All You Get Is Me (12 page)

In a few minutes we arrive at the stand of trees, the impromptu forest. How could I not take Forest here? He’s named after it.

“Wow. What is this place?” asks Forest, his mouth agape, looking up through the trees.

“I don’t know. I think it used to be cleared ranchland and the rancher must have kept this little place intact so that his cattle had a place to stay cool and drink water. There must be a spring or something underneath us because I found some little pools of water.”

“It’s sort of like a natural cathedral, isn’t it?”

I snap a photo of Forest looking up at the shards of light streaming down through the trees. It looks a bit like he’s watching an alien spacecraft come in for a landing.

“How often do you come here?”

“Just sometimes. When I want to be alone.”

“Do you ever come at night?”

“No. I bet it’s supercreepy at night.”

“No, I bet it’s really cool at night.”

“Maybe.”

We hear a loud crack and follow the noise upward. It’s a hawk, taking off from the limb of a pine tree. He’s so close and well lit that you can see his giant talons lift off. Broken twigs flutter to the ground. His wingspan is enormous and he seems to fly so slowly, like a prehistoric bird in a film about dinosaurs. We can even hear the air rushing under his wings. I photograph him in full flight.

“Okay, that was pretty surreal.”

“It was, wasn’t it?”

We walk to the center of what I imagine to be a circle, where the moss is bright green and soft.

“Lay down next to me. It’s really incredible.”

We lie down next to each other, shoulders touching, and look up at the sky.

“You’re right,” says Forest.

He takes my hand in his. We stay like that for a while and then he rolls over and rests his head on his elbow, watching me.

“Roar, you’re about the most amazing girl I’ve ever met.”

“Get outta here.” I laugh.

“I mean it. I don’t know anyone else like you.”

“When do you have to go back to L.A.?” I ask, completely destroying the moment, like an idiot.

“I don’t know. I mean I do know but I don’t want to think about it.”

“I need to know how much time we have left.”

“Fair enough. I’m supposed to go back on August thirtieth.”

I do the math lightning quick. “That gives us six weeks.”

“Yeah. I guess we’d better not waste a moment.”

He leans over and kisses my neck. I close my eyes and let the light through the trees dance on my eyelids. Six weeks doesn’t seem like nearly enough time to get to know absolutely everything about someone. Plus, August thirtieth is my birthday.

Chapter 11

M
y dad arrives home late Monday night with a case of organic maple syrup and a head full of new ideas that he’s only too happy to share with me the next morning as he savors his first good latte in days. (I think he missed that machine a lot more than he missed me.) While my dad dazzles me with his discovery of eight new varieties of heirloom potatoes, I flip through the mail and make a small stack of bills in front of him just to remind him that we’re running a farm, not a potato museum. In among seed catalogues and a Slow Food quarterly, I discover a big manila envelope addressed to my dad. The return address says Ned Levine, Attorney-at-Law. Around here we call him Uncle Ned. He’s a lawyer by day and a banjo player by night. He lives in the next county with a woman named Arden who shaves her head and keeps honeybees. Ned looks about as much like a lawyer as my dad, which is not at all.

“Hey, Dad. What’s this?” I slide the envelope across the table.

My dad peers at the return address. “Oh, that must be the civil suit we’re filing.”

He says it like it’s an L.L.Bean catalogue.

“The civil suit? You’re going ahead with that?”

“Yes, of course. Did you think we’d just forget about it?”

“You mean Tomás and Wanda said it was okay?”

My dad tears the envelope open and pulls out a thick stack of papers. “Yes, they said it was okay. But the suit was filed in Tomás’s name, and Rosa’s, the baby. It’s better that way because Rosa was born here so she’s a citizen.”

“Wait, so Tomás can file a civil suit even though he’s not American?”

“Sure, anyone has access to our legal system. You don’t have to be a citizen.”

“So, what happens now?” I ask. All the moisture in my mouth seems to have disappeared.

