to learn he has a family.
I think she sees the world through rose-tinted glasses.
The question is: who will be proved wrong?
***
WE SIT IN A CLAUSTROPHOBIC office, waiting. I’ve been staring at a dusty plant in the corner, sure it’s fake or it would have choked by now.
The door opens. Mom and I look up.
“Mrs. Guerrero?”
Mom jumps to her feet, a nervous smile on her lips. For once her expression seems to match the situation.
“Mrs. Peters.” Mom shakes hands with the social worker.
“Luke was here,” Mrs. Peters says, a cautious expression on her lean face. She’s petite, with a pixie haircut and long lashes.
Mom’s smile holds and she doesn’t seem to register that Mrs. Peters used the past tense.
“I explained the situation in full detail. He took the news very well, in my opinion. However ... he has decided to take some time to let it sink in before considering a meeting with you. I’m sure you can understand.”
Mom’s face breaks into a thousand pieces. “Why? Why doesn’t he want to meet me? Did he agree to do the DNA tests? They will prove I’m his mother.”
“You have to understand this is a very difficult time for Luke. I warned you this could happen. The best thing we can do is give him time to come to terms with everything.”
“I’m sure if I could just talk to him, he would—”
“Mrs. Guerrero, this isn’t something we can rush.”
“But he’s alone, and he doesn’t have to be. He has a family. Besides, he already knows Marcela. They’re friends. I think this is ridiculous.” Mom sounds like a spoiled child. I hide my face behind my hand.
Mrs. Peters sighs. “I assure you he’s well taken care of and I’m certain he will come around. We just need patience. I’m sorry. Your eagerness is understandable, but Luke’s wellbeing should be the priority. For all of us.” She says the last few words with emphasis, reminding Mom that Luke should be her priority as well.
Before Mom can say anything else, Mrs. Peters extends a hand forward. “I’ll be in touch with you.”
Mom looks heartbroken, her face a clear indication that the situation isn’t computing in her brain. She can’t fathom why Luke doesn’t share her eagerness. She sees only her gain and not his loss. I feel sorry for her, but more sorry for Luke.
Her eyes cloud over and I shiver. She will probably start walking like a zombie again and the nightmares and box under her bed will renew their scheduled program. I’d better make sure we have enough Sleepytime tea at hand.
***
IT’S FRIDAY, AND I’M late for class. I speed-walk down the hall, turn the corner in a hurry then freeze. Luke is standing by the door to my classroom, waiting.
For me? He looks up and his blue eyes sparkle with the answer. Yes, he’s waiting for me.
“Hi,” he says.
This is the first time I’ve seen him since the funeral, since he learned the truth. The anger I expected to find on his face isn’t there. What I find in its place is something I have no name for. There’s too much there. Confusion. Disappointment. Doubt. Sadness. Hope?
“Can we talk?” he asks.
He doesn’t wait for my answer, just walks away, knowing I will follow.
We get into his Land Rover SUV and drive away from school without saying a word. I inhale the brand-new car smell and think of awkward things not to say.
After a few blocks, he parks the car by Boeing Creek. A man plays Frisbee with his dog, several joggers run on the outlining path. We watch them through the windshield.
“At the funeral, you already knew, didn’t you?” Luke asks.
“Yes,” I murmur.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wasn’t my place.” I’m staring at the glove compartment, and even if it grew teeth and threatened to bite me, I wouldn’t tear my eyes from it.
“And you left it up to a stranger?”
I can’t argue with that one. He’s right.
“You should have told me.” An undercurrent of anger rides his tone.
“I wanted to, but I wasn’t ... brave enough,” I admit.
Luke chuckles. I look his way, surprised. He seems genuinely amused. “You weren’t brave enough? That’s a first.”
His amusement dies and he lowers his eyes, lost in a new thought. A curtain of golden lashes hides the sky-blue of his gaze. “Don’t do that again, okay? If we’re to be in this together, just tell it to me how it is. I promise to do the same.”
I’m not in the habit of being open and neither is he. I guess he intends to change that. That should be interesting.
Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “They say that since I’m only sixteen, I can’t live alone. I’m staying with a foster family. They’re all right, but it’s weird,” he says.
Outside, the Frisbee flies across a patch of white clouds. The golden retriever jumps high in the air to catch it. Sharp canine teeth flash for a brief instant before they snap closed. It feels as if they just pierced through the fragile membrane of my reality. I know where this is going. Luke lived by himself with that man, no mother or other relatives in the picture. I guess that explains why no one came forward when “Dr. Smith” became an overnight dad.
“They said I could move in with you.” Luke clears his throat, as if the words left a lump there. “What do you think?”
“I ... um ... it’ll make Mom happy.” My answer sounds forced and shallow, but I don’t know what else to say. It’s the truth. Yesterday, after Luke refused to meet with us, Mom went back to moping and fell asleep in front of the TV following one-too-many glasses of wine.
“I’m asking you, Marci. What do you think about it?”
“I don’t count. Haven’t for a long time.”
My skin tingles. I can feel his eyes scrutinizing me, trying to figure out what I mean. I stare at the cloud that looks like a broken heart.
“No one else counts. Not to me,” he says.
I find myself examining his face, trying to figure out if this is the same person I’ve known since kindergarten, wondering if I ever really knew him. His usual pretense is gone, his words are straightforward, sincere. I guess he does intend to change things.
Is it possible that, like me, he puts on a different façade to hide the real Luke? If so, maybe this affair will turn out all right.
“Well,” I say, “I think it would be ... awkward.”
“Amen to that ... sister.”
Slowly, a smile stretches across Luke’s lips. His eyes twinkle and the smile grows into a grin, which turns into a hearty laugh. Soon I’m laughing with him. And we hold our stomachs, like five-year-olds tickled by a silly joke. When our giggles die out, the air between us feels lighter and full of possibilities. I have a brother and maybe there’s still hope for our broken family.