My Heart and Other Black Holes (23 page)

“Dad stayed in Langston and took over the store because he wanted to keep me in his life. I was everything to him—” My voice cracks as I say that. “And then Mom met Steve and they got married and had Georgia and Mike and I’d visit with them on the weekends, but I lived with my dad. And he hated losing me on those weekends.”

I stare off into the distance at the swing set. In the wind, the swing is swaying back and forth, making it look like a ghost is pushing it. I wonder if Roman and Maddie used to come to this playground and swing. I swallow down the salt of my tears. I can tell that Roman is waiting for me to say something else, but this is the part I’m scared of, the part I’ve never been able to make sense of in my own head.

After a long, heavy silence, I say, “One day, I went over to Mom’s after school. Usually after school, I’d meet up with Dad at the store, but this day was special because it was Mike’s first Little League game and I promised him I’d be
there. I remember the look on Dad’s face when I told him I wouldn’t be home until late. Things were going badly at the store and Dad counted on me to keep him company and help out. That month, Dad was convinced we had a shoplifting problem. He was completely obsessed with it.” I pause and bite the inside of my left cheek. I don’t let go of Roman’s hand. I squeeze it as hard as I can over and over again, each squeeze a little wish.

“So I wasn’t there when it happened. When Timothy and his friends walked into the store, I was watching Mike run from first to second base.” I shake my head and stare at the ground. “Timothy and his friends came into the store and started goofing around. They were running through the aisles and one of them knocked over a display and my dad, my dad, he—” I choke over my words. “My dad got angry. Really angry. He started shouting at them and Timothy and his friends thought this was really funny for some reason so they knocked over another display and one of his friends grabbed a few candy bars and threw them in the air, daring my dad to do something about it.

“So my dad grabbed the baseball bat from behind the counter and went after them. I guess Timothy stepped out in front and tried to reason with my dad, but he just snapped. Nobody could stop him. By the time the police came, Timothy was unconscious and my dad was just sitting next to him, still holding the baseball bat like a madman. Timothy never
regained consciousness and he died at the hospital three days later.” I take a few shaky breaths. “I don’t think my dad even knew who Timothy Jackson was.”

I can’t look at Roman’s face, so I press my head against his chest. “My mom never let me see my dad again. I didn’t even get to go to the trial. I never got to say good-bye.”

He strokes the back of my head, running his fingers through my curls. “She probably thought that was the best thing for you. He was . . .” His voice trails off. “Well, you know.”

I pull away from him so I can face him. I take his hand in mine. “You know you were wrong before when you said my dad was the reason I wanted to die. He’s not. The reason is that I’m terrified whatever madness was inside of him lives inside of me, too. That I’m capable of doing something just as awful.”

There’s a long silence and Roman doesn’t say anything. He lets go of my hand and my heart plummets.
He hates me. He’s scared of me.
I look away and am about to jump off the picnic table when he tugs at my arm. “Aysel, look at me.”

I keep staring at the swing set. The chain links are rusted. Someone should change them. Someone should really clean up this place.

“Aysel,” he urges. “Please.”

When I turn to look at him, I see his face is inches from mine. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are somber. I hold my
breath as I wait for him to say something. Say anything.

He pushes a stray hair away from my face and then bends his head down so he can kiss my forehead. My whole body tingles. “I want you to know you’re nothing like your dad. Do you hear me? I know you, Aysel. You’d never do something like that.” He puts his hands on the sides of my face, cradling my head in his hands.

“But then why do I miss him so much?” My nose is inches from Roman’s and I want to look away from his eyes, but I can’t.

He pulls me closer to him, wrapping his arms around me. “Because you’re human. No one person is all bad or all good. I’m sure you had good times with your dad. It makes sense that you miss him.”

“That’s why I wanted to see him one last time, you know? Not only to try and figure out if I’m like him, but also to let him know I miss him. That I’m sorry for leaving him alone. As messed up as it is, I want his forgiveness.”

Roman rubs his hand along my spine, working his way up to the base of my shoulders. “I’m sure he doesn’t blame you, Aysel. And I’m sure he still loves you. He always will.”

Hearing him say that makes my tears turn into sobs. He holds me tighter and I bawl into his T-shirt. We sit there, me crying, him rubbing my back, for what seems like hours. Once I’ve composed myself, I scoot away from him and wipe my eyes. “Sorry.”

He reaches out and grabs my hands. “Don’t ever be sorry.”

I swallow a couple of times and look up at the sky. It’s turned a gloomy indigo and the sun is starting to set. I don’t want this day to fade, for any more time to pass. I shut my eyes and stay as still as I can for a moment. When I open my eyes, I see Roman staring at the ground.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?”

“For understanding.”

He gives me a small shrug like it was nothing, but it definitely wasn’t nothing.

“I found your drawing of me,” I say slowly.

His eyes lighten with surprise. “It’s not finished.”

I take it out of my pocket and unfold it. “It looks pretty finished.”

He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. “You can keep it.”

I know that should make my heart lift, but it doesn’t. The way he says it sounds so final. “I wish I could draw.”

He looks off in the distance and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sure you can.”

“Not like this,” I whisper. “I wish I could draw you how I see you.” I’d draw a boy with the most magnetic smile and the kindest hands and eyes that are gloomy but can sometimes be bright. I’d draw a boy who deserves to see the ocean.

But it’s like he has a sixth sense for my flakiness and he cricks his neck in the direction of the car. “We should get going.”

A breeze cuts across my face, which is still damp with tears, and as I stare at him, standing there, his hand on the back of his neck, the wind making his loose T-shirt flap, his face frozen in a pained expression, I know he’s thinking about Maddie. I know he’s thinking about diving headfirst into the Ohio River. I know he’s thinking about dying.

I want to cry all over again.

On the ride home, I make him agree to meet with me sometime next week. It’s pretty twisted, but he agrees that we both need to plan what we want to do about suicide notes. I can hardly talk about it and I’m pretty sure that he knows that I’m lying now, but neither of us says anything.

After we’ve made a halfhearted plan to meet up, the rest of the drive is silent. I don’t bother to turn on the radio. Not even Mozart’s requiem is going to comfort me right now. As I’m pulling into his driveway, Roman says, “Last night you slept with your socks on.”

“What?” I turn off the engine and park the car so I can look at him. He’s staring out the passenger window, crunched up close to the door, like he needs to create as much physical space between us as possible.

“You said you can’t sleep with socks on. Remember, you told me that? You told me how it’s a problem for you. But last
night you slept with socks on.”

I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. “Um. And what’s your point?”

He slowly turns to face me. His eyes are wide and watery. “My point is you can change. You’re resilient. Remember that, Aysel, you’re resilient.”

“It’s just socks,” I say quietly.

He shrugs. “It’s still a change.”

I’m about to tell him that he can be resilient too. That I know he can. But I bite down hard on my tongue. I step out of the car to help him unload the trunk. I’m not really one for praying, but I do my best attempt and will Mrs. Franklin to stay in the house. Hopefully some riveting romantic drama is on TV and it will have more appeal than the one being enacted outside on her doorstep. “What are you trying to say, Roman?”

His lips form into his crooked smile. “Nothing. I was just making an observation.” His eyes don’t look so sad anymore. They don’t look like anything—they’re empty—and that almost makes my heart ache more. He spreads his arms wide and pulls me into a hug. “See you.”

“Wait, did we decide on Thursday or Friday? Which one works better for you again?”

He doesn’t answer. He just drops his arms, letting me go, and then turns and walks up the pathway to his house, carrying his backpack, the tent, the cooler, and the picnic
basket. I wonder if I should help, he’s fumbling to manage everything, but I don’t think he wants my help. I wish he would want my help.

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything else about my dad,” I call out. At this point, I don’t even care if his mom hears. For the first time in my life, my dad is the least of my worries. I watch Roman drop the camping supplies on the doorstep. He gives me a small backward wave, but he doesn’t turn around.

I need to figure out some way to turn him around. To turn him all the way around.

