The Redemption Read online

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  The Redemption Copyright © 2015

  Published by SoCoRo Publishing

  Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review

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  Chapter 1

  Jonas

  I don’t want to stop holding on to her, but they peel my body off hers. I stumble backward, my eyes wide. I look down at my shirt. It’s soaked in her blood. There’s so much blood. It’s everywhere.

  “No pulse,” one of the men says, holding her wrist. He moves his fingers to her throat. “Nothing.” He frowns. “Damn. Her carotid’s slashed clean through. Talk about belts and suspenders—Jesus.” He shakes his head.

  “What kind of animal...?” the other man says, but his voice goes quiet. He glances over at me. “Get him out of here. He shouldn’t see this.”

  The men are dressed like firemen—but I don’t think they’re firemen because there’s no fire.

  “Body’s already cool. I’d estimate a good fifteen, twenty minutes, at least.”

  I love you, Mommy, I said to her. But she didn’t say it back to me. This is the very first time she didn’t she say it back to me, ever. When I say it, she’s supposed to say, “I love you, baby—my precious baby.” That’s what she always says, just like that. “I love you, baby—my precious baby.” Why didn’t she say it this time? And why won’t she look at me? She just keeps staring out the window. I look out the window, too. An ambulance is parked in front of our house. The siren light on top is twirling around but it’s not making any sound.

  I hear faraway sirens. They’re getting closer. I usually like hearing sirens—especially sirens that are getting closer. I like it when a police car chases after the bad guy or a big red fire truck zooms past our car. Mommy says when you hear a siren you have to pull over to the side of the road. “There they go to save the day!” she always sings when they pass. But not today.

  Today, I don’t like hearing sirens.

  I move to the corner of the room. I sit on the floor, rocking back and forth. I told her I love her, but she didn’t say it back to me. And now she won’t look at me, either. She just stares out the window. She doesn’t even blink. She’s mad at me for not saving her.

  “Is this your mother, buddy?” the first man says. He bends down to me.

  My voice doesn’t work.

  She’s my mommy.

  “Was there anyone else in the house with you two?”

  I wanted to be alone with her. I wanted her all to myself. I wanted to take her pain away. I was a bad boy.

  “We’re here to help you, son. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re paramedics. The police are coming right now.”

  I swallow hard.

  I stayed in the closet because I thought I could use the magic in my hands after the big man left, but then the magic didn’t work. I don’t know why the magic didn’t work. I was bad.

  “What’s your name, son?” the other one asks.

  “Get him out of here,” the first man says again. “He shouldn’t see this.”

  The man bending down to me waves the other man away. “You’ve got blood on you, buddy,” he says softly. “I need to make sure it’s not yours. Did anyone hurt you?”

  He grabs for my hand, but I jerk free and run to her. I throw myself on top of her. I don’t care if I get more blood on me. I hold on to her with all my might. They can’t make me leave her. Maybe my magic hands will start working again if I try hard enough—maybe I didn’t try hard enough before. Maybe she’ll stop staring out the window if my magic starts working again. Maybe if I say, “I love you, Mommy,” enough times, the magic will work again and she’ll finally blink again and say, “I love you, too, baby—my precious baby.”

  I lie in my bed on top of my baseball sheets. Josh lies in his bed next to mine on top of his football sheets. Josh usually throws a fit if he can’t have the baseball sheets, but this time, he let me have them without a fuss. “You can have the baseball sheets every night if you want,” Josh said. “From now on, I’ll give you first pick.”

  A week ago, I would have been happy he said that about the sheets. But now I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. I don’t even care about talking ever again. It’s been a week since Mommy went away forever and ever, and I haven’t said a single word since then. The last words that came out of my mouth were, “I love you, Mommy” when I was hugging and kissing and touching her with my magic hands that aren’t magic anymore—and I’ve decided to let those be the last words my mouth ever says.

