Breaking the Cycle (5 page)

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.

“How could I have been so stupid?” Steven’s mother said as he listened in. “I should’ve left when I had the chance. This is all my fault.”

“Where would you go?” Steven’s father said angrily, trying to keep his voice down as though he knew that the “other” Steven could hear. “You don’t have any family.”

“Any place would’ve been better than staying with you,” his mother shot back. “Especially, if I would’ve known you were going to shoot my son.”

“It was an accident!” Hector said, his brow furrowed in frustration. He glanced over to the hospital bed. “He’s my son, too.”

“You sure have a wonderful way of showing that he’s your son,” Mom said through clenched teeth.

Hector got up and walked over to the window, looking out at the gray sky.

Mom, sporting a dark blue overcoat and clutching a worn handbag, followed him, saying, “Ever since you got hooked on those drugs, you’ve paid attention to nothing else. Not your son, and not me. I guess family doesn’t really mean anything to you anymore.” She grabbed him, whirling him to face her. “The only family you think about are those people that got you hooked on that stuff.”

“I don’t need to deal with this right now,” Hector said, brushing past her, trying to walk out of the room.

Sprinting, Mom made it to the door and blocked his path. “Yes, you do, Hector. If you don’t deal with this now, I know for a fact that you won’t deal with it later.” Dark brown eyes watered with tears that splattered onto her coat. “When are you going to stop running away from your problems and confront them?”

“I am confronting them,” he said, running a pale hand through his straight, jet-black hair. “I’m going to get help for my drug problem.”

There was an uncomfortable pause in the room. Both of them knew it was a lie—a lie he told often, and a lie she had believed far too many times to count.

“You almost killed your son,” she said softly, her gaze landing on the machines standing guard next to Steven. “Your own flesh and blood, your seed, and there’s no telling whether he will survive.” She faced Hector, glaring at him. “You don’t think there’s a problem? I know there’s a problem. The fact that you pulled a gun on me—a gun for Christ’s sake!—says there’s a problem. The fact that we’re here says there’s a problem. You should be praying and asking for forgiveness.”

“Heather, didn’t you hear him? Steven already forgave me for that,” Hector said, lacing his hands on top of his head, as though trying to block out one memory or another.

She glared angrily at him and her voice became icy. “I’m talking about God—forgiveness from God.”

Hector grimaced, inching away from Heather’s anger. “God can’t do anything for me,” he growled. “He didn’t do anything for me when I was Steven’s age and He sure as hell hasn’t done much for me lately.”

Dad began pacing the room.

“Hector,” Mom began softly, placing a single hand on his shoulder. “I know that your mother was abused by your father, but you—”

“Don’t even say it.” Hector shrugged, removing her hand from his body. “I already know what you’re going to say.”

“What?”

Hector turned to look at her. “I’m going to have to forgive him. But why should I, after all that he did to my family?”

Steven’s mother looked up at Hector. “For the same reason Steven forgave you… it’s the right thing to do. When will this vicious cycle end? It should’ve ended with you!” She stepped out, covering the distance between them. “You swore that you would be a better man than your father. A better husband. A better father. But you’ve tried so hard not to be like him, you’ve become worse than he ever was.”

Hector whirled to face her, parting his mouth to speak.

She held up a single hand to silence him. “I’ve taken a lot from you, things that will take time for me to forgive, but I didn’t want Steven to experience this. I don’t want him to grow up and continue this thing. If he lives.” At that moment, Mom broke down in tears. “No, I mean—when, when he wakes up.”

But the words were out. If. If Steven lived. Was this the price he had to pay for his mom’s inability to leave a bad situation? Was this the price for Dad’s love of drugs—things that took him away from reality and into a land that had nothing to do with responsibility? Why did Steven have to pay the price? He’d been the innocent one in all this.

Hector crossed the room, touching the face of the Steven lying on the bed. “How are we going to be able to say that we have a family? More than likely, I’ll be in jail.”

“I really don’t know how that will work out, but you should try to work things out while you can. This is something you’re going to have to do on your own. The only reason I’m talking to you now is because I know Steven would want that. Otherwise, I would’ve had you shipped out of here the moment we came through the hospital doors, so you wouldn’t be able to have any contact with me or my son.”

Hector’s gaze fell to the white tiled floor. Mom was right; Dad was going to have to do it on his own. Could he? Would he?

Small delicate fingers curled around the lifeless one with an IV sticking out of the back side. The sound of a chair scraping across the tile took over all other sounds in the room for a moment. Hector placed the wide, tan leather chair right behind Mom. She sat down, still keeping Steven’s hand in hers. Watching for signs of life—any life—any movement. She bowed her head, and Steven knew at once that she was praying.

