Did God listen to anyone anymore? Maybe all along, the answer to “Please God, keep me and my mother safe and help my father to leave the drugs alone,” was a big fat, “No!” While Steven couldn’t understand that, he did understand that God helps those who help themselves. The only thing he could see was that his dad—angry, high, or drunk—helped himself to giving out an order of ass-whipping. And his mother helped herself to an order of take one, take two, why not take three. Steven could only help himself to a ringside seat in his favorite corner, and there is where the family togetherness ended. Another blow made Steven wince. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision. At one time, he had loved his dad. At one time, he had felt his mother was the strongest woman on the planet. Each fight proved him wrong and with each fight he felt more alone.
Fear kept Steven’s behind planted on the plush carpet. A carpet that barely hid the blood stains from the previous fights. A living room that had been almost spotless two hours ago, now looked like the before pictures in a home makeover series. Drugs had taken over what was left of his dad’s mind. But deep down Steven knew that drugs weren’t the real cause of his father’s anger. The one night when he yelled at the top of his lungs, “I gave up my hopes and dreams to support this family!” was closer to the truth. Hopelessness. Dreamlessness. They wouldn’t even have a family, if Steven weren’t there. Steven knew then that the fighting was his fault, but what could he do about it now. He was already there.
What was Mom’s excuse for staying? Of course it couldn’t be because Dad was so good to her or that he took care of their family. Well, to let Aunt Vinah tell it, at one time he was good to her. But as far as Steven could remember, that hadn’t been the case. Maybe someone had fast-forwarded through that scene before he could catch a glimpse. But God made other men, good men. Like his karate instructor. And his gym teacher! Good men. Kind men. Didn’t God give mothers a second chance when the first husband broke down like a used car in the middle of rush-hour traffic? Couldn’t they be traded in like cars? Or toys? Or refrigerators? Mom took that Kenmore back and got a new one—a better one with an icemaker, too. Didn’t that say something?
Mom was superwoman. Mom could make a week’s worth of groceries last a month. She could juggle bills like a pro. Mom could somehow pay for Steven to attend private school on a salary that said public school would do just fine. Mom could put a smile on even the meanest police officer’s face by making small talk. And Steven had seen that many times as she drove away without a ticket. Even he had known that speeding down Lake Shore Drive like an Indy 500 driver was against the law. He never complained because he enjoyed it. Yes, Mom could do all that and more. Well, except one thing. Leave! Yes, just one thing—leave and take him with her. Why did she stay with Dad when all he could do was hurt her? She was strong. Everyone knew that. Superwoman was always strong, right? She was super-woman. But how could she rescue Steven if she couldn’t even rescue herself?
The front door wasn’t made of kryptonite. It didn’t even have bars or a screen door. A few simple steps forward and both of them could run. Hide. Live. Smile. Dream. That’s all it would take, right? Just the two of them. Yes, that would be an answer to a prayer. But deep down, he loved his dad, too. Didn’t they have places for him to get well? Yes, rehab or detox, or something like that. But by looking at the rage in his father’s eyes, as sick as it sounded, it looked like he enjoyed fighting. There was no help for that; not even counseling. Steven could also see hatred. Not just hatred for his family, but hatred for life in its entirety, like life had done him wrong. If anything, Hector wasn’t getting it any worse than anyone else. He was learning life’s lesson, but he chose to learn the hard way. Even though Steven’s mother was his superwoman, he had been waiting on his father to become Superman. Steven could bet that it wouldn’t happen anytime soon, though.
The sudden stillness in the room made Steven hold his breath. Something had changed. The fighting had ended, but not the normal way—with doors slamming and sobs and swiping alcohol over blood-crusted bruises.
No, they were still standing. Facing each other. Oh yes, this time was different. Dad had changed the game. He held a small silver gun in his hands. Mom’s hands had yanked upward like a criminal when the police say, “Put ’em up.”
“Where’s the money, Bitch?” That voice, although spilling from his dad’s lips, did not belong to the man Steven once knew. And who was he calling a bitch?
Steven could barely recognize his mother’s voice, which came out as a frightened whisper, “It’s gone. I had to pay bills. We have to eat. We have to … live!”