  Even when the policeman asked me what the big man looked like, I didn’t say a word. Even when I heard Daddy crying behind the door of his study, I didn’t say a word. Even when I dreamed about the big man cutting mommy up with a knife and then coming after me, I didn’t say a word. Even when Daddy told us last night how the police figured out it was Mariela’s sister’s boyfriend who made Mommy go away forever and ever, and I heard Daddy say on the phone to Uncle William, “I’m gonna kill that motherfucker,” I didn’t say a word.

  I sit up in my bed.

  I hear Mariela’s voice downstairs in the foyer. I know she’s in the foyer because her voice is bouncing really loud and the foyer is the only place in our house where voices sound big and bouncy like that, especially a voice as soft as Mariela’s.

  I look at Josh. He’s fast asleep. Maybe I should wake him up to say hi to Mariela? But no, Mariela’s mine. I’m the one who sits and talks to her in the kitchen while she’s cooking us Venezuelan food. I’m the one who helps her wash the pots and listens to her sing her pretty songs in Spanish. I like it when she dips her hands into the dishwater and her brown skin comes back up wet and shiny and looking like caramel sauce on an ice cream sundae. Mariela’s skin is so soft and smooth and pretty, sometimes when she’s singing, I touch her arm with my fingertips and close my eyes and rub softly up and down. And her eyes are pretty, too—the color of Tootsie Rolls. I like how Mariela’s dark eyes twinkle at me when she hands me a pot to dry or when she sings me one of her songs.

  “Señor, por favor!” Mariela shouts downstairs.

  I jump out of bed and bolt out of my room. This is the first time I’ve left my bed since Mommy went away forever and ever. My legs feel stiff and sore. My head hurts. I promised myself I’d never leave my bed again, but I want to see my Mariela. Even if I made that promise to myself about never leaving my bed ever again, maybe I can make a new rule that I’m allowed to leave my bed only if it’s to see Mariela. I run down the steps as fast as I can. I can’t wait to hear Mariela’s voice calling me Jonasito or singing me one of her pretty songs.

  But Daddy’s voice stops me in the middle of the staircase.

  “Get out of here,” I hear Daddy say. He’s using his mean voice. “Or I’m calling the police.”

  “No, señor! Por favor,” Mariela cries. “Dios bendiga a la señora. Por favor, déjeme ver a mis bebes. Los quiero.” Let me see my babies. I love them.

  “You’re the one who told that motherfucker we were going to the football game—you might as well have killed her yourself.”

  Mariela cries really loud. “No, señor! Ay, Dios mio, señor. No sabía! Lo juro por Dios.” Mariela switches to half-English. “Please, señor, I love my babies—son como mis hijos.” They’re like my sons. “Señor, por favor. Esta es mi familia.” This is my family.

  “Get out,” Daddy yells. “Get the fuck out.”

  When Daddy’s voice is angry like this, especially when he’s yelling at Mommy
or Mariela, I know I should stay out of his way. But I don’t care. I want to see my Mariela.

  I run down the steps and across the foyer and jump straight into her arms.

  She screams the minute she sees me and hugs me to her. She’s squeezing me so tight, I can’t breathe.

  For the first time since Mommy went away, I speak. “Te quiero, Mariela.” My voice sounds scratchy.

  “Ay, mi hijo,” she says. “Pobrecito, Jonasito. Te quiero.”

  I wanted the last words I ever said for the rest of my life to be “I love you, Mommy”—but I figure speaking Spanish to Mariela doesn’t really count as talking, even if I tell her I love her, because Spanish isn’t real. It’s just my secret language with Mariela, like make-believe. Even Daddy doesn’t understand our secret language, and he’s the smartest man there is, so talking to Mariela, even telling her I love her—as long as I’m speaking Spanish—doesn’t count as breaking my rule.

  Daddy screams at Mariela and tells her to leave.

  I grab ahold of Mariela’s skirt. “No me dejes, Mariela.” Don’t leave me.

  “Te quiero, Jonasito.” Mariela’s crying really hard. “Te quiero siempre, pobrecito bebe.” I love you forever.

