The bottom bunk is empty. I look up top, to see if maybe Mom is up there, but that one is empty too. Her bag is gone. All our stuff is gone. Ani is gone. The only things of ours still here are our blankets.
I grab one of them and roll it up under my arms. Mom does this sometimes. I don’t really understand it. But that’s okay because there are a lot of things I don’t understand. I walk outside and let the door close behind me. I don’t bother trying to be quiet anymore.
The lady in the hallway sits at the front desk. She’s on her phone, giggling to someone on the other end. When she sees me walk past her, toward the doors, she tells whoever she’s talking to, to hold on. “Excuse me, kid. Where are your parents?” she asks.
“My mom is outside,” I say.
“Doors are locked. There’s no going in and out past ten.”
“I’m not coming back in tonight,” I tell her, and keep walking.
She gives me an odd look, but I’m not her problem, so she resumes her phone call. I open the front door and head out toward the parking lot.
I hear the music. I hate this part. Even though there’s no one else in this parking lot, Mom has the music on so no one can hear her crying. But I’ve heard her cry so many times that I can always hear her through the music. Sometimes she slams her hands against the steering wheel. Sometimes she just leans her head against it. Sometimes she cups her face in her hands, muffling her cries.
There are so many different ways she cries at night. And I dislike them all. People talk about how laughing is contagious. And how yawning is contagious. But crying is contagious too. I think she sneaks off to the car to be alone and cry because she doesn’t want me to think she’s not as strong as she wants to be. But that doesn’t make sense to me, because I don’t think crying is weak. I think crying is just something that needs to happen from time to time. Like how Mom calls our car a horse. Horses need water to travel us around, so we stop and get gas. The mechanic is like the horse doctor; he checks our car out and fixes it so we can keep it alive. I think crying is like taking the car to the car wash. It needs a cleanse. A fresh start. My mom is just washing her mind. Rinsing away all the sad thoughts and making it clean for tomorrow. I wish she didn’t have to clean her brain as much, but it’s not a weakness.
Why doesn’t she know that? I’m twelve, and even I know water washes away the dirt. Physically and emotionally.
I’m close enough to recognize the song she’s playing. It’s the same song she always cries to. “End of the World,” by Skeeter Davis. It’s about the world ending, I guess, but Mom says it is about missing someone you love. And when Emjay’s gone, she feels like it’s the end of her world. She misses him so much. I don’t, though. I breathe better when he’s away. This song makes me hold my breath. I don’t hear singing or guitars or piano. All I hear are Mama’s tears.
I open the door and climb inside. She immediately turns the music down and begins to wipe the tears off of her face. I see Ani is on her lap. I wonder if she was crying too? Mom places Ani in my arms, and up close I see some glisten in her eyes. Yep. Cries are contagious not only from person to person, but dogs can catch it too.
“Why aren’t you sleeping, kiddo?” she asks, leveling her voice to hide the lingering moisture in her words.
“I could ask you the same thing, young lady,” I reply.
She smiles. Another pair of tears jump off her eyes and land on her cheeks, streaking down toward her chin. “I just needed some fresh air.”
Yeah. In a stuffy car? Nice try. “It’s okay, Mama. Everybody cries. Even Emjay,” I say.
And as his name leaves my mouth, Mom’s tears return full force, invading her face. Charging south down her cheeky hills. Her mouth opens. She lets it out. More than she’s ever let it out in front of me before. I watch in awe. Or shock. I don’t know how I watch. I just watch. My mom is crying. She’s erupting. She’s exploding. She’s … Oh no, she’s hyperventilating. I open the glove compartment and pull out one of our many brown paper bags and hand it to her. She grabs it and begins breathing in it. “I’m sorry,” she keeps saying.
“It’s okay,” I repeat, over and over again, but she doesn’t hear me. She keeps crying and talking and breathing into the bag.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Opin. I’m failing you and your brother,” she says between sobs.
“You can’t fail unless you quit. Remember? You told me that,” I say.