“Well, Tomás lost his wife and the mother of his baby because Connie Gilwood was driving recklessly. They have a very good case. I’m pretty sure that the insurance company will want to settle out of court and the settlement will be enough for Tomás to go home and raise his daughter, and Wanda can quit her job at that factory farm where she’s exposed to pesticides all day.”

“Dad, are we doing a good thing here? I mean, it’s about more than the money, right? It’s about getting rights for the farmworkers . . . isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, Roar. The farmworkers aren’t disposable. You can’t just kill a human being and hope it all goes away just because that person isn’t in the country legally. There has to be some kind of retribution.”

“So, those papers are the same ones that are going to Connie Gilwood?”

“Yup, she’s probably reading them right now.” My dad tips his mug and drinks the last of his latte.

My stomach drops. I have to talk to Forest. He’ll think I knew all about this and I have no idea why I didn’t. It all happened right underneath my nose but maybe I was too busy sneaking around with Forest to pay attention.

It’s not that I don’t understand that this lawsuit is the right thing to do for Tomás and Wanda. I know that a settlement will make their lives better, but it won’t bring Sylvia back. My dad is doing something that’s rarely, if ever, been done. Mexican farmworkers just don’t sue Americans. I know that this lawsuit will bring a lot of attention onto us, attention I don’t want. My dad, on the other hand, lives for stuff like this. He’s been fighting for the little guy for as long as I can remember, and he usually wins, but I don’t know about this one. This one could be different. We live
here
now. These people are not like city people. They’re not likely to take kindly to being told what’s right by some hippie lawyer, fresh from the city, who now calls himself a farmer.

My dad gets up and puts his mug in the sink. “Oh, and another thing, you’ll probably get called as a witness.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, wide-eyed.

“It’s no big deal. You just go to a sort of interview and tell them what happened that day in your own words.”

“Why can’t you do it? You were there too!”

“They’ll probably consider me too biased to be a reliable witness. I’ve defended farmworkers in court. Don’t worry about it. It’ll be a breeze.”

My dad walks out the door whistling and leaves me sitting there, stunned. It’s bad enough that my boyfriend’s mom is being accused of wrongful death by my dad, but now I’ll be the one pointing the finger at her when the lawyer asks if the woman who killed Sylvia Rodriguez is in the courtroom. At least that’s the way it happens on TV.

I go upstairs and check my email. There’s nothing from Forest but there’s another email from Storm, who I’ve been neglecting terribly. She’s quick to point that out.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: I hate you

Roar,

This is the third (and final) email I’m sending you. I haven’t heard from you in days. Where the hell have you been? BTW, I’ve met someone, a ranch hand from Stockton. He thinks I’m nineteen. He rides bulls in his spare time . . . BULLS! My parents HATE him, naturally. Call me if you haven’t been abducted or something.

S.

P.S. Are you still extra-virgin?

I grab the phone and dial Forest’s cell. There’s no answer. I dial his home phone even though I don’t want to. It rings seven times and then a man picks up. Jerry, I presume.

“Hi, may I speak to Forest?”

“Did you try his cell phone?” He sounds annoyed.

“Yes, there was no answer.” I swallow, embarrassed at admitting that maybe Forest is avoiding me.

“Hang on.” He covers the phone and yells.

I hear a click on the line. “I’ve got it,” says Forest.

Jerry hangs up after sighing audibly.

“Hi,” I say quietly.

“Hi,” he says, same volume.

“Sorry to call you on this line but I really needed to talk to you.”

“It’s okay. We just got home.”

“From where?”

“The hospital. My mom took a bunch of sleeping pills.”

“Oh no! Is she all right?”

“She will be. The doctors say she’s resting comfortably, which seemed rather obvious to me, considering she just swallowed a handful of sleeping pills.”

“This is all my fault,” I say, pulling myself into the fetal position on top of my quilt.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t tell you about the lawsuit but I swear I didn’t know. No one told me.”