  “No me dejes, Mariela.”

  “Mariela?” It’s Josh. He must have heard her voice and woken up. He runs to her and hugs her.

  Mariela kneels down and hugs him while I continue grabbing onto her shoulders.

  “Te quiero,” she says to Josh. “Te quiero, bebe.”

  Josh understands my secret language with Mariela, but he doesn’t speak it very well. “I love you, too,” Josh cries.

  “It’s time to leave,” Daddy yells at Mariela. He picks up the phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  Mariela holds Josh’s face in her hands (which makes me a little bit angry because I wish she’d do that to me) and she cries really hard. “Cuida a su hermanito,” Mariela says to Josh. “Sabes que él es lo sensitivo.” Take care of your brother. You know he’s the sensitive one.

  “Okay, Mariela,” Josh says. “I will.”

  “Te quiero, Mariela,” I say, holding onto her skirt. “No me dejes.” Don’t leave me.

  “Oh, Jonasito,” Mariela says. “Te quiero, bebe.”

  Mariela tries to hug me, but Daddy pulls her away from me and drags her toward the front door. I beg Daddy to please let my Mariela stay with me. I scream her name. I tell her I love her. I cry and cry. But no matter what I say or do, Daddy makes my Mariela leave and never come back again.

  Chapter 2

  Jonas

  She looks so pale.

  “Blood pressure ninety over fifty,” the EMT says. They’re crowding around her, edging me out. Space is limited in the back of the ambulance, so I’m sitting down by her feet, clutching her ankle.

  “What’s her name?” the paramedic asks me.

  I see his mouth moving—hear his words. But I can’t speak. I promised to protect her. I promised her I’d never let harm come to her. And then I sat in that classroom and listened to fucking music on my laptop while she stood in that bathroom fighting for her life. My entire body shakes.

  One EMT holds something down on her neck and the back of her head. Another holds something down on her ribs. An IV is attached to her arm.

  “What’s her name?” the guy asks me again.

  I want to answer him, but my voice doesn’t work.

  “What’s her age?”

  I swallow hard. I won’t let The Lunacy take over again. I’m stronger now. I’m different now. Sarah needs me.

  “Sarah Cruz. Twenty-four.”

  She moans. Her eyes flutter open.

  The EMT repositions himself, making room for me to lean into her. I shove my face into hers.

  Her eyes are wide. Scared. A tear falls out the corner of her eye and down her temple.

  “Jonas?” she says. Her voice is nothing but the faintest of whispers—but with that one barely audible word from her, my teetering mind lurches sharply away from the brink of darkness and leans toward the light, toward Sarah, toward my precious baby. With that one faint utterance from her, The Lunacy retracts and skitters away like a cockroach after the kitchen light has come on. With that one word from Sarah, my mind reenters my body.

  “I’m here, baby. We’re on our way to the hospital. You’re going to be fine.”

  “Class starts in five minutes,” she says. “I have to go.”

  “Do you know your name?” the EMT asks.

  She looks at the EMT blankly. “Jonas?”

  “I’m right here.”

  “Sit back a little, sir.”

  I sit back. “I’m right here, baby. Let them work on you.” I choke back a sob.

  “Do you know your name?” the EMT asks her.

  Her eyes are wide.

  “Do you know your name?”

  She doesn’t answer. Her face is pale.

  My heart is pounding violently against my chest wall.

  “Do you know what today is?” the EMT asks.

  “Con law.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Who are you?” she asks the EMT.

  “I’m Michael, an emergency medical technician. I’m taking you to the hospital. Do you remember what happened to you?”

  She moans. “Class starts in five minutes. You have to let me go.” She’s strapped to the stretcher.

  “Stay still, Sarah. You’re hurt. You have to stay still. We’re going to the hospital. Tell them your name.”

  She stares at me blankly. “Jonas?”

  “I’m right here, baby.”