“Look at me. I can’t even give you a home. I can’t even keep us all together. Emjay hates me. You deserve better. I’m a horrible mother.”
“No, you’re not! Don’t say that!”
“It’s true! What am I doing? How did this happen? I’m such a—”
“STOP!” I shout, which catches her off guard. She stops mid-cry. “Just stop!”
We stare at each other for a few seconds. The tension is heavy. Heavier than a buffalo. But neither of us move, like we are both afraid of it charging us.
I need to say something … “You’re not a failure. The cavalry has been after us for a long time. And have they caught us? No. Have they split us up? No. Because we’re winning.”
“Look around, Opin. We live in a car. You have duct tape on your shoes to keep them from falling apart. Everything we own fits in a trash bag. Does this feel like winning to you?” she asks.
“You always say tough times make tough people. And to not worry, because there’s a light at the end of this tunnel. But for that to be true, that means the tunnel we are in must be dark. It’s supposed to be tough. That’s how battles are. It won’t feel like winning until we’ve won. We can’t let the cavalry catch us, Mama,” I say.
“Opin. You’re a strong boy. Stronger than I ever was. Stronger than your brother. And the way you feel everything … It’s special. But it’s also painful. I know how much you love me. And I know how much you love Emjay, even when he’s not a good brother to you. That’s what makes you strong. But if you want to live a good life and have a good future, you need to be nothing like me. You need to not make the mistakes I made. I felt too much, too. I used my heart when I should have used my feet. I should have walked away from a lot of things.”
The strongest person I have ever known is right in front of me, telling me that our life up to this point has been a mistake. What does she mean? Leaving Dad? Was that a mistake? Running from the cavalry? Teaching me how to survive in a world that tried for hundreds of years to kill us? What was the mistake? “What are you saying?” I ask.
Her face is soaked with tears. “Everything you see me do. Do the opposite. Everything I tell you and everything I believe, believe the opposite. I’m wrong. I took my shot and missed. The cavalry have me surrounded. I’m all out of arrows, Opin. But if there is any good that I can give you, after everything I am putting you through, let it be this … I am teaching you how not to live. I am showing you the wrong way to do it. I can feel good about showing you my failure, so you don’t ever have to experience yours.”
“You said this is just temporary. You said we will one day have eleven walls. Were you lying?” I ask.
My hands are trembling. I’m not cold or hungry, but still they tremble. All ten fingers. Both palms. I lock my hands together to secure them and hold them against my chest, but that only makes my body tremble. I don’t know what I’ll do if Mom tells me this has all been a lie and we’ll never get a home.
“I wasn’t lying. I was trying. But maybe your dad was right. Maybe Emjay is right. Maybe I’m just not good enough,” she says.
She never mentions my dad. All I know about him is that he was not a good person. “If you’re not good enough, then I’m not good enough. Because you made me. All of me is half of you. Am I not good enough, Mama?” I ask.
Mom rolls down her window and exhales all the pain and confusion out of her lungs and into the night air. It looks like a stream of skinny white ghosts escaping.
“You’re a kid. Kids are supposed to have childhoods. I spent all this time trying to protect you, not realizing what I am really doing to you,” she says.
“Which is what?”
“Robbing you of your childhood. You’re supposed to have friends, ride bikes, scrape your knees up, and see a damn dentist once a year. You should be getting grounded for having bad grades,” she says in a half-laughing, half-serious tone.
“You can’t say these things. You can’t say it like it’s never going to happen, because then it won’t. You can’t just give up, because if you do, then I have to. And I can’t give up, Mama. I have Ani now. I promised her all the things you promised me,” I say, and hate the fact that my eyes are beginning to sting.
I don’t want to cry. I can’t. Someone needs to be the up to all this down. That’s usually her job. She’s the light in this dark tunnel. That’s her job. She can’t just quit her job. But the more she sinks into these bad thoughts, the more the light dims. And I can’t let that happen, because then we’ll both be trapped in this tunnel forever. We’ll be stuck in this darkness.
“Sometimes promises break, not because you dropped them or weren’t careful enough, but because you held them too tightly,” she says.
