Carry Me Home

CHAPTER 1

Ruth

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FOR THE MOST PART, I remember my childhood as dry weeds and dirt roads, warm sun and birdsong. The silky coat of a mare and filth of pigs in mud. Eighty acres of ranch land is an endless playground for any kid. And in those naïve years it was easy to ignore the beer on my father’s breath as I skipped off to fetch him another. My mother’s weepy eyes were nothing to question, because I didn’t know any better. But time chisels away that purity until there’s nothing left but truth.

Neither one of my parents is happy.

At seventeen, I’m ready to leave. The ranch of my youth is a wasteland of empty, overgrown pastures and rusting barbed wire fences. Much like their marriage, it’s tired and used up. There’s nothing left to give.

Tonight, the air feels heavy. I can smell the tension in the ever-present cigarette smoke. At first the rising pitch of their voices doesn’t bother me. I’m used to them fighting. But my heart seizes when I hear him yell, and when Dad’s words become a throat-scratching, red-faced shout, my sister, Lucy, sneaks into my room.

My bedroom has always been a sanctuary for her on nights like these.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. We just listen to the rage as it filters through the walls.

I’m going out there, she says.

Lucy...

If she were younger I’d stop her. I’d take her little-girl hand and lead her into the quiet closet like I used to, but she’s fifteen now, and there’s no stopping Lucy from doing anything.

My only choice is to follow her.

I find her frozen in the hallway, stiff-legged as a terra-cotta soldier. Mom is just as still, back pressed against the far wall of the kitchen. Dad’s bloodshot eyes are wide and crazed. Wispy pieces of thinning, grey hair have come loose from his short ponytail.

He’s pacing our living room, whisky glass in one hand, a rifle in the other.

CHAPTER 2

Mom

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NOTHING MAKES ME LOSE my footing like my husband’s anger. It’s rabid and irrational. I never know what will set him off.

Steve, I beg, eying the girls in the hallway. Just calm down, okay? I lick my lips as I watch him pace.

He doesn’t listen, but continues to rant in a drunken mumble as he looks for the keys to his truck. Thankfully, I’ve already hidden them.

"I’m gonna kill him! I’m gonna go over to his house and kill him! Put my family out on the streets? No way!" I’m not sure what he’ll do next so I shoo the girls back into their rooms with a sweep of my hand and a pleading gaze. For now, they obey.

We’ll figure something out, I say, although I’m just as upset by our new circumstances.

We’d been living in his brother’s house. It was left vacant after he decided to move in with his girlfriend, and it seemed like a nice upgrade. A much larger version of our modular atop a small rise in the property with a great view and a hot tub on the expansive deck.

Maybe you can buy me out, his brother offered, and we jumped at the chance, quickly renting our place to a local family.

Tonight the call came.

I need to move back in, Bro. Sorry, but I need the house back.

We had taken the news calmly at first, discussing our options, but when the whisky came out, the anger built until it reached a fever pitch.

We had a deal! As he cocks the rifle my heart goes still. I’m gonna kill him.

I clench my fists, trying to draw strength from somewhere. The sharp tips of my nails dig into my palms. Can you just put the gun down? You’re making me nervous.

If the younger me had known what kind of a man he’d become I would have never married him. His tall, lean body had bloated in the middle from alcoholism. The long blond locks I’d once twisted my fingers through had grayed and fallen out at the top. Tobacco-stained teeth contrasted his stormy blue eyes, which once captivated me. As I watch him rattle on about honor and ass-kicking all I see is a crazed lunatic.

Where the fuck are my keys? Did you hide them from me, woman?

I shake my head violently. No, I lie.

I’m calling him, he says, ripping the phone from the receiver. He can come out here and MAKE me move.

My heart catches as I get a glimpse of the girls back in the hallway. I shake my head at them, but this time they stay.

Please don’t call him, Steve. Can’t you wait ‘til tomorrow?

Without warning, he grits his teeth and hurls the phone in my direction. I scream as it sails across the room, barely missing my head, and hear it shatter behind me against the stone fireplace.

You’re against me too! he shouts. I respond with a shower of tears, which only makes it worse. Oh for Christ’s sake. Don’t overreact. He storms out onto the porch and I follow him, already apologizing. He stumbles a drunken waltz as he rambles, and I position myself toward the edge of the 3-foot high deck to keep him from falling.

And stop trying to control me, he says, wheeling around to point his index finger in my face. I’m the man in this family. I make the decisions.

