My Heart and Other Black Holes (14 page)

I drop my elbows to my knees and hunch over. “I know it’s hard to understand, but it’s true. My dad . . .” I take a breath. “My dad ruined my whole life.”

I don’t tell Roman that my dad not only ruined my life because of what he did, but also because he made me scared of what I am, what I’m made of.

As I think about this, something inside me shifts. I don’t know if it’s the black slug sliding around in the base of my stomach or something new, something I didn’t even know was there, but I feel it crackle and burst, like a tiny sparkler inside of me.

“I should go visit him,” I blurt out before I remember that I shouldn’t keep talking about my dad with Roman. That Roman knows Brian Jackson. That Roman would hate me if he knew the truth.

Roman clears his throat. “What?”

I bounce up from the bench. “I’ve decided I want to see my dad one last time before I die.”

Roman doesn’t get up. When I bring myself to look at him, he’s frowning. “You aren’t dying from cancer, Aysel,” he says, raising his voice. “You aren’t terminally ill.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“We aren’t making wish lists. This isn’t about doing things we want to do before we die. This is and has always been about dying. Only about dying.” He shuffles his feet and wrings his hands. “Are you bailing on me?”

Blood rushes to my face. “I’m not bailing on you. I just need to see him one last time. I want to look him in the eye and . . .”

Roman gets up from the bench. He puts his arm around me, and this time I don’t jump at his touch. I lean into his body. “And what? What are you hoping to find? It sounds to me like you are looking for reasons to live.”

My throat is tight and all these words line up ready to spill out, but the black slug devours them one by one. “That’s not it,” I manage to squeak out.

“Then what is it?”

“I just need to see him, Roman. I think if I see him, I’ll be able to jump from that cliff. Nothing will be holding me back.”

He tilts his head toward the sky. “And right now something is?”

I don’t know how to tell him that I’m not sure I can truly destroy my potential energy until I understand the root of it all. And as of a couple of minutes ago, I’m convinced the only way to do that is to see my dad one last time.

Roman lowers his chin to look at me again. “We can go
see your father. If this is what you need, I’ll help you with it.”

Part of me wants to toss my arms around his neck and pull him close, press my face against his chest and thank him, but I know for sure that isn’t what he or I signed up for. I wish someone would give my heart a polygraph; it keeps lying and flipping and changing its mind. I can’t decide what matters more to me—Roman being there with me to face my father or Roman not discovering the truth.

As I watch him watching me, his hazel eyes wide and wanting, a slight shiver ripples across my chest. Maybe I’m naive, but I’m starting to think that Roman would understand. That he wouldn’t hold me accountable for what my dad did. Maybe I need to give him the chance to prove he really is different from everyone else.

I scan his face, searching for any sign that he already knows. My name isn’t mentioned in the internet articles about my dad (believe me, I’ve checked), but I’m pretty sure a basic Google search would’ve given him an inkling. There aren’t that many Turkish people in Langston, let alone in Kentucky. But as I stare up at his deep-set eyes, his full lips, his cheeks that are slightly flushed from the sun, I don’t find any clues that he knows. All I see is someone who seems to care, and that makes me almost as uneasy as the fact that he could discover everything about my dad at any moment.

Maybe it would be better if I told him, if he heard it from me instead of from someone else. The words form in the base
of my throat and I’m about to tell him everything when he stretches his hand out and grabs mine. He squeezes it, massaging my fingers with his. “It’s seriously okay, Aysel. I’m sorry I yelled before. We’ll go see your dad together, okay?”

“Okay,” is the only word I manage to utter. I press my tongue up against the roof of my mouth and make a small promise that I will tell him the truth about my dad. Not today, but sometime soon.

He squeezes my hand again. “So what’s next?”

“Wanna go see the polar bears? I should take some pictures of them swimming.”

“Sure.” He flashes me his half-moon smile. “It’ll be nice to see the polar bears one last time. The polar bears were always Maddie’s favorite.”

That’s when I wonder if maybe FrozenRobot has a list of things he wants to do before he dies, too, and he just doesn’t know it yet.

I want to know it.

