The note ended there.
I couldn’t believe it. He wanted me to come to live with him for a year—a whole year—in Venice! I couldn’t keep my hands from shaking. This was a dream, not a nightmare. I opened and closed the note; read it again and again; word for word. This sounded too good to be real. No person gets gifts like this and hopes to fly over to paradise to sing kumbaya. Things didn’t work this way in life. The closest thing I got to a perfect gift was when I was ten. A bike, I could hardly pedal without falling off my face. I broke my nose the second time I rode it off the sidewalk, straight into Mrs. Hatchet’s gardenias. My nose struck the bricks around her shrubs. I ate dirt and sputtered crushed leaves between my teeth. She hosed me down, screaming profanities, cursing the day I’d walk on her doorstep. After what happened, I wouldn’t dream of blinking or even breathing the same air as her, let alone be in the same room or place. If I even dared to lay eyes on her house on the other side of the street, my skin crawled, teeth chattered. I imagined her growing one head after another, her sharp mouths shifting into a snout, and her prying clawed fingers striking me down. I didn’t hate gifts, but I grew weary enough to shoot me dead first. We never know what it may lead us to. Doom or paradise. Warm hands held onto me, snapping me out of my roiled mess. They were my blankets of warmth—my safety kit.
“Is he for real?” I said to my parents who nodded with no room to joke.
They would never lie to me, maybe I would, but I’m still a teen. We lie like nuns who wore their habit for life—it’s second nature. I rushed to both of them, hugging them for dear life, squeezing whatever weight crushed my chest. I’m blessed. They were patient, even in this maddening, glorious moment, they were just right. This was too good to pass. I didn’t want to wake up. Please don’t let me wake up.
“Thank you… this is… incredible. I-I can’t—”
I hugged them tighter and they pampered me with cheers, light and warm kisses on my bedhead, encouraging me; letting me know I could breathe a little more. Perhaps, now I can look into the mirror and tell myself things would get better. The morning would be brighter, and the nights would be quieter.
“We wanted you to have the best gift. You did mention wanting to study art. I called up your uncle. He marveled at a hail mary and convinced us to let you explore your options. I think we did good, don’t you think Jo?” Dad bolstered, his arms entwined with Mom’s, face glowing—a skip in his feet.
“Our son is smiling, so yep, we did good.”
The man did good—they both did. Mom widened her stance and brightened the morning dew. I billowed into myself, waiting for the crack to release, but only the good was left and I figured to embrace the wellness of now, of today. The pulling of Mom’s smile on my neck brought the ever warmth. I knew then, my family, the roof over my head, the underlying crease in the shadows, and the crippling wounds waiting to fester the madness—I was thankful, this was all that mattered, all that stayed here, and wanted to be here. I’m alive and awake—I never wanted this dream to end, even if the rain returns—it wouldn’t swallow me down.
I pulled away scratching my blazing throat, “I’m supposed to be meeting up with the guys at Sherries’ Dinner—”
I fixed on the t.v. playing the latest news on CNN. It was a quarter past nine, my friends had things to do. That’s fine, I liked being alone. Steven had texted me two nights ago, no time for the gang to hang. He’s working the late shift, no doubt.
“Oh, what time are you meeting them?” Mom asked.
Her bright, soft smile and her soothing voice pressed briefly into my gut—I knew she wanted me to eat my breakfast, sip my cup of coffee, and make it a day at home. Dad muttered something about not making them wait. No way they could be there today.
“Uh… ten, I think. I’ll text you when I get there.” It was the least I could do.
They sandwiched me between them—my two slices of soft-sweet bread slathered in creamy butter—I savored this goodness all up. I quickly went up the stairs, ignoring the little balls with blinking eyes, rolling on each step, and chirping their chirps. There it was, my door. I’m opening this door, turning this knob. Don’t hesitate. My hands turned the knob, I bored over the light shining over my tiled floor. Light birds chirped somewhere outside my home. I changed the skin of my clothes to fresh ones. The skip in my steps never stumbled down the stairs, humming and dancing with myself because it’s what today was. Before I got out the door, braced myself to face the world outside my four corner walls, the curtains waved slightly with dust mites for years to come, the t.v. screening the next president-elect, and parents I couldn’t be happier to have—I heard the ticking of my heart shifting into place. I turned back, grabbed the tossed lid laying underneath the coffee table, the box on top, waved out to Mrs. Hatchet who scowled and aged more than ever. I bellowed and jumped because I was young, alive, and never wanted to wake up.
“Do you think he’s going to be ok, Papi?” Mom asked, at the entrance of our front door.
“I think he’s going to be just fine. Do we have….” Dad replied. The hinges screeched softly as he shut the door.
A cream-colored cat, unbeknownst to me and my parents, curled up its sapphire eyes, its lone tail wiggled out another like it, fading into a cloud of smoke.
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