Sweat and blood poured from Dad’s forehead as though a faucet had been installed at the hairline. “You’re lying. I want that money. You got paid today.”
What money? Her money? Mom was the only one who worked. Dad never had any money. Dad didn’t have a job anymore—thanks to his best friends—cocaine and crack. Now this scene was new—the gun and Dad hitting Mom up for cash? Or was it an old thing, and Steven didn’t know about it? If Steven had any respect left for his dad, he would’ve lost it at that moment. But Dad had a head start on that a year ago, and had done nothing to gain it back. Steven wasn’t sure the man even cared.
“You’re lying, Bitch. You always take care of that brat. You’ve got some money.”
Brat? When did Steven become a brat? And who gave his dad a gun? Who in their right, or even their terrible mind, would trust his dad with a gun?
“Hector, put the gun down and leave. Or just leave. I don’t have anything. You’ve been through my purse; you’ve been through all my hiding places. You’ve seen there’s nothing there.”
The gun lifted until he connected with the frightened woman’s temple.
Fear was instantly swept aside as Steven scrambled to his feet, leaving the safety of the corner. “Here, Dad,” Steven said, stuffing a trembling hand into his jeans’ pocket. “This is my allowance. You can have it. I—”
The sudden movement caused his father, and the gun, to swing in his direction.
Powwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!
White heat flooded Steven’s body. Pain spread from his chest to his toes and bounced back up to start all over again. Standing became impossible. Against his wishes, Steven lowered to his knees, barely seeing the stunned expression on his father’s face. But he could see that his mother had reached out for him, trying to catch him before he landed totally on the floor. She was too late.
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God,” he faintly heard his dad say over and over again as he hit his fists on the side of his head. See? He said God! The man did actually know Him!
“Steven. Ohhhhhh, my baby.” Mom’s sobs made her body tremble as she pulled Steven’s head into the soft curve of her breasts. Soft. Comfort. The living room swam in and out of focus. The world was fading. Slowly. Slowly. Who knew that at twelve years of age, Steven would lay there in his mother’s arms wanting more time to live, but not sure whether time was on his side or not.
He remembered his mother telling him, “Before we are born and come onto Earth we choose our parents, our life, and our death.” Steven didn’t believe it then, but he understood now.
She reached out, yanked the phone from the cradle, frantically dialing for help. His dad sank down to the floor by his side. Both of them looked down on him. The fight was forgotten and something else was more important than money, or pain. Steven. Finally, they saw him. Finally, they had stopped fighting enough to see him. See, God does answer prayers. God does listen to children’s prayers.
Know ye not that ye are Gods? He’d read that in the Bible. And if that were true, if Steven was God, he would give anything, everything, to see his parents as they were right now. Hands by their sides, his father concerned with someone other than himself, his next hit, his next high—they were together in at least this one thing.
“I love you, Mom,” Steven said softly to the woman whose hands trailed a painful path near his wound. Then he turned to the man whose pale skin,
thin lips, and wavy hair were a perfect reminder of his Mexican heritage. Steven struggled for breath, but did the one thing that God would want him to do. “I forgive you, Dad. And … if you love me … you’ll get some help. Get some—”
A single nod from his dad, followed by another, then another, needed no words to explain. With that, Steven Santos closed his eyes and prayed. The soft hum of his mother’s voice echoed in his heart and mind as he drifted into a peaceful sleep, hoping to awake and see that his dad’s promises were kept and his mother had become Superwoman again.
Steven opened his eyes halfway, then fully. The operating room had disappeared. He was asleep in a comfortable green chair, but noticed “the other Steven” still lying on a hospital bed in a coma. His reflection was on life support—several different machines kept tabs on how close he was to death.
Though he remembered how it all happened, the question now was how could it be reversed? And why was he hanging around like a shadow, a ghost, or something.
His attention was drawn away from his body to his parents talking just inside the entrance. For the first time in a long time, it looked like a civil conversation. No yelling, flying objects, or people getting hurt. He was surprised that they couldn’t see him; he wasn’t gone but he wasn’t necessarily “there” either. Somehow, someone would have to explain that to him and fast.