Last Light Falling (2 page)

I wrap my arms around Niki. Whatever bitterness I had this morning has quickly dissipated.

“So, tell me, how does it feel to be fifteen?” Niki asks.

Normally I don’t care about my birthday (since the accident), but for some reason, today feels quite special, as if something in my life is about to change. “Feels like I can’t wait to turn sixteen so I can get my driver’s license,” I say, wide-eyed.

As I take a seat at the kitchen table, I fix my eyes on the beautifully decorated strawberry cake topped with fifteen silver sparklers and frosted in red, white, and blue. It looks like Myra went to a lot of trouble to make this for Gabe and me. I have to admit, something does feel different about this morning. This is the first birthday cake we’ve had since we were nine years old. But I don’t much care for cake anymore— not since our parents died on our ninth birthday. Even when Myra and Daniel took us in three years ago, we never celebrated our birthday with a cake. Maybe Myra knew that it would conjure up bad memories because we always started the morning with a birthday breakfast and
ended the day with a birthday dinner, but never a cake, which was perfectly fine with me. Why we have one now is puzzling, but I’m not about to ruin the festivities that Myra has so graciously prepared.

When she cuts into the cake, the aroma of fresh strawberries fills the air. As much as I want to eat, I let the slice sit on my plate for a minute, while Gabe devours his. Gazing into that strawberry cream-filled confectionery display extinguishes any thoughts of hunger I had; instead, it conjures up haunting memories I wish I could erase. These recurring nightmares have haunted me for the last six years.

Our ninth birthday couldn’t have been more depressing. We had no grandparents to go see that year. My dad lost his job, my mother’s sister, Angela, revealed her recent miscarriage, and my parents’ lives were taken from us in a car crash. The only thing remotely memorable about that day was the sweet chocolate frosting on the cake. The only present I got to open was a locket that my mother passed down to me from her mother. Gabe and I never had a chance to open any of the remaining presents, and from that point on, my life completely changed.

I don’t remember uttering a single word for an entire year. We stayed with our Aunt Angela until I was eleven, but she had a nervous breakdown and became incapacitated, from what I can only assume was a deep depression. Her husband was killed overseas during an undisclosed military training accident, and she hadn’t been able to bear any children since her miscarriage. Couple that with the burden of raising two young kids who lost their parents, and I can understand why her life was unsettling. The courts ruled that she was unfit to care for us, so we were sent to a foster home. After a year in the system, we were taken in by Myra and Daniel, our new, and hopefully our last, foster parents. I don’t know how Gabe responds, but when I’m asked about my parents, I just hastily say they died. I keep it short and simple. I try to erase the details in my head, but sometimes it’s just impossible. Gabe and I were in the car with my parents when it happened. I can recall every detail of that moment. It replays in my head over and over.

That day, the hospital called to tell my father that his mother had a heart attack and was in critical condition. At that moment—when your eyes are open, but you don’t see anything except what’s rolling through your mind—I had a premonition of a man dressed in black standing in front of a blood-red flag with seven black stripes. Nothing has ever been so tattooed on my mind. My heart suddenly sunk to the floor. I had no idea what it meant or where it came from. That vision was quickly derailed by the scampering of my parents panicking about our grandmother’s
condition. They insisted we stay at home, but we desperately convinced them otherwise. I couldn’t bear the thought of staying at home and waiting impatiently to find out if my only living grandparent was okay.

We quickly ran out the door and raced to the hospital. Imagine what five seconds can do to alter the course of your life. That is all it would have taken to avoid the unthinkable.

My father never ran the old, battered stop sign across the railroad tracks on Wright Street. It was an on-going joke about his Boy-Scout nature when it came to traffic laws. But that day, he raced as fast as he could past the rusted sign. And out of nowhere, we were plowed on the driver’s side by a fully packed cement truck. In that one instant, time stopped.

My mother and father turned almost completely around from the sheer brutal impact. My dad’s glasses stuck to the ceiling of the car, and I could almost see every bead of broken glass suspended in the air. The car flipped over and over, tossing us like rag dolls. Fortunately, for Gabe and me, our seatbelts secured us tightly.

The impact of the truck was too great for our vehicle to protect my father from his fatal injuries. The airbags failed to deploy, and my father’s head smashed into the steering wheel, breaking his neck, and killing him almost instantly. I turned to see if Gabe was hurt; he was disoriented by the crash, but he seemed to be intact, without any visible injuries.