“What lawsuit?” he says, and I want to die.

“Um, look. We need to talk. Can you meet me at the tar pits?”

“When?”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll see you there.”

Unfortunately, my bike is in the shed so I have to walk past my dad and Steve, who are busy revolutionizing the world of sustainable farming.

“Where are you off to?” my dad asks as I ride past them on my bike.

“Just a ride.” I pedal like the Wicked Witch of the West, trying to avoid any more questions about where I’m going.

“If it’s exercise you’re after, you can bring the seedlings up from the greenhouse.”

“I’ll do it later,” I yell over my shoulder.

Why can’t Steve do that? Why is it that my dad always has some backbreaking task at the ready whenever he sees me without a tool in my hand? Has he forgotten our agreement?

As I bump along the road to the tar pits I try and sort out my thoughts for Forest so that I don’t come off looking hysterical. I take deep breaths and arrange my features into calm like the monks at the monastery, who actually
are
calm instead of just trying to appear that way.

Forest is already there when I arrive and he’s sitting cross-legged on the sand by the water, writing in his notebook. He turns around when he hears my bike on the gravel. He looks grim. I walk over and sit down next to him on the fake beach.

“I’m really sorry about your mom,” I start.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He puts his notebook in his book bag. “It’s Jerry. He lied about breaking it off with the receptionist. She called my mom at home and told her everything. Apparently Jerry has been telling her that he’s going to leave my mom and run away with her. I guess even
she
finally figured out that he was full of crap. She’s twenty, by the way.”

“So why would your mom try to kill herself over that guy?”

“I don’t think she was really trying to kill herself. I think she was just trying to get his attention. Anyway, she’s so messed up right now, I really doubt she’s thinking straight.” He runs his fingers through his hair.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” I look out over the water and swallow hard.

“So, what did you mean about a lawsuit?”

“Yeah, um. Tomás is suing your mom for wrongful death. She should get the papers today sometime.” I hesitate. “Or, that is, when she’s out of the hospital.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know, I just found out.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry.”

“I can’t.”

“Look, my mom knew that this might happen. I’m sure she wasn’t expecting all this to just disappear. I know it sounds crazy but now that someone is actually calling her on it, now that she’s not getting away with murder, maybe it’ll be okay.”

“Really, you think so?”

“I don’t know. People can go insane waiting for the other shoe to drop. You know what I mean? Guilt can make you do crazy things.”

“I guess that’s true. Do you think she’ll leave Jerry?” I scoop up sand in the palm of my hand and let it flow through my fingers.

“I hope so. She’ll have to work through it on her own. She used to be a really strong person, full of opinions and ideas. I like to think that that person is still in there somewhere.”

“Did you tell your dad what happened?”

“Yeah. He’s on his way out here. That should be interesting.”

“Do you think he can help your mom?”

“No, but he can do his psychiatrist thing on her and get her thinking straight. You should meet him. I want you to.”

“Okay. And, about the lawsuit, my dad says that your mom’s insurance company will probably settle and there won’t even be a trial. So it’s not like she’ll go to jail or anything like that.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.” I decide not to tell him that I’ll probably be called as a witness. I’ll wait on that little bombshell. He doesn’t need to know that today.

We sit there, side by side, for a minute, looking out at the dark water. An orange dragonfly hovers above the glassy surface, buzzing from one side of the pool to the other, touching down here and there. Finally, Forest puts his arm around my shoulders and I lean into him, sliding my arm around his waist. We stay like that for a long time.

Later, at home, I make my famous black bean chili and set the table for me and my dad and Steve. Miguel and Tomás have gone off to a bar where farmworkers gather to listen to Latin music and drink a couple of cervezas and unwind. There’s a real taqueria next door to it where they make Mexican food that tastes like the kind they get at home. The owners leave their Christmas lights on all year-round and the floor is covered in peanut shells.