TUESDAY, MARCH 26

12 days left

I
get off work early and drive as fast as I can. My plan is to beat everyone home before dinner so I will have a few moments alone to poke around in the study. If my mom’s saved anything about my dad, I’ll find it in there.

I open the front door and stand in the hallway for a moment, holding my breath, hoping I’m the only one here.

“Hello?” I hear Mike call out.

“Mike, it’s just me,” I say softly, not wanting to make my presence known if someone else is home with him.

“What are we having for dinner?” His loud voice practically shakes the whole house. Mike inherited Steve’s vocal
cords. If I didn’t love him so much, I might be irritated.

“I don’t know, Mikey. Mom will be home soon. You can ask her, okay?”

“Okay,” he answers. “Do you wanna come up and play FIFA with me?”

My lips twitch and I fight the urge to smile. “Maybe later. I have lots of homework.”

“Okay.” I can hear the disappointment in his voice.

I do my best to shrug it off and focus on the task at hand: snooping through Mom’s stuff. I walk down the narrow hallway and turn the corner into the study. It’s cramped and cluttered, hardly bigger than a closet. I hop over a few boxes so I can get behind the flimsy plastic desk.

I crane my neck to examine the boxes on the upper shelves of the bookcase. If I know my mother at all, which admittedly is questionable, she’d store our family’s dirty laundry in the most inaccessible place.

Standing on the computer chair, I reach for one of the cardboard boxes filled with manila folders. The chair swivels under my feet. As I stretch my fingers out, grasping for the box, I lose my balance and manage to knock two of the boxes and some books to the floor.

I fall off the chair with a thud and press my palms into the worn carpet to break my fall. My wrists burn and I see papers scattered all over the carpet.
Fuck.

“Aysel?”

I look up and see Mike standing in front of me.
Double fuck.

He’s clutching his video game controller to his chest and his mouth gapes open. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry about the noise.” I wave my hands in the direction of the scattered papers. “I lost my balance.”

He narrows his eyes. “What are you looking for?”

I crawl on my knees and start picking up the papers and shoving them randomly back into the boxes.
So much for Mom’s organized study.
One of the papers catches my eye. It’s an old report card of mine from fourth grade. I pick it up and run my fingers over the thin paper. I’m surprised she saved it.

“Aysel,” Mike says, his voice escalating in volume. “Why are you going through Mom’s things?”

I hold up my old report card. “Oh, sorry. I, uh, was looking for some old stuff of mine from school. You know, for college applications.”

“Why do you keep saying sorry?” He passes the video game controller to his left hand and runs his right hand through his blond wavy hair. He always touches his hair when he’s nervous or uncomfortable.

I do my best to brighten my face. “Because I scared you.”

He gives me a toothy grin. “You didn’t scare me.”

I force myself to smile. “Hey, you wanna go back upstairs?”

He frowns. “I can’t help you look?”

“I think Mom would be mad if I let you play around in here.”

He juts out his lower lip. “I wouldn’t be playing, I’d be helping you.”

“I know, but she doesn’t want you in here.”

He sighs. “Fine.”

As he walks away, I say, “Hey, Mikey?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends. What is it?”

“Don’t tell Mom I was in here.”

“So it’s like a secret?” he asks excitedly.

“Yeah, our secret.”

“Cool. Come up and play later?”

I bob my head enthusiastically. It hurts my neck. I’m not used to moving it so fast. “For sure.”

Once he’s gone, I go back to picking up the papers. I find all sorts of things. Old birthday cards, bills, credit reports. I would say there’s no rhyme or reason to the way things are ordered, but I probably destroyed the organizational system when I accidentally dumped out the boxes.

I’m about to give up hope when I come across an envelope. It’s empty, but the return address catches my eye: McGreavy Correctional Facility. That must have been about my dad.
McGreavy Correctional Facility, that’s where he is.
I’m crawling
around, searching for the corresponding letter, when I hear the door open.

“Hello?” Mike bellows.

“It’s me, sweetie,” I hear Mom answer.

I quickly finish shoving all the loose papers back into the boxes. I’m about to try to put them on the upper shelf when I hear footsteps behind me.

“Aysel, what are you doing in here?”