“Pssssst. Hey, Kid.”

Steven looked to the left of his space in the upper corner of the room. Another kid, about his age, with dark brown skin and a low-cut fade perched next to him. He wore a red and white striped shirt, jeans, and Air Force One sneakers. Steven wasn’t frightened. Somehow Steven knew that this “kid” was just like him—in between living and dying.

“What’s up?” Steven asked.

“Those your parents?”

“Yep. If you could call them that.” Steven forced a laugh of disappointment. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to keep you company,” the boy said, punching Steven in the arm playfully.

“Company? I’m not alone; my parents are here.” Steven directed his focus back to his parents.

“No, your parents are there. They can’t even see you.”

“Am I fully dead?” Steven asked, confused by that one statement.

“Nope, you’re just like you thought—in between.”

“Whew—cool. So why else are you here?”

“I’m just like you. My parents were domvies, too.”

“Dummies?”

“No, domvies—domestic violence parents.”

“So you’re in a coma, too?”

“Nope, I wasn’t so lucky,” he said, sadly walking to the window, waiting for Steven to follow. “I’m all the way dead.”

“Your dad?”

The boy shook his head slowly. “Mom’s aim was a little off with the knife. It slipped past Dad and landed right here,” he said, pointing to his chest. “She was trying to protect herself from him.”

“Wow, my dad had a gun tonight. It was an accident also.”

“Yeah, I know all about it. There are a lot of us floating around here.” Michael frowned. “My mama had an order of protection and everything, but that was just a piece of paper. We should’ve gone to one of those shelters or something.”

“Was your dad on drugs?”

“Naw, he was just… mean,” the boy said, hesitating, trying to find a polite way to put it.

“Well, at least my dad had an excuse,” Steven said proudly. “He was on drugs.”

The boy chuckled, his hazel eyes twinkling. “Doesn’t make you any less half-dead now, does it?”

Steven winced, realizing the boy had a point. “What’s your name?”

“Michael,” he said, extending his hand. “Michael Roberts.”

“I’m Steven Santos,” he said, shaking it. “So, how long do I hang around up here?”

“Depends on you. Just like your parents are making choices, you’re supposed to make some also. You can stay here for a while or you can go back when you’re called.”

Actually, the more he thought about it, Steven didn’t want to go back—in between was safe.

“How many are there like you?”

Michael frowned, his mind winding with confusion. “Like me?”

“You know, kids that were killed in domestic violence accidents.”

“Oh, domvie kids?”

“Yeah. That’s what they’re called.”

“Lots of us, Man. Used to be diseases and gangs took us out. Now it’s parents, or when we simply happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Michael shrugged at the thought. “Just like you tonight. It’s happening a lot more now than before,” Michael said in a somber tone, reaching to grab two Sprites out of the cabinet behind him, handing Steven one.

“I thought we couldn’t taste things here,” Steven said, wondering whether he should waste time opening the pop.

“You have a lot to learn.” Michael took a long sip of pop.

“Do you… get to see your parents?”

“I check on my mama sometimes.” An awful stillness came over the room. “She’s not doing so good. Killing me really sent her over the edge. Now they’ve got her on drugs—the legal kind—but she’s no better than some street drug addicts I’ve seen. I think I’ll be running into her pretty soon on this side.”

“Will I be able to—”

“We all can. Some do, some don’t. It depends,” Michael said, gazing over at Steven’s parents. “Some of the guys just can’t go back, because they feel that they’ll make matters worse.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have, you know, like wings or something?” Steven asked with uneasy sarcasm.

Michael laughed, slapping Steven on the back. “That’s a myth—we don’t need wings to travel—we just go from place to place. Now you see us.” Michael slowly faded from view, leaving only the Sprite can behind. “Now you don’t.”

“Hey! Come back here,” Steven said, realizing he was, in fact, a lot less lonely with Michael around to explain things.

Michael reappeared, a smile on his thick lips.

“Do you think my dad will get help?” Steven walked over to Hector, waving a hand in front of his face. Of course, he didn’t notice.

“If I were you, I’d be more worried about your mama,” Michael said, directing his attention toward the woman crying into her hands.

“Why?”

“Mamas have it hard. Guilt can kill ’em.”

Steven’s gaze landed on his mother; a small pain flashed over his heart. “Yeah, she’s blaming herself right now.”

“They all do.” A disappointed frown spread across Michael’s face. “But women have to be real smart.”

Steven’s attention was directed toward the nurse wearing a white uniform; her brunette hair was tied back into a ponytail. She checked his vital signs. “What do you mean?” he asked, turning to Michael.