Tap Out (16 page)

I've thought of this ever since I was little, when she'd be passed out or smacked around. In my vision I was always stoic, shutting her eyes like they do in movies. I wouldn't cry but pack my bags and wait for the police. They'd come and someone would take me away.

Now, I don't feel any of that bullshit. This is my mom, and I'm fucking scared, but I have to look. I have to find out. And if she's . . . Fuck I don't know what I'm going to do.

I move the light over her.

I can't make out her face. Everything's cast in shadow, but it's more than that. What I can see is wet, swollen, and dripping. There's an opening that could be her mouth, but it doesn't sit in the center of her jaw. She moans again, and I steady myself by biting my tongue. I touch her shoulder. Hot blood sticks to me. “Mom? What happened?”

She doesn't respond. I'm not surprised, and for a moment wonder why the fuck I even asked. But a bubble of blood forms over her nostril and I know. I'm a scared and stupid pussy whose mom just got fucked up by her boyfriend. I don't care how much the lighter burns. I keep the flame going and lean close to her. “You'll be okay,” I say as close to her as I can without the tickle of gagging pulling at my throat. I slide my hand across the bed and find hers and squeeze.

She breathes. That's all.

“I'll be right back.” I stumble over the shit but make it to the door. I hit the steps just as Rob's walking past.

“Yo, you're bleeding.”

My hand is still coated, and I've smeared it across my shirt and pants. “Mom's.”

Amy pulls up beside Rob, and her eyes pop wider.

“I need a phone.”

Amy nods and tosses me her cell.

“Your mom?” Rob's voice is barely audible through the pounding in my head.

I flip open the cover, nod, and punch 9-1-1.

“Nine eleven?” Rob steps closer.

“Yeah.” I spit the word. Isn't it fucking obvious?

He puts up his hands. “All right. But . . .” He looks over his shoulder, comes back. “You should ask for two.”

The phone connects, I shrug.

“Char's back and she needs help.”

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

My mouth freezes. I know the answer. I know to just tell the dispatcher that I need help and to give her the address. I don't even need to say any more and the cops and ambulances will be here. But for some reason I can't speak. When she asked me, “What is your emergency?” I thought:
I'm trapped.
There's nothing she can do to help with that.

W
e roll off the bus and instead of going directly to my trailer, I head to the mailboxes, this giant, metal birdhouse-looking thing out by the manager's office. It's been two weeks and her jaw's healing, all wired shut, but Mom's thinner than ever. Her ribs are mostly solid and most of the swelling is reduced. It's just inside, the internal bleeding as the doc said, that's taking forever to dry up.

I fish out my key and slide it into the lock. Every day the envelopes multiply, fucking bill after bill. I stuff them into my back pocket without looking to see who they're from. Like it fucking matters. There's no money to pay a single one. I already used my cash from the deal to cover the ambulance and some of the ER shit. Rob watches. “When she getting out?”

“Don't know. Maybe next week. Maybe longer.”

He clears his throat though, and I know what's coming. He's been good, hooking me up with some food and grocery stuff like soap and toilet paper. But I know him, and it's only a matter of time before he starts lecturing me about what I gotta do next. That's his fucking thing. I respect it, but fuck, I'm limited.

“So tonight, I think it'd do you good to come back. Coach Dan does too.”

I close the mailbox and walk on, almost laughing to myself. “You told him about
this shit
?”

“Some of it.” Rob curls his hoodie closer to his head.

What'd he leave out? The fact that she didn't press charges? Or that Cam's walking around bragging about how he keeps his woman in line? Or that the whole fucking park got to watch the show while I talked to the cops and tried not to lose my shit? Did he mention Charity? Did he even go
there
?

“Tone, you all right?” Rob's voice brings me around.

“What? The fuck you talking about?”

“Yo, you were just breathing heavy and shit.” He steps in front of me. “Seriously, you need to come back and burn that shit off.”

“What shit?” I sidestep.

“That anger.”

I spin. “What, I don't got a right to be angry?”

“Not saying that.” He throws his hands up. “You need to use it, that's all.”

This is exactly what I thought would happen. He'd turn all dad-like on me. “How the fuck you know what I need? You dragged me to that fucking game. I would have been here.”

Rob screws up his face and fills his chest. “So it's
my
fucking fault?
I'm
responsible for what happened to your mom? That's fucking whacked, Tone. That's fucked and you know it.” He pauses, then says, “Like you being here woulda changed anything. Cam woulda put you in the hospital with your mom.”

He's right. No doubt about it, but I don't fucking care. I'm just sick of this shit and don't need him telling me how it is. Like I don't fucking already know.

But I lunge at him anyway and we hit the stones, my
breath catching on impact. I stay with the fight, though, and reach for Rob's head. But it's like the fucker's greased, sliding under every grasp, and in a second he's off the ground and on me. His bicep clinches around my neck. “Let it go, Tone. I ain't your problem.” I flail and pull at his arm but know it's useless. I go from mad to on the brink of tears and tap twice. He lets go.