“No! Promises aren’t stupid eggs, Mom. They don’t crack because you squeezed them too hard. That’s just you feeling sorry for yourself. I get it. I feel sorry for you too. I feel sorry for Emjay and Ani and me, but then I get over it. Because it doesn’t help. It’s just too heavy to carry. So let it out if you need to, but then let it go. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of being scared and sad and worried. You made me a promise, and you’re going to keep it. I don’t care how many cracks it gets. It’s not breaking,” I say, and fold my arms, facing forward.
There’s a long silence. And I’m not trembling anymore. I’ve never spoken to Mom like this before, but for some reason, whatever I said made my body stop trembling. And, surprisingly, made Mom stop crying. She’s facing forward, like me. We’re both staring at a concrete wall. We can either see the wall as a dead end or we can see the wall as just another obstacle in our way that we need to bulldoze through. It’s up to us.
I notice a word in graffiti tagged on the wall in black spray paint. Mom notices it too. It says Monster in cursive. Some gangster’s street name. Someone should tag Cookie in front of his name. That would be funny.
“You believe in monsters?” she asks.
Her tone is back to normal. Her words are dry again. Whatever I said to her helped her.
“I don’t know. I guess so,” I say, wondering if I actually do or not.
“You’re a kid. You’re supposed to believe in monsters.”
“Do you believe in them?” I ask.
“Yeah. I married one,” she says, and just stares at the word on the wall.
My dad is a monster. Does that make me half monster? I hope not. I bet she’s afraid of Emjay growing up to be a monster. I don’t have the heart to tell her that he’s already well on his way to becoming one. If I told her that, we’d just be right back to her believing she failed as a mother again. Maybe she thinks he’s not a monster yet. Just a bad egg full of cracks. Maybe she’s terrified of what is going to hatch from the bad egg. Will my brother be a monster, like our dad, or will he become a good person, like her?
I guess I have to believe in monsters. I’m the son of one. But before he could hurt us, she packed us into a car and escaped. Still, it seems nowhere is far enough away. Maybe monsters are everywhere. Some are dads that are supposed to love you, but don’t. Some monsters wear uniforms and carry guns. Some wear suits and try to split families up. Some are landlords. Some are mothers who won’t let their daughters pet a cute puppy.
Maybe the world is full of monsters.
What a scary thought.
“Tomorrow will be better. I promise,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
“You think so?” she asks, and wipes her tears away.
“I think so,” I say, and lean my upper body against her. My chest rests on her chest. And even though I’m not a baby anymore, I know she needs to hold me like I was one. Moms need that sometimes. It’s her way of protecting me. And it’s my way of protecting her.
I cradle Ani in my arms and close my eyes. Mom and I both slowly lower the backs of our seats. I wonder if Emjay is sleeping in a bed tonight. I wonder if he wonders if we are.
We were close to it. Darn close. The beds were right there. They were ours for the taking, but sometimes sleeping in a car with your mom when an empty bed is twenty feet away from you is more important. Not as comfortable, but more important.
Opin, the youngest and bravest Native American warrior, rides along on his loyal red horse, Pinto. By his side is his fearsome wolf, Ani. They exit the forest and enter a clearing of green grassy hills. Opin’s home is just over the hill.
Opin stops. In the distance, a thin black line of smoke travels toward the sun. Bam! Bam! Bam! Opin hears gunshots ring out.
“Nimaamaa!” he shouts out for his mother.
His eyes harden. He grabs an arrow from his quiver and loads it into his bow.
“Gizhiibatoo!” he shouts for his horse to go as fast as it can.
The pinto gallops at full speed toward the smoke. Ani lets out a howl and races beside them.
When he rides over the hill, he sees many of his people being loaded onto a large white truck by armed US soldiers. A truck? But trucks weren’t invented yet! That’s okay. This is a dream.
On the side of the truck is a large American flag. Under the flag, in big bold letters, it reads SEPARATING FAMILIES SINCE 1786.
