Mom stood and walked to the door behind Ms. Willis. Hector hung back near Steven’s bed. Steven watched, hoping that his father would, for once, remember that he promised to get help and would take the first step. Finally, Hector trudged to the door as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.
Steven turned to Michael and said, “I sure hate that I’m going to miss the conversation.”
“You don’t have to.”
“How can I leave?”
Michael drained the last of the pop. “Picture your mom and dad in your mind.”
Steven closed his eyes. Soon the sound of the machines and monitors became a faint hum. Steven jolted, feeling a strong urge to throw up before he opened his eyes. Michael was still sitting on his left, but the hospital room had now become a slate-blue painted office, with certificates on the wall, two chairs on opposite sides of a cherrywood desk with maroon carpet underneath, and slivers of sunlight peeking through the blinds.
Steven turned to Michael. “You could’ve warned me.”
Michael shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.” Then he looked down at the scene below.
Ms. Willis pulled out a file and notepad. “Okay, Mr. Santos, what seems to be the problem?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hector said defensively.
“I’d like to know what you think is going on with your family,” she said, glancing up from her notes. “Based on what I see, you should be in prison right now,” Kristen said, pointing to the bruises on Mom’s jaws and arms.
Steven was rooting for his dad to open up and let some things out. “Better out than in,” his Grandma had always said. Even though she meant it for passing gas, it had to mean other things also.
The silence in the room was cold and hard as the two women waited for him to answer.
Michael elbowed Steven. “Stubborn, isn’t he?”
“Shhhhhh!”
Hector glanced at Mom, then to the woman behind the desk. “I have—I have a drug addiction. I feel that’s what’s tearing my family apart. I need to work on that.”
“How long have you had this drug addiction?” she asked.
“Two years; going on three.” He felt so ashamed to say even the little that he had admitted, because it was painful for him to admit that he was wrong.
“What caused this addiction to form, and made you turn on your own family?” Ms. Willis asked, analyzing his every move, his every word.
“I was stressed out about not having a job and not being able to support my family.” Hector allowed his thoughts to stir and marinate in his mind. “Heather had to go back to work, and I still couldn’t find a job. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I started smoking weed to take the edge off. Then weed couldn’t do it—so I tried cocaine, then something stronger. And now I owe people for not paying.”
Mom gasped; her eyes widened in horror. Hector’s gaze fell to the window, though he couldn’t see a thing with the blinds closed.
Ms. Willis gave Mom’s hand a little pat, hoping to keep her quiet.
“My family seemed like they needed more and more from me and I still couldn’t find a job. Now what’s even more unbear
able is that my son’s on life support and it’s all my fault.”
“How is it your fault?” Ms. Willis asked, looking over Steven’s chart, as though this information was news to her.
“Last night, I was high and I came to get some money from Heather because I knew she’d just gotten paid.” Tears caught in his throat. “I wanted it so much and I was afraid that the drug dealers would kill me this time. She wouldn’t give me the money. I lost it and started beating her.”
Steven turned to Michael. “Yeah, that’s something that I saw happen almost every other day.”
This time Michael said, “Shhhhhhh!”
“Steven tried to give me his allowance, but he scared me by getting up so fast. I didn’t know he was in the room. Next thing I know, the gun went off and Steven was on the ground.” Hector lowered his head in his hands. “I shot my own son.”
Heather got up and ran out of the room, covering her face with tears. Hector had forgotten she was even there.