I’m not trying to control you. I’m just trying to get you to calm down. You’re drunk.

Anger flashes across his face like a lit match. His out-stretched hands connect with my chest as he shoves me off the deck. I fall, and the full impact of my overweight body against the ground sends a sharp, radiating pain into my hip, but I’m fine. Shaken up, but fine. Nothing feels broken.

I breathe for a moment, shocked by what happened. He’s never pushed me before. I look up, expecting him to be just as appalled at what he’s done, but he doesn’t even stutter in his rant. As I rise from the dirt, I realize he’s crossed a line. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m not staying here.

When he finally passes out on the couch I make my decision to pack up. I’ve always promised myself, if it ever got violent, I would leave.

We can’t stay here, so go grab what you want, and do it fast, I tell my girls. They follow me to my room and watch as I pack frantically.

My older daughter wipes her freckled cheeks and jumps into action, whipping her long dark curls up in a ponytail and grabbing socks and underwear from my dresser. Her tears are a reflection of my own. She’s wanted to leave for a while now, but she’s scared. We both are.

Lucy sits on my bed and stares at me, unmoving. We can’t leave Dad. Where are we going anyway? she manages between sobs.

Good question. Where are we going? I have maybe a hundred bucks in the bank.

To Grandma and Grandpa’s, I decide. The kids just started summer break, so we were planning a visit in a few weeks anyway.

Besides, we’ll be safe there. My parents’ house is a very old, singlewide trailer in a terrible neighborhood in San Jose, but it’s weirdly peaceful. I can breathe and relax into the constant servitude of my mother, the unconditional support of their love. There is no need for money when I’m home, and I can take time to figure things out.

Will we come back? My youngest daughter’s large lips blush red. She presses them to her knees as she draws her long legs into her chest, and a sheet of dark blonde hair falls forward over her shins. She has my husband’s hair, not mine.

I don't know, Lucy. Just pack some stuff you’ll want, okay? We need to get on the road.

But it’s the middle of the night, she argues.

Sometimes I feel like she’s less mine, and more her father’s child. Just like him, she fights me on everything.

Please don’t do this right now, I whine, desperate for life to get out of my way. You can sleep in the car.

I’m not going, she yells, crossing her arms in defiance. Her lower jaw juts out in frustration, and I think I might evaporate into tiny particles of despair. I lean back against the floral wallpapered closet and slump to the floor, too overcome by my moaning sobs to respond. It feels like I’ll die in this chasm I’ve built for myself.

You’re such a brat, Lucy, Ruth counters, coming to my defense. She’s my other half. My balance. The one to step in when my weaknesses take me over, and I can’t be the mother I should. The one to defend me when I’m down, to worry when I’m reckless, to nurture her sister when I’m too drunk or gone gambling.

Lucy jumps to her feet, the tougher of the two, and pushes her older sister in the chest. Shut up.

Don’t fight! Please, I cry, desperate to keep the peace. It sends me into another fit of tears I can’t control. You’ll wake him up. Please.

The mention of their drunken father shakes Lucy from her stubbornness, and after a moment of quiet I feel her next to me.

It’s all right, Mama. Don't cry. Lucy pets my frizzy brown hair like I’m a sulking puppy. I'll go.

Ruth leans against my arm and lays her head on my shoulder.

Okay, come on now, I say, breathing deep and fighting the cigarette tar in my lungs. I'll stop crying. No more fighting. We’ve got to go.

As I stand, Lucy eyes the bedroom door and bites her lip. Maybe I could stay with Dad.

He almost killed Mom tonight, you idiot. Ruth’s face contorts at the thought, her tall wafer-thin frame tightening up with anxiety. We can’t stay here.

He did not! The phone hit the wall!

"That’s not the point! He threw it. It just missed her!"

Whatever, she says, rolling her eyes and throwing a half-packed duffle at her sister’s stomach. It’s just because he’s drunk. He’s not like that all the time. He’s never hurt any of us.

I’m determined not to break down again. Pack up and stop fighting, I seethe through clenched teeth. He pushed me off the deck, I hear myself repeat over and over. He pushed me. Thank God I didn’t land on a limb or my head, but that wasn’t the point. He pushed me. I’m done.

* * *

It’s been a long night. I can hear the soft snoring of my teenage daughters finally asleep in the backseat, their faces flushed red under the sheen of dried tears. Even so, the silence is deafening, everything muffled through the mountains of clothes, blankets, and food that are tightly packed into my small silver Toyota. We’ve been in the car an hour. I’ve driven away and come back. Parked in front of our house, I haven’t been able to do much more than sit.

