Places
I
wasn’t ready for Mom to die.
My cellphone buzzed while I was in
the newsroom. I didn’t recognize the caller. Probably another goddamn cable
salesperson, I thought. It took me switching to a new service before the old
one realized I existed. They wanted me back, but I was done with them like a
crazy ex. I ignored the call.
My cell buzzed again, same number.
Jesus, I thought.
I had little patience for things
these days like waiting in line, listening to people talk and dealing with
cable. My breakup with Marcela had me on edge.
“Hello,” I answered coldly, before
I would tell them to fuck off.
“Hi, is this Mark Vasquez, the son
of Cathy Vasquez?” the caller asked. He sounded Indian, but his English was
polished, like he’d lived here a long time.
“What? My mom? Who’s calling?” I
said.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m Dr. Dennis
Bhatt from Baptist Medical Center. I apologize for calling you like this, but I
have some bad news. Do you have a minute, Mr. Vasquez?”
Mom had been involved in a nasty,
multivehicle accident on the highway during rush hour, Doc said. It happened on
her way home from work. The driver, who witnesses said was swerving in and out
of lanes, crashed his truck into the passenger side of Mom’s Mazda. Both plowed
into other vehicles before an explosive stop into a guardrail. The driver died
on impact; Mom was in critical condition. She was on the operating table in the
ER, fighting for life. Doc said the driver was most likely drunk.
Only assholes drive drunk at 5
p.m., I thought. Maybe it was Dad.
“Come to the hospital soon if
you’re able. I wouldn’t ask you if this wasn’t urgent. We’re doing everything
we can to help your mother,” Doc said.
• • •
There was nothing they could do.
A body endures only so much before
giving up. Mom’s was shattered. Her lungs were crushed, her brain had
hemorrhaged. Oxygen flow stopped. She died just before I arrived.
I was her only family there. My
little brother, Sam, was in Minnesota. Mom’s one sibling, my aunt Lydia, was a
hippie-leftover somewhere in California doing God knows what. I doubt she could
ever be reached.
“Dude, is Mom OK? Are you over
there now?” Sam immediately asked when I answered his call. I’d texted him
driving over to the hospital.
It was weird hearing Sam worried. His voice
was usually monotone, distant. He’d smoked lots of pot in college. He reminded
me of The Dude from The Big Lebowski,
except without long hair. Sometimes I think Sam only finished college because I
did; he didn’t want the label of Underachieving Younger Bro, but he’d tell you
he couldn’t care less.
“She’s gone, Sam,” I said.
“Oh God,” he said softly.
There was a pause. I heard him cry.
• • •
I wasn’t in the room when it
happened, but I imagined Mom’s last breath sounded painful. I imagined it
gasped out of her broken body and evaporated into the air with the antiseptics
that filled the ER.
I imagined she would’ve looked at
me right before she went.
When I finally saw her, she was
unrecognizable. Her face was battered, swollen and green. Her long dark hair
was matted with dried blood. Chunks of her scalp were missing. Her arms and
legs were covered with bruises and lacerations. Her final moments must have
been torture.
I touched one of her hands. It felt
cold and foreign, like refrigerated meat. She’d done a lot with those hands,
like data entry at the credit union to barely make a living.
• • •
“Can you fly out tomorrow?” I asked Sam over
the phone.
“I don’t know man, maybe. I’ll have
to see.”
“See?”
“Dude, I’m gonna go, OK. Chill out.
I just don’t know when yet. I’ve gotta to talk to my boss. He’s a pain in my
ass, and work’s been nuts.”
I always challenged Sam, which he
hated, of course. But I didn’t want to lose him at this juncture, so I backed
off.
After college, Sam had interviewed
for a marketing and sales position in Minnesota. He got the job and couldn’t
wait to escape Texas. Three years and a promotion later, he was clearing a
decent salary. He’d bought a new Corvette and lived in a spiffy little condo
suited for his bachelor lifestyle.
The problem was his boss. Sam said
his boss only cared about accounts and the bottom line. If Sam were to ask to
take a sudden leave of absence, his boss would most likely give him shit, probably
threaten his future with the company. He was that kind of guy.
In the wake of Mom’s death, Sam’s
situation was complete bullshit to me, but I tried to understand. I always
tried. The Dude needed someone to give him breaks.
“Alright, well fly out this weekend
then,” I snapped. “We’ll figure it out when you get here. Mom ain’t going
anywhere.”
“Dude, don’t say it like that.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll let you know when I get the
tickets.”
“OK. Hey, one more thing.”
“What?”
“Quit that fucking job already,” I
said. “I think Santa has enough helpers over there.”
“Kiss my ass.”
• • •
Our last conversation had been on the phone,
maybe a week ago.
“How’s work?” Mom had asked me.
“Good,” I’d replied.
Good was my answer for most of Mom’s
questions when we chatted on the phone. I cultivated that response to keep our
conversations short and sweet. Everything was always good even if it wasn’t.
We’d do our real catching up in
person.
Our final conversation ended with,
“I love you.” On the phone or face-to-face, that’s always how we left off.
Even though we lived in the same
city, we sometimes went weeks without seeing each other. When too much time had
passed, Catholic guilt would get the best of me and I’d call her for dinner.
I sat in the waiting room and tried
to hear her voice in my head, the only place it would exist now. There was
maybe a home movie from when Dad was still around, but it was probably
somewhere collecting dust in a cardboard box.
• • •
Dad was great until he walked out
on us when I was 7 years old. He worked nights as a warehouse supervisor at
H-E-B and on his days off, he took Sam and me to the movies where he’d always
fall asleep.
Dad wrestled with us, took us
fishing and talked Mom into letting us stay up late on weekends, if we behaved.
He handed us tons of quarters at the mall arcade and taught us how to shoot
baskets.
I remember his red work polos and
his Tom Selleck mustache prickling my head when he kissed the top of it. Dad
was strong, quiet. He loved us, I knew.
I remember wanting to be just like
him.
• • •
When Dad was stressed out, which
was every day after he got off work, he’d come home and drink. When they were
still together, Mom sipped, but Dad drank.
For some people, alcohol brings out
aggression and hostility; others, silliness and stupor. With Dad, it was a
crapshoot. Every so often, his drunkenness plunged him into a dark world where
no one could be trusted. One wrong word and you were in his sights.
With somebody like that, something really
bad eventually happens.
One night when Mom and Dad had
decided to stay in—it was probably Saturday—there wasn’t enough countertop
space in the kitchen for him to place his empty Budweiser cans. They spilled
onto the floor.
Dad was in that dark world, and Mom
was his only target.
A shouting match ensued.
“You’re so fucking sloppy!” Mom
yelled.
Dad must’ve heard something worse.
“What did you say to me, you whiny
bitch?”
Things got physical fast. Mom
pushed him; he pushed her back. She slapped his face; he punched hers. She fell
onto the kitchen floor.
I was kneeling behind the sofa near
the kitchen to eavesdrop and watch. I had crawled out of bed after they’d woken
me up. I heard the hollow thud of Mom’s body hit the kitchen linoleum. I felt
the impact on my knees.
Dad stumbled out of the kitchen to
the front door. I was in the fetal position, terrified he’d find me. He opened
the door and slammed it so hard the whole house shook. I heard his truck speed
off and that was that. We never saw him again, at least I didn’t. I crawled
over to Mom, who was sprawled on the floor, bleeding from her head.
• • •
I talked with doctors and told them
I’d decide what to do with her later. I just needed out for a little while.
They said OK, do what I needed to do.
On my drive back to my apartment, I
thought about nothing.
When I got to my place, this smelly
dump with cracked and yellowed drywalls, grimy carpet pockmarked with
irremovable stains, my mind caved in. I suddenly felt terrible, lonely.
I grabbed my cell to call Marcela.
I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to hear her voice badly. But I
couldn’t.
After five years of what I’d
thought was a great relationship, I caught her in our bed with some blond
beefcake she’d met while working at the hospital. Marcela was a nurse and made
more than me, so I let her keep the quaint place we shared on the north central
side of town—the nice side.
“Have fun fucking John Cena,” were
the last words I said to her.
She said nothing back, only wept
into her hands.
I lived in a shithole I called my
own. I lived on ramen soup and Chef Boyardee. I lived like a champ.
• • •
I stood with Sam on the driveway of
the small, one-story home on Lucky Drive. The house we grew up in looked so old
to me, as it always had. As a kid, I remember being embarrassed by the bright
blue wooden panels—a light Mexican blue Mom had picked out that faded into a
lighter ugly shade each passing year.
The house would be left to me, of
course, but in that moment, I hadn’t yet thought about the finer points of
Texas intestate succession laws or even what to do with Mom’s body. Later, I’d
decide to have it cremated.
Sam scanned the pavement. I was certain
he was recalling all the one-on-one we’d played and how I whooped his ass every
single game.
“Has it really been three years?”
he asked.
“Yep,” I answered.
We stood in silence for a minute.
“So your boss was cool with you
getting away?” I asked.
“Hell naw. He gave me shit like I
told you.”
“And what’d you say back? Please
tell me you said something back.”
“I told him, ‘Kiss my ass, Kris
Kringle.’”
We both cracked smiles. It was the
best thing I’d heard in a while.
Then Sam reached into the front
pocket of his blue jeans and pulled out a joint and a Bic lighter.
“How the hell did you sneak that
onto the plane?” I asked.
“I didn’t, stupid,” he answered.
Sam held the roach between his
lips, cupped his left hand over it while he lit it with his right, then took a
long, deep hit, eyes closed, exhaled a cloud of white smoke into the warm
summer air.
Alex Z. Salinas
Tags:
Short Fiction