As adrenalin pumped through my veins, I crawled out the shattered window to get to my mother. The ceiling was caved in, and I couldn’t reach her in the front seat. As I opened the smashed-in passenger door, I saw her eyes fighting to stay open, as blood dripped down from the side of her head and ear. She was almost unrecognizable. I knew right away she sustained severe internal injuries by the way she was grimacing and holding her side. I knew she was dying.

My insides shriveled as my mother gasped for one last breath of life. I tightly held her face, sobbing until my tear ducts ran dry and irritated. The adrenaline was quickly wearing off, and so was my will to sit up. My body couldn’t stabilize me anymore, so I collapsed to the ground and stayed there until the ambulance came.

The choices we make decide the fate of our destiny. Today is the beginning of mine, and it’s all too depressing to try and understand the significance, if there is any.

As I continue to gaze intently at the colorful festive cake on the table, it dawns on me. I remember what Niki told me last summer during
the Fourth of July festival.

Myra had another daughter named Grace, Niki’s younger sister. Grace was the perfect student and model citizen. She was the most caring and giving individual in her community. She gave up every bit of her spare time, helping others even when she didn’t have to and asking for nothing in return. She had the fervor and vigor to take on the world with compassion, and she didn’t care what it took to do it. She sacrificed every ounce of her life to change people with her kindness, even if it meant changing only one person. I truly believe she was chosen for a much-needed cause in this world that many of us so seemingly avoid— selflessness.

On the early evening of July fourth, Grace’s fifteenth birthday, she finished a long day of volunteering at the homeless shelter and couldn’t wait to go home for her family’s annual firework festivities. On her way back to the car where Niki was waiting, Grace fell lifeless on the pavement. A gunshot to the head killed her instantly. It was a useless act of bloodshed that had nothing to do with her—it was collateral damage resulting from a gang dispute. An innocent victim plagued by yet another string of street violence.

Myra never mentioned anything about Grace’s death, nor did I feel the need to ask. I feel somewhat cold and hardened inside every time I think about it, and it’s all I can do to muster up a quick smile before anyone notices. While I try to enjoy the rest of the morning birthday celebration, I can’t help but notice Myra’s glassy eyes as she smiles. Could this specially baked gesture actually be a broken memory from the death of her daughter? As I stare at her right now, it saddens me to imagine what’s going on in her mind. I too have that broken-heartedness. Ever since Niki told me about Grace, I prayed deep inside that Gabe and I could stay forever with Myra and Daniel. Regardless of how Gabe may feel about wanting to be adopted, I allow my selfishness to terminate any of those hopes because of the kinship of brokenness I share with Myra. She loves me just as much as my real mother loved me.

As I stare motionless at the rest of the uncut cake, covered in red, white and blue frosting, I realize now the emotional attachment that I share with Myra will not easily be broken. Aside from our last name scripted in black icing, I wonder if this is what Grace’s cake may have looked like on her fifteenth birthday. Suddenly, I don’t feel like eating, yet I feel compelled for Myra’s sake. As strange as it may seem to be eating birthday cake at 8:00 in the morning, it’s worth it to see Myra’s face light up like my mother’s.

The meaning of our last name—Power—never sparked any interest until this morning, but somehow our last name that’s scripted on the cake has roused a curiosity. I know that both my mother and father were born in Ireland before moving to the States, so we obviously have Irish blood, but
Power
just doesn’t seem to speak “Irish surname.” It sounds more like the last name of a superhero.

The curiosity begins to eat at me as I enjoy my slice of sugary decadence. I look up at Myra and smile with approval. “You’ve outdone yourself, Myra. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything quite like this. It’s pure, sugary heaven.”

“Yes,” agrees Gabe with his mouth stuffed.

“Thank you for all the trouble you went through to make this for us,” I say. I know she must be thinking about Grace when she smiles at our indulgence.

“You are both very welcome. Fifteen is a very special year,” says Myra.

I imagine she’s thinking of her fifteen-year-old daughter. Maybe that’s why she made the cake—to enjoy the thought of remembering Grace in me. I get up from the table and hug Myra, and out of nowhere, I whisper in her ear, “I love you, Mom.” She squeezes me with acceptance, not saying a word, as if those three words didn’t shock her. This is the first time I called her anything but Myra. I don’t know why I said it, but it felt good to say.

The curiosity of our last name is still killing me, so I quickly excuse myself and go back upstairs to my room. I search the Internet, and I’m shocked to find what my last name means. Not what I was thinking at all—in fact, it suits us just fine. “The Poor Man,” I say with a slight eye roll. It’s evident that we were perfectly chosen for this name.

We were born to Abigail and William Power. