3volve (2 page)

“Oh no the boys,” I whisper and wipe my tears. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Have a safe trip Ms. Escobedo,” she replies.

I hang up. Looking over at Mr. Simpson, his hands clasped waiting for me to talk; I can’t get the words out. I know what I should say, but the words seem so wrong.
This is wrong
.

“Ms. Escobedo,” he urges, “is something wrong?” He hands me a tissue box.

“I…I…” I stare at the centerpiece trying to gather my words. Then the rush of everything built up over the last night comes pouring out, I feel myself about to get sick. I rush towards the door. “I need to go, I’m sorry,” I say grabbing my bag and heading out the door. I can hear his complaints as I run down the hall.

I barge into the bathroom, throwing up shots, shots, shots, damn tequila. I lay the back of my head against the surprisingly clean bathroom stall. Taking deep breaths to calm myself. After a few minutes, I clean up, wiping my tears and caked makeup off.

“Well, shit,” I say into the mirror. I grab my purse and stumble out of the bathroom. And I thought I was embarrassed when I walked into the wrong class my freshman year.
Pfft.
Nothing compared to throwing up at a job interview in my best friend’s office.

I walk back in a daze past the reception area. I can’t believe this is happening. I talked to them the other day. I feel tears starting to build up, instead of letting them fall, I push them back. The assistant calls for me, but I ignore her, pushing the door open.

I walk all the way back to the car, and see the driver seated inside reading a magazine. I open the door and sit inside, staring straight ahead without saying a word.

“Ma’am? I wasn’t expecting you yet.” He starts the car.

“I need to go home.” The words feel sluggish, like I’ve been screaming for too long.

“Yes ma’am,” he says driving out of the garage.

It’s not a very long drive, however with every block I can feel the weight of new responsibilities bearing down on me. I stare out the window trying to wrap my head around the news. They can’t be gone. They’re my parents. Our parents.
What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to handle this? I live on grilled cheese for crying out loud.

The car stops in my driveway, and I get out without a word. By the time I open the door to go inside, he’s already turning the corner.

Vanessa is already at work, and scruffy guy didn’t appear in the puff it took to leave. I strip off my suit and change into something more comfortable. Throwing as much clothes and essentials into my suitcase that can fit. I need to be strong for the boys.

I grab my phone and say, “Call Charlie” while putting it on loudspeaker. I throw important documents into my purse when he answers.

“Why if it isn’t the lovely Cristal calling. I’m still in a meeting, I’ll see tonight.”

“No,” I say my voice shaking.

“Ah, okay, hold on,” he tells me before notifying his business partners he needs a minute. “What can I do for you lady love?” he asks patiently.

“Charlie 911, I need you to book me a flight home ten minutes ago.”

“Sure thing, what’s the emergency? Is everything okay?” he asks worried. I can practically see his worry lines from here.

“No. I can’t go in to details right now because I don’t know much, it’s my parents. The boys are in school right now. I need to get there to pick them up,” I say in between short breaths. I can feel the acid in my stomach swishing around. I might actually throw up on a plane.

“Consider it taken care of. Do you need anything else?”

I gulp to keep from throwing up. “I need to borrow your driver again,” I tell him.

“He’s back on his way. I’ll text you the details. And Cris, whatever it is you can handle it.”

“I hope so,” I bite my lip.

“Be safe.”

“Be safe.” I hang up, running to my office to look for their school information, throwing papers into my purse as well.

I stop in the living room before leaving to do a mental check, making sure I have everything when I notice my answering machine blinking.

I push to hear the message:
Honey, hey! “
Mom,” I whisper.
You haven’t been answering any of my calls and I’m just checking on you. I love you. I’ll try your cell again.

I run out the door with my bags before I can process anything, more sweat than tears at this point.

The driver helps me with the luggage first, then hands me an iced espresso. “Mr. Caraway insisted you have a drink,” he says opening the door. Oh Charlie, he always has it all together when I’m such a mess.

“Thank you,” I hold the small cold can in both my hands. “I didn’t mean to just leave without thanking you for driving me,” I try to smile without barfing over his nice leather seats.

“You seemed to have a lot on your mind miss.” He closes the door.

He drives me to the airport and Charlie texts me the details of the flight. In times like these, I am grateful to have such an influential friend.

I drink my espresso in one gulp, settling my mind before rummaging through my purse to look for my day planner. Scanning numbers until I see the boys’ school. I dial and hope they aren’t as strict as they were with me.

“Good afternoon, this is Ms. Salazar, how may I help you?” A young woman answers on the other end of the line.

I choke back tears then say, “Hi, this is Cristal Escobedo. I need to speak to the registrar, or principal or someone who can help me with a family emergency.”