I turn and face my mom. She’s dressed in her work uniform—a red polo and pressed khaki pants. Or the khaki pants are supposed to be pressed. Hers are a bit wrinkled and beginning to fray. I notice that her shoes are old and scuffed. Maybe once I’m gone and there’s one less kid to worry about, she’ll be able to cut back on her hours. Or at least afford to buy herself some new shoes.

“Looking for something for my college applications.”

The look on my mom’s face shreds my insides. It’s warm and full of hopeful surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, I needed to check to see if I got an A or B in freshman bio.” Her mouth pulls into a thin line like she isn’t quite convinced, so I continue, “You know, because that, my grades, they’ll determine what schools I apply to.”

She looks hard at me and brings her fingers to her lips. “Isn’t there someone at your school who can help you with that?”

“Yeah, but I was too curious to wait.” The lie makes my
tongue feel thick as I watch Mom’s face brighten all over again.

“Well, did you find what you were looking for?” She eyes the boxes like she knows their contents are all mixed up.

“Yup.” I step in front of them to try to block her view. “Sorry for getting them down. I’ll put the boxes back on the shelf.”

She shakes her head. “No. You could hurt yourself. I’ll have Steve put them back when he gets home.”

She hovers in the doorway and I can tell she’s waiting for me to walk out with her. I move to join her in the hallway and she flicks off the light in the study. We walk in silence to the kitchen and then I excuse myself to go upstairs.

Once I’m in my room, I flop on the bed and try to erase the image of my mom’s bright, hopeful face from my mind. Pulling the comforter over my head, I sink down into the mattress. I place my hands on my stomach and urge the black slug to remind me that Mom will be better off when I’m gone. Safer. That what’ll happen on April 7 is the best thing for her in the end.

How it’s the best thing for everyone. Especially me.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 27

11 days left

T
oday at work we’re conducting a phone marathon for the town of Langston. Every year at the end of March, Langston throws a carnival in the backyard of the middle school to raise money. (Mostly for the basketball program, but the Langston Public School District puts on a good face and claims they are using the money to beef up our science and math programs.) They always cart in a few low-grade rides—a Ferris wheel and spinning teacups—set up concession stands that sell sticky cotton candy and extra-sugary sodas, and have the cheer team perform a few risqué dance routines. The creepy middle-aged men of Langston
really love the Spring Carnival.

I pick up the phone’s receiver and dial the next number on my call log: John Gordon, who lives at 415 Mound Street. Maybe John is the demographic that will already be at the Spring Carnival, and so he won’t even need reminding. It rings twice before John picks up. No such luck.

“Hello?” His accent is spot-on Kentucky.

“Hello, Mr. Gordon,” I say. “My name is Aysel, and I’m calling from Tucker’s Marketing Concepts on behalf of the city of Langston.”

“Yes?” He sounds a little impatient, but he’s less irate than the usual voice I find on the other end of the phone.

“As you may know, the city is hosting its annual Spring Carnival.” I deliver my spiel about how the proceeds raised by the carnival provide invaluable funds for Langston’s schools. I gush about the cheerleaders’ upcoming performances and how fun and safe (yeah, right) the Ferris wheel is. I end with the mandated final line, “It’s a great time for people of all ages. A real family-friendly event.” I obviously don’t mention that the cheerleaders normally wear leopard-print bikini tops and dance around outside, even though it’s barely over fifty degrees.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

“Mr. Gordon?”

“Yeah, I know the Spring Carnival,” he says. “My family’s planning to go tomorrow afternoon.”

“Great. Thank you, Mr. Gordon.” The one thing that
can be said for the people of Langston is that they tend to show up for Langston.

Today at work, I’m more focused than usual. I want to get through my call log. Really, I just want my shift to be over. I’ve recently noticed that if I actually work at work, the time goes by faster. After I’ve called about six people in a row, I look over at Laura. Her brow is furrowed and she keeps blinking.

“What?” I ask, and reach for the phone receiver to dial my next number.

“You’re just weird today.” She gets up and heads to the coffee maker. “It’s almost like you’re happy. Did you finally meet someone?”

I laugh and it comes out as a dry rattle.
Happy?
The sad thing is, she’s not that far off base. I did meet someone. But not in the way she thinks. “It’s weird that I’m working?”