MONDAY, APRIL 1

6 days left

W
hen school gets out, I call the number Jacob left for me on the voice mail. I called it once on Sunday after I dropped off Roman, but no one picked up and I couldn’t muster the courage to leave a message.

I curl up in the front seat of my car and press the phone to my ear. It rings a couple of times and then a glassy voice answers. “Saint Anne’s Behavioral Health Hospital, this is Tara. How may I help you?”

I swallow. “Uh, hi, Tara. My name is Aysel Seran. I’m Omer Seran’s daughter. I was told he was transferred from McGreavy Correctional Facility to Saint Anne’s and . . .”
The words are tumbling out of my mouth quicker than I mean them to, but I’m scared that if I don’t spit out everything, she’s going to hang up and I’ll lose my chance of ever finding my dad.

“I see.” Her voice is clipped. “Are you a minor?”

“What?”

“Are you under eighteen years old?”

I contemplate lying. “Why does it matter?”

“I’m not authorized to give any information regarding patients to minors. I’m also not authorized to give out any sensitive information over the phone.”

“But . . .” I bite down on my lower lip. “What am I supposed to do? I really want to see my dad.”

I hear her sigh. “If your father is a patient here, which I’m legally not allowed to confirm, you would need to have your guardian call us to set up a visit. Depending on the state of the patient, a visit may or may not be possible.”

“You can’t give me any more information than that? Not even a hint that my dad’s there?”

“I think it would be a good idea to talk with your mother about arranging a visit here.” Another sigh. “This is the number she should call.”

A small smile creeps across my face. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good day.” The phone clicks off.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and push my car
seat down so I can lie flat on my back. The sun is peeking out from behind the clouds and it splashes against my face.
I need to talk to Mom about Dad.

I imagine visiting him. I wonder if he’ll be in white scrubs. Or worse, in chains. I squint and try to picture his face, but all I can see is the man I remember. The man who would never have beaten a boy to death with a baseball bat. Maybe we all have darkness inside of us and some of us are better at dealing with it than others.

What my dad did was wrong, awful, inexcusable, but maybe there’s still hope for him. Maybe if he can get the help he needs, they’ll be able to resurrect the man who taught me about Bach’s toccata and slept in the chair in my room when I was afraid of the dark.

And if there’s still hope for my dad, there has to still be hope for me. Maybe it’s true that he and I have the same black slug inside of us, but it’s up to me to conquer it. I owe that to my dad. I owe that to myself.

I adjust the car seat back to its normal position and put the key in the ignition.
I need to talk to Mom.
As I pull out of the school parking lot, I make a promise to myself:
I will be stronger than my sadness.

I will do my best to become the girl from Roman’s drawing. The girl with the bright eyes. The girl with hope.

MONDAY, APRIL 1

6 days left

W
hen I get home, Mom is at the sink peeling potatoes. I make my way to the cupboard and sort through the junk, trying to find a chocolate-chip granola bar.

“Aysel,” she says, giving me a tiny wave.

I turn to face her, holding the empty box of granola bars. “Mike always takes the last one and he never throws the box away. It’s annoying.”

Mom smiles weakly. Her light brown hair is pulled back into a loose braid. When her hair is like that, exposing her wide forehead and angled cheekbones, she looks more like Georgia than normal. She puts down the potato peeler and
dries her hands. “Can we talk?”

Looks like she’s not going to answer me about the granola bars. I set the box down on the kitchen table. “Sure.”

“TMC called today. Mr. Palmer was wondering where you were. You missed a shift on Saturday and you were supposed to work today, too?” She sounds so uncertain, like she’s afraid to reprimand me.

She’s right, though. I have been blowing off work. I guess I figured that if I was going to die, it wasn’t so important to hold on to my job. Money is worthless to a dead person. But the thing is, even if I don’t jump from Crestville Pointe, I’m pretty sure I never want to work at TMC again.

“I’m quitting my job,” I say.

“What?” she says in a calm and measured voice.

“You can yell at me,” I say. “I’m not him, you know? I may be like him, but I don’t have to turn out the same way.” I feel a heaviness building behind my eyes. I do my best to blink away the tears.