Breaking the Cycle (4 page)

G
OD
D
OES
ANSWER PRAYERS

J.L. W
OODSON

The beeping noise hummed under the sound of frantic voices. Consistent, like a dripping faucet, it wore on Steven’s nerves.

What is that noise? Steven opened his eyes. People in green, blood-covered hospital suits stood over him with surgical tools, preparing to do something to his body, but he didn’t know what. He could hear them faintly, and their faces were covered with bright white masks so he couldn’t tell male from female, or doctor from nurse.

All he could really hear was that consistent beeping noise from the heart monitor. And then it happened. The beeps became slower, slower, slooooooower. His twelve-year-old heart was slowing by the second.

Steven still hadn’t realized that, somehow, he could see everything perched from his spot right above the operating table. How did he get there?

“What are they doing?”

It looked like they were trying to save his life or something, but he wondered how that could be when he felt fine. “He’s bleeding out. Get the clamps,” one of the nurses yelled.

He scanned the room—green tiled walls, bright white lights, and extra surgical equipment stood near the bed where his body lay on the white sheets. A flutter of activity took place near the upper part of his body as nurses passed tools, followed quick commands, and overall moved in synchronization as though this entire act were a dance.

For some strange reason, they were still trying to save his life, but they actually walked straight past the “real” him. A glance to his left found his mother and father both crying behind a large plate-glass window. His father’s face radiated shame, while his mother kept on banging on the glass, mouthing the words, “Save… him… please.”

Who was she talking about? She couldn’t have been talking about him. He was sitting up, feeling fine, and watching everything. Steven’s face wrinkled in confusion, until one of the doctors lowered the window shade, blocking out the view of his parents. Steven slowly glanced behind him, and shock exploded from every corner of his mind. His own reflection glared back at him. He looked exactly like the Steven he remembered and, at the same time, looked nothing like the Steven he had been for twelve years.

Jumping further away from the table, he soon hovered in the upper corner of the room as questions whirled in his mind. How could that be me? I’m standing right here. It was painful to see himself lying on an emergency room table as doctors feverishly worked on his body, trying to get his heart back to a normal speed. Now he knew the reason for his parents’ tears. But how did he get like this? How did Steven end up on that table? Steven wasn’t in a gang, so that couldn’t have been it. There were no accidental shootings at school that day, so that was out of the question.

Steven was startled by the loud beeping sound, which suddenly switched from a beep to a flat, solid tone.

“He’s flat lining. Get the paddles.”

A nurse disappeared and a few seconds later, a loud bursting noise came from behind him. He turned around and quickly moved out of the way as a nurse rolled in the cart with electric shock paddles. The nurse splattered liquid on the paddles and placed them on his chest. “Clear.” She paused, then added, “No pulse, Doctor.”

“I need more. Give me three cc’s of—”

Steven hovered there, witnessing how fast everything was flashing before his eyes. “Ouch, what the—” Although Steven wasn’t connected to his body anymore, he could still feel the shock every time the jolt of electricity passed through his body. He also felt weak, as though he were fading, drifting away.

“Clear.”

Steven lowered to the ground.

“We’re losing him…” one of the nurses screamed.

What happened to me?

“Clear!”

“Run!”

That one word would keep Steven up all night.

“If he somehow gets into the house tonight,” his mother said softly while stroking his head, “I want you to run. Run as fast as you can, as far as you can. Just get away this time.”

She had said those words some thirty minutes before he brushed his teeth, slipped on his green and blue plaid pajamas, and went to bed. Her full lips trailed a tender kiss on his forehead, leaving a thin print of burgundy lipstick as a reminder of a goodnight. The goodnight that happened right before he saw the flowered robe covering her full figure disappear from his bedroom into the dimly lit hallway. Right before the fear in her tear-filled, dark brown eyes could strike worry in Steven’s heart. She didn’t have to say who “he” was. In Steven’s mind, “he” was synonymous with evil. And evil, at least in their house, was synonymous with “Dad.”

But Steven hadn’t listened to his mother. He lay in bed, wide-awake, eyes shifting swiftly in each direction, waiting for something to jump out. In his heart, Steven realized that he couldn’t leave anymore than she could; anymore than she had ever tried. Who would protect her if he left her alone?

Steven was stronger now, almost as tall as his dad. He’d even taken karate classes and definitely knew how to take a man down. So why hadn’t he lifted a finger when Hector came bursting through the door? Why was he trembling in the corner of the living room like the last leaf on a snow-frosted tree, watching an instant replay of another world champion Southside of Chicago fight? Why? He’d stepped in front of his mother once before and it didn’t matter. It would only happen again tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. Watching didn’t matter. Watching was normal. Steven had heard the second verse of the same song so many times. And by now, he could definitely sing it from memory.

Angry blows rained down on his mother’s body, purple bruises welling up where smooth, dark brown skin should be. As the living room became another battleground of curses and screams, Steven now understood exactly what his Aunt Vinah meant when she said, “When the shit hits the fan, you don’t want to be standing downwind.” Steven, at twelve years old, could tell anyone that upwind wasn’t all that great either.

As his parents fought, every bitter word, every single blow, was like they were aimed directly at him, hurting him worse than any whippings his mother had every given him. It was always about money. Always about responsibility. Always about the fact that drugs were more important to Hector than his family. If Steven had never been born, maybe… things would’ve been different? At least, he wouldn’t be around to see whether or not that was the truth. He couldn’t stand to see this happen to them. Mainly, it was painful for him to watch bad things happen to his mother. But, staying in a bedroom listening wasn’t much better.

Steven sunk down even further into the corner, under the painting of Lake Michigan and the portrait of silver-haired Grandma Mildred, hoping that she was able to see and hear from her place in heaven, the torturing words slicing and stabbing the soul of a twelve-year-old boy. He always picked the corner of a room to keep safe. And so far it had worked. He had learned from experience that flying objects didn’t land in corners. No way! They whipped in and out like a boomerang and either landed on the floor near his feet, or sailed back into reach of one of his parents. Watching his parents fight was as unreal as a video game or an action movie. Only this was one episode he couldn’t turn off and didn’t want to watch. And, oh, how he wished he could simply change the channel. How he prayed that he could.

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.”