There is no blow. There is no conversation I wish I’d had with him or last words of apology. There are no regrets or things that have been weighing me down where he’s concerned. And as much as it may make other people feel uncomfortable, there’s also no pain or heartache at seeing him lying there helpless and dying. I’m not numb to the thought of losing my only blood-related family because that would mean I’m hiding some emotion I don’t feel like I can deal with.
I just don’t care.
My family, my brothers, are back in St. Louis. The men at Blackbridge Security are all I’ll ever need. They’re the family I choose rather than the people I was saddled with at birth, and if there was a choice between the two, the decision would be the easiest one I’d ever have to make.
“You’ll call me?” I ask.
“We will,” she assures me, standing her ground beside the bed until I gather my things and walk out of the room.
***
I left my grandfather’s room yesterday with the intent to get a couple of hours of sleep, a shower, and something to eat before returning, but the fresh air on my face devoid of the antiseptic smell of the hospital made it impossible to return.
As I climb into my truck after a horrible night’s sleep in the dilapidated house I grew up in, I realize I may never return. It’s not like Mateo Costa knew I was there in the first place, and if he did, he’d probably spit some built-up venom my way and demand I leave. The way I see it, I’m giving him exactly what he’d want, and that thought alone makes me reevaluate my desire to never go back. Although sticking it to the man on his deathbed is what he deserves, my own mental health will more than likely keep me away.
According to the doctor, it’s merely a waiting game for his body to fully succumb to the injuries of his stroke. I’ll have a laundry list of things to do before putting this damn town behind me for good, so going back home, only to be forced to turn around again to take care of things, is pointless.
The drive across town is spent looking at familiar places, all worse for wear in the decade plus since I left all of this behind me. The faces of the homeless men and women on the corners and outside the tiny run-down stores have changed, but that’s about it. Hurricanes, poverty, and hopelessness have increased the numbers of those forced out to beg for help, and although it makes me lucky to have escaped, I can’t help the twinge of guilt I feel for not returning and helping those in the community I left behind so easily. I’m not a millionaire. It’s not like I could’ve made that much of a difference, but guilt still swims in my gut as I drive by my old stomping grounds — the gas station I used to sell drugs at, the check cashing place I had a gun pointed at my head when I tried to rob it.
There are places in town I refuse to go. I’ll drive hours out of the way in an effort not to see the park or the house I dropped Tinley off that night.
Fuck. Just being back makes memories I’ve stuffed down threaten to reappear. Thirteen years is a long time to hold on to things from the past, but I’ve managed this long. Once things are settled here, I’ll never have to revisit that pain and regret ever again.
I sigh as I pull into the parking lot at the middle school, angling my head to read the unintelligible graffiti on the side of the building. Gangs were bad when I called this town home, but they had never been brazen enough to tag the side of the school. It only proves that escaping was the best thing I could’ve ever done. Staying here was a death sentence. There’s one man from my past that made my life miserable, and it’s the very man struggling for breath in a hospital bed across town.
Years ago, Mr. Branford was the only person who looked at me and saw potential. School employees, from the teachers down to the janitorial staff, would shake their heads when I walked into a room. They knew it was only a matter of time before I ended up in prison or dead. Hell, there were many nights I felt exactly the same way.
My high school science teacher was the only one who took a chance and tried to convince me that my life didn’t have to mirror my parents’, but for the longest time, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to consider there was a way out, no matter how many times I spoke of escaping this town. It would only give me false hope, and I proved there was no hope the night I let Tinley walk away.
I clear my throat and shake my head as I climb out of my truck, refusing to let those thoughts infiltrate. I can’t change the past and wanting things to be different now is selfish.
As I enter the school, the hallways are bustling with rowdy kids laughing and shoving each other as they make their way to class. Muscle memory from the many times I was in trouble guides me to the front office.
“I’m here to see Michael Branford,” I tell the scowling woman behind the desk when she lowers the phone back to its cradle.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Do I need one?” I ask in a sweet voice, but this woman has seen it all. Day in and day out, she deals with kids with chips the size of Texas on their shoulders. Charming my way in isn’t going to work with her. I’m sure she’s able to spot manipulation a mile away, and her experience has made her skeptical of everyone in this town.
“He’s a very busy man.”
“I can wait,” I tell her, hitching my hand over my shoulder to indicate the three chairs against the wall, two of which are occupied by a couple of surly looking preteens.
She narrows her eyes, as her hand picks up the phone she just got off of. “Your name?”
“Ignacio Torres,” I tell her, mildly thankful she doesn’t recognize the name. I was a hellraiser in this school and the high school next door, but thirteen years is a long time.
She relays the information into the phone before replacing it. Moments later, a pissed-off kid storms out of the principal’s office, the little shit having the balls to shoulder check me on the way out of the office. My eyes follow him out, not pulling away until the front office door slams behind him.
When I look back, the principal is grinning at me.
“Mr. Branford,” I say, walking closer with my hand outstretched.
“You’re grown now. Mike is fine,” he says as he clasps my hand. A wider smile spans his face as he claps me on the shoulder. “Let’s have a chat.”
“For real?” one of the boys in the chair snaps. “Can I just come back after lunch?”
“You may have your lunch in room 103B,” Branford tells the kid.
“Detention?” he snaps before yanking up his backpack from the floor and storming out.
With a sweep of his hand, Branford urges me into his office, and I’m thankful he closes the door behind him.
“Was I that bad?” I ask as he settles in behind his messy desk.
“Worse,” he assures me.
“And the one that shoulder-checked me?”
“That one is a chip off the old block, honestly. His mother does her best, but some boys are just stubborn—like you were.”
“Stubborn?” I scoff, knowing there is a lexicon of words better for him to use, many of them much more derogatory and negative than simply stubborn. “You’re being generous.”
“You were one of the lucky ones, Ignacio. And I’m beginning to think that young man may be as well.”
“So junior high, huh? I figured you’d be retired by now,” I say, needing to change the subject.