“What kind of family emergency?” she asks.

“A death in the family. I need to take my brothers out of school, but I’m probably not listed to pick them up. I…uh…really need to pick them up,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry to hear about that. What are their names? I’ll look up the information.”

“Jeremy and Jeremiah Escobedo,” I reply.

“I see the parents are the only ones listed for pick up,” she tells me.

“Right. They aren’t available, so I need to pick them up.”

“Then they should become available if they want to pick them up.”

I hold in all I want to say, all the anger I want to let out, simply saying, “They’re dead.” I feel a lump pass from my stomach all the way to my throat.

She gasps aloud, saying, “I’m so sorry. I will push this through, when will you be here to pick them up? I will pull them out of their classes. I just…I’m so sorry.”

“I’m about to get on a flight, I should be there in a few hours.”

“They will be in the counselor’s office. Again, I am sorry. My condolences,” she says apologetically.

I hang up and take another aspirin for my headache. I check in at the airport and board the plan immediately. Charlie may be a top-notch Computer Systems Analyst, but he would make a great travel agent if he ever decides to change lifestyles.

              When I board the plane, I don’t know what I expect, to have the plane all to myself. But I don’t, of course people have places to go just as much as me. I walk along the isle to a window seat, staring at the clouds passing by, I fixate on the sunlight rupturing the white puffy clouds, and my thoughts wander to Ma.

The last time I heard from her was on my answering machine. And a land line phone at that! If it weren’t for Charlie’s insistence of having a separate phone line, then I wouldn’t have heard from her. I’m the worst daughter in the world. I haven’t been home since Thanksgiving last year. I should’ve gone home. Mom kept calling to have me over for Easter and Fourth of July; I always said I was busy. I should’ve made more of an effort to come over more often.

“Excuse me, I’m really sorry, but can we switch seats? My daughter needs a window seat,” says a young mother carrying a pink camo car seat.

“Of course,” I say squeezing around them to wait for an aisle seat. And up above somewhere, the gods are laughing at my situation.

“Thank you so much! Everyone is just so rude on planes, like hello car seats are difficult,” she says pulling back the cord to fasten it tighter. She reaches over, gently touching my arm, and it’s a sincere gesture most people ignore now.

Her cold hand against my arm, somehow makes something click in my mind. I can’t remember what Ma felt like, or what she smelled like anymore. One day what if I wake up and she’ll be but a fading memory in the back of my mind. I will have forgotten what she sounds like singing in her rose garden:

Cada vez que yo me voy llevo a un lado de mi piel

Tus fotografía para verlas cada vez

Que to ausencia me devora entero el corazón

Y yo no tengo remedio mas que amarte

Y en la distancia te puedo ver

Cuando tus fotos me siento a ver

Y en las estrellas tus ojos ver

Cuando tus fotos me siento a ver

Chapter 2

I grab a taxi from the airport to downtown. The highways have improved, and the buildings have been remodeled. The city looks so much nicer than when I was growing up.
When did that happen?

I walk through the hospital following the instructions to go to the sublevel. When I get down there, everyone starts badgering me with information about this and that. On top of everything, their car was impounded after the accident. I follow their lead, signing on dotted lines. The cop who arrived on the scene hands me his card with the case number, and I stuff it into my back pocket.

Walking slowly towards them, I expect them to pull back the sheets and ask what took so long.

Morgues aren’t the best smelling places in the hospital. I keep telling myself this isn’t real—none of this is real—until I see them: their cold, blank faces. The richness that was once there is gone now. Shit just got real in the worst possible way.

Dad’s beard grew longer; figures, Mom couldn’t get this stubborn man to shave. If I didn’t know better, I would say he’s just sleeping—just sleeping off a long life.

I feel the buildup of a long flight and my hangover washing over my body before the tears begin to form in the corner of my eyes again. Ay papa, I’m so sorry

How can I do this without them?
I’m the screw up in the family. They are the saints—they
were
the saints. Mom and Dad should be here alive instead of me to raise the boys. I’m going to mess everything up. I can’t even clean my room or make anything other than grilled cheese. How does God expect me to feed teenage boys? Life’s cruel joke is like a punch to the throat.

I would shake my fist at you if I weren’t shaking with fear already.

I hover a hand over each their faces. “I won’t let you down. I know I’ve let you down before, but I won’t this time. I will try really. I promise.” I step back towards the door. When I open it, I look back one last time before leaving.

I swallow my fear and pain before calling a taxi for the impound lot.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The taxi stops outside the lot. A high-gated fence surrounds the property. “Wait here, I’ll be a few minutes,” I tell the driver, getting out.