I start up the engine, turn it off again, and stare out at the shadowed branches of sagebrush illuminated by my headlights. Over and over I weigh the cost of leaving. My fat cheeks sting and crack under tracks of tears. They just come now, endless rivers snaking past my lips, and I know they’re not because of what happened, but because of my inability to act.

As I think my way through the night, each minute feels heavier than the last. I’m a coward, sitting here in my packed up car, afraid to drive away.

He was just drunk, I think. He didn’t mean it.

I pull the visor down and two tiny lights brighten my puffy eyes. A night of tears has worsened the state of my already drooping skin. I was beautiful once, but that woman is gone. My cheeks are large, folding into a double chin on the bottom. The freckles across my nose are no longer cute, but aging. Stress has managed to frazzle my once silky curls into frizzy waves that can’t be tamed. I’m so lost to myself I don’t even recognize the brown eyes staring back at me.

He told me I was lucky he stayed with me. No one would want me, too fat.

You’re lucky I feel sorry for you. A divorce is too expensive so you’re lucky.

And I believe him. I am fat and ugly and will probably be lonely for the rest of my life, but this? He’d gotten violent. He pushed me.

I glance back at my sleeping girls for strength and close the mirrored visor. My hand turns the key for me. The car starts, and I take a breath through my nose. I glare at the dirt road in front of me, dust dancing through my headlights.

I’m never coming back.

CHAPTER 3

Lucy

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SUMMER NIGHTS IN THE barrio are always hot. My grandparents live in the trailer park in San Jose. Their mobile home is tiny and reeks of vitamins and urine. It traps heat like a greenhouse. The filthy brown carpet dirties my bare feet on the bottoms, and the walls are brittle and hollow so no one ever truly gets privacy. I’ve been sleeping on the floor of the living room, on an air mattress with Ruth. It works for me, because tonight I’m sneaking out. If Mom can just pick up and leave, so can I. It’s only been two days, and I already need out of this tin box.

I normally spend summers here. I’ve grown up with the girls in this trailer park, playing hopscotch and riding bikes around the circular drive. Over the years, hopscotch turned into makeup parties and flirting with cute boys at the mall. I haven’t been here in months, though, so I’m anxious to see what my friends are up to.

The house has been quiet for half an hour, but my sister took forever to fall asleep. I’m fifteen minutes late to meet Rosa at the street light on Jackson Ave. so I have to be quick. I trade my pajamas for cut-off jean shorts and a white half-tank that shows my flat stomach. My dark blonde hair is staticky from the air mattress so I lick my palms and tie it into a tight ponytail, flattening all the strays with my spit. I find Mom’s makeup bag at the foot of my blow-up bed in her green duffle. The meager light shining through the cracked curtains helps me light up her compact mirror enough to draw on thick black eyeliner and apply a heavy layer of mascara. Then I’m out.

The glass door slides roughly along its track, but I do it slowly and listen for anyone stirring. Nothing. I grab the blue zip-up sweater from the back of my grandmother’s armchair and inch the door closed again. I’ve never snuck out before. My heart doesn’t know whether to feel good or freak out. I ignore it either way and jog through the warm city air toward the street.

Rosa is where she said she’d be, waiting with another girl I don’t know. I wave and slow to a walk.

Hey Rosa, I say, breathing hard.

Fuck, Guera. She puts her hands on her hips and her large hoop earrings swing beneath her gelled black curls.

I smile at the nickname she has for me. It’s Spanish for white girl. It started as a joke between us, but has turned into my name.

What’s up?

Fucking late. And don’t call me Rosa. It’s Ro now.

I’ve known Rosa for years, but something is different about her this time. The amount of makeup she’s wearing makes her look older, and the way she says fuck so confidently makes me feel like a child. I study the way her lips are stenciled with the same liner she’s drawn into her eyebrows to make them perfect. Next time I’ll do mine that way.

Sorry, I say, crossing my arms so I can check how badly I’m sweating.

This is Leti, she says, but she’s not even looking at me. Her eyes are wandering as if she’s keeping lookout.

Leti nods. Her dark brown ponytail is tighter than mine, but her ears stick out and her teeth aren’t straight. I might not be as pretty as Ro, but I’m prettier than Leti.

Give me that sweater, Ro says, unzipping it from my body. We can’t wear that shit around here. Black, gray or white. No blue.