  She bursts into tears. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’ll never leave you. I’m right here.” I choke back another sob. I promised to protect her. I promised no harm would come to her. “I’ll never leave you, baby. I promise.”

  The ambulance stops. The back doors swing open.

  Doctors surround her and whisk her away. I jog alongside her stretcher through the hallway until someone stops me outside the swinging doors.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Sarah Cruz. C-R-U-Z.”

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Any known allergies to medication?”

  “She’s never mentioned any.”

  “Do you know if she’s taken any medication today? Anything at all?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  “Does she have any medical conditions?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Are you her husband?”

  My entire body quivers. “Yes.”

  Five minutes later—or is it five hours?— someone finally approaches me in the waiting room. “We’re running tests,” the guy says. He’s wearing scrubs. His eyes drift down to my shirt.

  I look down, too. There’s blood all over me.

  “Were you injured?”

  I shake my head.

  “That blood is hers?”

  I nod.

  “She’s conscious and speaking. Are you Jonas?”

  I nod.

  “She keeps asking for you.” He grins sympathetically. “The minute we can, we’ll bring you back to hold her hand. Just sit tight. We’re running a bunch of tests to figure out the extent of her injuries.”

  I nod again.

  “Just sit tight.”

  The doctor leaves and I sit back down. I’m shaking. My mind is not my own. The longer I sit here, the more my mind hurtles into space. I promised to keep her safe and I failed her. I’m losing it. I need Josh.

  I reach for my phone in my pocket but it’s not there. Where is it? I don’t know Josh’s phone number by heart. When I want to talk to Josh, all I ever do is press the button on my phone that says Josh.

  My mind is not my own—it’s bobbing and weaving and careening through space, trying its damnedest to outrun The Lunacy. And failing miserably.

  Chapter 3

  Jonas

  “You wanna go climb the tree?” Josh ask
s.

  I don’t speak, as usual. I haven’t spoken since Mommy left two months ago—not even when they sent me away to that mean place right after Daddy made Mariela leave. I never want to go back to that mean place again—I missed Josh and Mommy and Mariela and Daddy and my soft bed and I wanted to go home—and all those doctors cared about was trying to make me talk even though I can’t ever talk again.

  I knew the whole time I was at the mean place if I did what they wanted me to do, if I said anything at all, they’d let me go home to be with Josh and Daddy again. But they didn’t understand my mouth isn’t allowed to say anything ever again, not since my mouth said, “I love you, Mommy” and she didn’t say it back.

  “Let’s go climb the tree like we used to,” Josh says.

  Back when Mommy lived at our house with us, Josh and I used to climb the big tree every day—but now that Mommy’s gone I don’t care about climbing the tree. I don’t care about doing anything anymore. All I want to do is go to heaven with Mommy.

  “Come on,” Josh says. Josh grabs my hand and pulls me out of my bed.

  When I just stand there and don’t crawl back into bed, he smiles and grabs my hand again and drags me all the way downstairs, through the kitchen, out the back door, into the backyard, across the field, and to the big climbing tree.

  “Come on, Jonas,” Josh says. “Let’s climb.”

  Josh starts climbing, but I stand at the bottom of the tree and watch him for a couple minutes. He’s so much slower at climbing than me—he’s doing it all wrong. Oh my God, it’s killing me to watch Josh climb the big tree like he’s a fish. Mommy always used to say, “If you judge a fish by how well he climbs a tree, he’ll always fail—so why not let the poor little fishy swim, instead?” Well, I’m sorry but it’s true—Josh is a dang fish trying to climb a tree. I start climbing after him, but only because I can’t stand watching Josh the Fish be so bad at it anymore.

  In no time at all, I pass Josh on my way up the tree. When I get up as high as I’m allowed to climb, I sit and look up at the sky, waiting for my brother. When he finally reaches me, he sits and looks up at the sky, just like I’m doing. I don’t know what Josh is thinking about, but I’m making pictures in my head with the puffy white clouds.