The small office is in the front; a small portly man with red-rimmed glasses is filing papers behind bulletproof glass.

“Hi, excuse me,” I say, tapping the counter.

“Can I help you?” he says in a raspy voice—giving me another reason not to smoke.

“Yes, the cops told me I should come here to pick up effects.”

“You have the proof of ownerships and license?” he says, exasperated, slapping a stack of papers on the counter. He extends the drop tray and the shrieking against the metal grates my ears.

“I didn’t think I needed that.” I open my purse to get my wallet and hand him my license. “I have my license, but I don’t own the car.” Snapping my finger, I say, “Oh but we have the same insurance policy. I can show you on my phone,” I tell him, already pulling up my app.

“Look lady, if you don’t have proof, I don’t give you the car.”

I take a deep breath so I don’t make a hissy fit. “I don’t want the car. You can keep the car. I just want what’s
in
the car.”

He shakes his head and his glasses slide down a bit. “You can’t leave the car. You can’t get anything from the car. I need proof,” he maintains.

“And like I said, all I have his my license and insurance. It’s my parent’s car. I just want to get their belongings from inside.” I pull up my insurance policy on my phone and place it and my license into the drop tray.

              He grunts, pulling back the tray. The metal shrieking only gets worse. “I’m sorry lil’ miss. But this ain’t enough. They aren’t listed on your property. And you don’t have the same address. I need proof. I can’t go around letting people do anything all willy-nilly now.” He pushes the tray back.

              I stand there looking at this small man who is keeping me from getting my parents’ stuff: a man who uses words like ‘willy-nilly’—a man who is keeping me from picking up the boys. His smirk is infuriating me as he goes back to shuffling papers and typing one finger at a time.

              I slam my hands down on the counter, tears starting to well up. “Dammit! I have a right to get their stuff. We have the same last name. So what if they aren’t on my car, it’s all the same damn policy. It’s obvious we are related. Why the hell are you keeping me from getting in there!” I yell, slamming the drop tray shut.

              Tears are falling, those hard tears that shake your very being to the core. Then I remember the card. I reach into my back pocket and pull out the card with the police report the cop gave me at the hospital. I slam it against the glass.

              He jumps at the sound of my hand hitting the glass, shrinking with every word that leaves my mouth.

“Is this enough proof? Why don’t you call him so he can tell you how we’re related. And while he’s at it, he can tell you they died this morning,” I say, lip quivering.

              He takes off his glasses and rubs his hands over his face, defeated. “Okay. Okay. No need to get all riled up. I’m sorry lil’ miss. I’m just doing my job.” He buzzes me inside. “Come on in. We’ll get your things.”

I nod, wiping my tears on my shirt.

“It was dropped off not too long ago. They are investigating, but you can take your things.” He walks to another room and comes back with a large manila envelope. “We have to keep the car for now. They will contact you about the car later. Uh, of course, there’s not much of it left. So it will be up to you what you want to do with it. This is all they retrieved from inside.” He hands me the envelope.

It’s marked with only their last name and case number. They’ve become only a statistic now. “Thanks.”

I hurry back to the taxi before my bill gets any higher. As I drive home in the backseat, I open the envelope, peering inside. You can tell a lot by a person from how and what they keep in their car.

I slowly begin to pull out one thing at a time: my mom’s rosary, she always kept one in the glove compartment; a
santo
, Saint Michael, the saint of protection, which always hung on the mirror; and their phones. Guilty I didn’t answer when she called earlier I push them back inside.

Looking outside the backseat window, I focus on the passing cars and clouds. It’s comforting to see how the neighborhood hasn’t changed one bit. Families have started fixing up their homes, but they still hold onto their charm. The family on the corner painted their house bright orange and pink—gosh scream it at us why don’t you.

The taxi stops outside my house, and I pay him a huge chunk of change. Gathering my bags and their envelope, I take my time walking up the porch. The scent of her roses blooming in the autumn wind takes me back to my childhood. I sit on the porch steps. The blush of pink off the roses looks haunting now in the front yard. Mom always did love her garden the best. The rich colors and size of her flowers really showed how they soaked up all her love.

Leaning over to straighten the garden gnome, I grab my bags and unlock the door.

I drop my bags by the door, then collapse into cushions on the couch. The house used to have small rooms throughout, but now that’s all changed.

Dad kept bugging me to come down to see the house. The walls of the living room and main bedroom were torn down, so now the living room feels more open and alone all at the same time. I sink further into the couch; maybe I can fall through and escape to imagination land. I laugh at the thought and my laughter echoes through the empty room.