I don’t question her. Okay. Cool. She pulls it off of my arms and throws it over the fence, into the hedges of some stranger’s street-side house.

Come on, we’re already late.

Ro leads the way to the pizza parlor around the corner.

Marcelo’s is the hot new place to meet up, but we’ve been coming here ever since we stole all that change from the community Laundromat a few years ago. I smile as I remember us hauling a hoodie full of quarters all the way here and hiding in the booth seats to count it.

Inside it’s dingy. The once white linoleum is scuffed grey and all the cracks are black with dirt. Nobody seems to care. There are a lot of people here for this time of night. Mostly school age kids and a few sketchy adults who might be homeless.

I sit on the red pleather booth seat while they order, because I can’t speak Spanish. It feels awkward to be sitting alone, so I pretend to tie my Converse sneaker. When I look up, there is someone sitting across from me—the cutest boy I’ve ever seen. Milk chocolate skin from being in the sun too long, thick black lashes around large green eyes. His dark hair is spiked and there is definition in his shoulders. He has to be a senior in high school or maybe he graduated already.

He cocks his head, looks me up and down. What up. I’m Angel.

I start to sweat. There’s no AC in this back alley pizza oven. What am I supposed to say? Hi. My name’s Lucy. You’re hot and I’m fifteen.

Hey, Angel. What you doin’ here? Ro scooches me over with her hip and slides a slice of pepperoni toward me. Thank God.

I dab at the grease with a napkin, but don’t take a bite.

Just saw some fine ass sittin’ here lost and alone. Thought I’d come and take a bite before she got snagged up by some scavengers. He looks to the left corner where there are a group of boys playing rough and being loud.

Ro laughs and Leti follows. So where’s Toño?

He shrugs. He’ll show. He had a few things to handle.

Right. Well my pad’s hooked up tonight so we got a place to kick it, Leti says, smiling and bumping elbows with Ro.

Mom’s out on the poles again, huh, Leti? Angel smirks.

Shove it, Angel. You know I hate that shit.

Hey, there’s nothing wrong with some female entertainment, honey. He winks at Leti and glances at me as if judging my reaction to his charm. My eyes dart the other way.

On our walk back to Leti’s house, Angel keeps close to me. He grazes my arm with his while I listen to them talk about people I don’t know. Even though it’s late, the city is never still. Traffic lights buzz above us as we pass, cars creep slowly by, slinking around in the night. The summer air is warm enough that I don’t miss my sweater, but I still get goose bumps when Angel brushes by. Leti’s blabbing his ear off, but I can feel his eyes on me even though I don’t look.

Leti’s house is another tin box in the trailer park, only I can tell her mom is trying to make it feel like a home. It’s tidy and there are plastic flowers in the center of their beat up formica kitchen table.

Leti takes Angel’s hand and pulls him toward her blue corduroy couch, leaving me at the doorway. I stand awkwardly, clutching my elbows to cover my bare stomach. Ro takes a few beers from the fridge and passes them out.

You want one, Guera? she asks.

I glance at Angel who is tickling Leti on the sofa. Um. No. I’m good. I never liked the taste of beer.

It takes me a few minutes, but I finally manage to sit down without feeling like I’m interrupting something.

Where the fuck is the music up in here? Leti leans over me to flip on the radio by the armrest. I wanna dance.

Reggaeton music blares from the small speakers, and I wonder for the first time tonight what the hell I’m doing here. My grandma hates this kind of music. She talks about how rude the neighbors are for blasting this stuff all the time. Just as I’m about to get up and leave, Leti flings her long dark ponytail in some sort of spiral dance move and sloshes her beer onto my lap.

She laughs like it’s hysterical and keeps moving, grabbing Ro’s hands and pulling her into a salsa tango.

Angel is the only one who reacts. He grabs the doily from the easy chair armrest and pats my wet shorts with it. I freeze, too shocked, excited, and terrified all at once to move.

He shakes his head. That girl is loca, he says, so close I can smell the mix of beer and cologne coming from him.

Yo, yo, yo! The door busts open, and Angel jumps up as another older guy walks in with a bottle of vodka. An-to-ni-o in the house!

What up, Toño. Angel gives him knuckles and some other weird handshake while I sink deeper into the couch.

This new guy is tall, like 6-foot. He’s dark like Angel, but not as cute. The diamond stud in his right ear glints in the trailer light as he looks at me. Neither of us says anything.

Ro’s scream makes me jolt. Its high pitch is still ringing in