Opin sees homes on fire. A few of his relatives lie on the ground, not moving. Grandma? Grandpa? Uncle? Aunt? Neighbor?
What have they done?
Opin charges, releasing arrow after arrow, dropping soldier after soldier. Some of the soldiers return fire, but Opin is too quick. Some of the soldiers are in suits, shouting, “Child Protective Services” as they fire. Some are in uniform, not shouting at all—just shooting. Some are dressed as priests, shouting, “If you don’t accept Jesus as your personal lord and savior, then you cannot park here!” Some of the soldiers are Opin’s previous landlords shouting, “Eviction! Eviction!” But no matter who they are dressed up to be, Opin knows one thing for sure. Opin knows if he is going to survive another day, he has to defeat these monsters. And he nearly does, until …
The general, a monstrous-looking white man with a comb-over and heavy gut aims his rifle and fires. BANG!
Opin’s horse, Pinto, is hit and collapses, sending Opin hurtling into the dirt.
Ani rushes to his aid.
“Drive!” the general shouts.
The truck races off, filled with Opin’s people. Opin knows their fate. They are either being sent to a reservation, a residential school, a jail, or a foster home. All of which are death sentences for Native American kids.
Just then, Opin sees his brother, Emjay.
“Wiidooka!” Opin shouts for his brother to help him.
But instead, Emjay grabs Ani by the back of the neck and carries her over to the general.
Emjay and the monstrous general laugh as Opin finds himself all out of arrows. He is heartbroken that his brother switched sides and now works for the enemy, the cavalry.
The general lifts his rifle and aims it at Opin. “You have no home. No horse. No family. Not even a dog. I should just put you out of your misery now,” he says.
But before he pulls the trigger, an arrow rips through the air and slams into the general’s chest. He stumbles back and hits the ground. Ani turns her head and bites Emjay’s hand, causing him to drop her. She runs to Opin, who turns to see his beautiful mother, Inde, holding a bow. “Animibatoo!” she shouts for Opin to run.
Opin and Ani run to Inde, but Inde doesn’t run yet … She and Emjay have a moment, staring at each other with pained eyes. “Indaashaan, ningozis,” she says, calling to her son to come here.
But Emjay doesn’t move his feet to join them. He just whispers no to her: “Gaawiin.”
The general gets up and aims his rifle to shoot, but Opin, Inde, and Ani ride off on their injured red pinto.
The general pulls the arrow out from his heart.
“Are you okay, Dad?” Emjay asks.
“Right in the heart. Good thing it doesn’t work. If it did, I’d be dead. Now, be a good boy and go find them. Bring them back,” he says to Emjay, and shoves him forward.
Emjay begins to walk, alone, in the direction of his family, now homeless, following the trail of blood from the injured red horse.
My eyes fly open, and I sit up. I’m still in the car. I’m breathing hard. My sudden jerking wakes Mom, or maybe she was already awake. My arms are wrapped around Ani. I feel the sweat on my forehead. I feel my heart still galloping in my chest.
“They almost caught us,” I say.
“It was just a bad dream. Go back to sleep,” Mom says.
I close my eyes again.
But it felt so real. As real as real life, like at any moment this too could all be a bad dream I’ll wake up from. Maybe in real life, I’ll be in a large, comfortable bed, under a fluffy blanket, in my very own room, in a house, where Mom will be standing over me to see if I’m okay. I’ll tell her I had an awful dream. A dream that we were homeless. And she’ll laugh at the impossibility of that. Then I’ll feel silly for even dreaming up such a far-fetched idea.
“Look around you, what do you see?” she’ll ask.
I’ll get up and count the walls. Four in my room. Four in the living room, where Mom sleeps. Three in the bathroom. I’ll rush back to my room, hop over Emjay’s bed, where he is still asleep, and dive back into my bed. Mom will tuck me in and fluff my pillow while she awaits my answer.
“I see eleven walls,” I’d say.
“Eleven walls, plus us three, equals what?” she asks.
“Home,” I say.
“That’s right. You’re home. Good night, Opin.”