The blood filters back from my head, and the sensation tingles along my neck. I rub my eyes to keep the tears in and we sit. Rob looks off into the distance. It's just so hard, all of it.

“It's just fucked, Rob. Without her working, we got no money. Worse than before. Nothing to pay the regular bills. And now . . .” I pull the envelopes from my pocket. “How the fuck we gonna pay for all this medical shit?”

Rob shakes his head and doesn't say anything.

“We were fucking broke before, but now we're just fucked.” I read the return address:
Saint Coleman's Medical Center
.

“Too much shit, man. Your mom. Charity.” Rob's voice is low. “Un-fucking real that her dad did that. Just let his supplier . . .”

Rob doesn't finish and I picture Char from that night, like a zombie. Twenty pounds lighter and all from brain loss, just nothing upstairs. The track marks explained. She's damn lucky that she drifted outside the trailer when Rob and Amy were coming by. She might still be gone.

“I don't know.” Even as I say it, I know I'm lying. If my dad had had the opportunity, he would have pawned me off. Few of his friends that came by were extra nice, with candy for sitting on their laps and shit. I can't think about this now. I push myself up. So does Rob.

“Tonight then? For real? Cuz you can't say you don't need it.”

I nod. “Yeah, but Coach Dan's still down, even though I walked out and didn't do shit to fix his truck?”

“Why would he think that?”

“Huh?”

Rob just looks at me in that way he has, like he is old enough to be my dad. Some better version of him. It takes me a second but I get what he means. I turn away because the tears are back, and I don't know what the fuck to say.

“Your list of I-owe-fucking-yous just keeps growing.” He laughs and slaps my back.

“The fucking truth. All right, swing by at six.”

“Done.”

I didn't need to lie to CPS this time. Since I'm seventeen, they don't give a fuck if someone's home or not, and by the time they get to the paperwork I'll be eighteen. They did help with getting the power back on. I only had to spend one night without heat or light, but it isn't like that hasn't happened before. Cam cut the wire. Somebody on a job site must have told him how to do it and not get electrocuted. Wish he'd missed a detail or two. But when CPS saw that, they got someone on it without looking at our bills.

I set the mail on the counter with the rest, only to watch it all spill into the sink. The air still reeks as well, even after two weeks. I closed her door after the police were done and then cleaned once I had hot water, but in spite of all my scrubbing, working three towels to a frothy pink, the stench lingers. Just like the image of her. All of it etched into my head like I've been fucking branded.

I hit the fridge and pull out some bologna and cheese I
snagged from the hospital. I crook the bottle of fruit punch into my elbow, the one I stole from the corner store, take all to the couch, and eat my dinner.

The bell chimes and guys look up. “There he is!” Phil's on his feet in a second, popping up from a stretch. Amir follows.

“Big Tone. Tony the . . .”

Phil holds up a hand. “Don't, man. Don't finish that fucking sentence.”

Amir blushes and laughs, pounds fists with me. “Sorry, it's just so perfect.”

I go to answer, tell Amir it's all right, but Phil puts me in a headlock. “Good to see ya. Where the fuck you been? Laying some pipe? Huh?”

I'd like to laugh but can hardly breathe. I know Phil's playing and all, but Jesus fucking Christ he's strong.

“What's going on out there?” Dan's voice is as crisp as always, and Phil releases my head. I tense and wait for our encounter.

But Coach Dan extends his arms wide. “Tony! The second half of my personal pit crew.” He walks over and raps my back, his knuckles like a hammer. “Glad you're back.”

I wasn't expecting this. Rob said Coach understood, but that didn't imply he was going to be nice to me. I'm not sure what to say and look for Rob, but he's off talking to Phil and Amir. “Thanks, Coach,” I manage and look away, but Coach Dan grabs my shoulders and squares me to him.

“Rob's kept me in the loop. I'm sorry about before. That wasn't fair. Had I known . . .”

I nod but can't look at him.

“I'm also sorry about your mother.”

I don't answer. Can't. My throat seized the first time he said sorry.

He leans to my ear. “Big O and I have been talking, too. We're all on the same page. Don't worry, son, we'll make sure this doesn't happen again. That warrior in you is coming out.”

I could melt into a fucking puddle right here and not give one fucking shit about what anyone says. Coach Dan has no idea how much I need his words to be true. And if he can do what he says, I'll owe him even more than I owe Rob. I swallow and manage to say, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Now, go stretch.”

I join Phil, Amir, and Rob and they seem to understand that I need some time to let this settle in. They don't ask me shit, just stretch, and soon I match their positions.

Coach Dan's clap brings me around. “Tonight we're going to cover some stand-up fighting. A few of you have matches in a week, and while I know you are solid grapplers, you all need work on striking.”

I completely forgot that Rob's fighting his first match in a week. I'm a terrible fucking friend.

“Go get your gloves and then everybody but our three fighters, against the wall.”

Rob turns to me. “I got two pairs, hold up.” He goes to his bag, comes back, and tosses me his old pair. They're worn down at the knuckles and reek of sweat, but I don't give a shit.

“Thanks.”