I stand up to pay tribute to Mom’s altar. I touch the crucifix she has on her altar. It’s a new plaster creation with
his
face imprinted in the center. I remember the day she called me to tell me she won it in a game of
lotería
. She was so excited; because everyone was jealous, she had a new sacred piece. It was as if the pope had touched it; it was so sacred to her.

I kneel down in front of the cross, lighting a candle for protection or whatever I’m supposed to do now—I don’t know why I feel the need. My brothers and I aren’t religious. I think it skipped us growing up, but at the same time, it’s always there. A warm presence following me, watching over me.

My phone rings, snapping me out of my trance. “Hello.”

“Hey, I’m in between meetings right now, so I don’t have much time. But I wanted to see if you’re okay. Did you pick up the twins already?” Charlie asks in hushed tones.

“Oh no!” I forgot about the boys still being at school. I look at the time. “I was running behind, but I’m on my way now.” I jump up in front of the altar to grab my car keys. Mom thought she was always so clever hiding them at the top, behind
la Virgen
, but I knew. I always knew. I smile at the thought of a warm memory of her. “I’ll call you when we’re settled.”

“Okay, be safe,” Charlie hangs up. I know he’s probably swamped with meetings all day, but he still calls to check on me. He’s such a good friend.

It takes me awhile to get my beat-up car started, but the engine finally turns over. I drive my beat-up Corolla to school, blasting Incubus in my poorly kept-up radio.

Man, I forgot how much my school looks like a prison. When they were building the school, did they stop and think. “Windows are so overrated, let’s do brick, brick, and more brick…and one window,” because if they did, they totally nailed it.

I shake my head and walk to the registrar’s office. I see Jeremy and Jeremiah sitting down reading comics, looking bored. I squeeze Jeremy’s shoulder on my way to the desk.

“Hi, I’m here to pick up my brothers,” I gesture to them sitting behind me.

“Oh yes, Ms. Escobedo. If you could just sign them out here.” She hands me a red binder. I have to stop myself from cringing at her overuse of perfume and eye shadow.

“Is there anything else I need to do?” I ask her, trying my best to hold my breath at the same time. Yup, I’m totally throwing up by the end of the day.

“We will need the…uh…
paper,
” she whispers, “but take your time.” She smiles cordially.

“Thank you.” I gulp, tapping the boys’ comics. “You guys ready?” I force the biggest everything-is-totally-great smile.

“Why are you here?” Jeremiah asks suspiciously. His eyes staring intently at my face, is making me fully aware of how red and blotchy it must be.

“Yeah, it’s not Thanksgiving,” Jeremy says, placing his new Batman comics between his textbook.

“Or Christmas,” Jeremiah finishes.

“Hell didn’t freeze,” Jeremy laughs.

“Pigs aren’t flying,” Jeremiah continues. They both high-five, proud of their twinness on display.

“Ay,
niños
, enough,” I tell them and kneel in front of them. I can’t take their stupid banter right now. I’m stuck with them, and they’re stuck with me now.

“Cris what's going on?” Jeremy asks, suddenly serious.

“What makes you think something is going on huh?” I ask, forcing my irritation deep inside.

“Because people look like something is going on.” He looks at me obviously annoyed with such a stupid question—teenagers.

“And you're here,” Jeremiah points out.

I sigh aloud, “You're right knuckleheads. Something did happen.” I silently prepare myself for telling them.

“Like what?” Jeremiah asks.

“You know what we haven’t done in a long time?” I ask them, slapping at their heads.

“Tell the truth,” Jeremy arches his eyebrows upwards.

“No, we haven’t—”

“Cris we aren’t babies,” Jeremy whines.

“Yeah, just tell us,” Jeremiah urges.

I lean down in front of them both, placing my hands on a knee. I try to think of how to tell them we are royally fucked. Either way I go, it won’t matter how I say it. I sigh, “I have bad news about Mom and Dad.”

I close my eyes to push back all the feelings.

“They're mad because you’re bumming around and can’t keep a job,” Jeremy says and they both laugh.

“Hey,” I say, seriously wishing I could smack them both in the head like Mom used to do. I pick up their chins so they're both looking at me. “I’m sorry kiddos. I really am, because life just isn’t fair. It’s totally fucked up.” I take a deep breath. “Mom and Dad were in an accident this morning and died.”

I see tears begin to flood their eyes, finally understanding how screwed we are. They’re stuck with me as much as I am to them. No more snickering and questioning, they both lunge towards me, pushing me back with their weight.

“I know. Let it out,” I stroke their hair, squeezing them tighter. If only I could reassure them it will be better—get better. But I don’t know if it ever does.

The counselor approaches us and places two folders on a nearby chair. “I am so sorry for your loss. You have a few days to handle your arrangements without being absent. Then you can bring them on Monday. If there is anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”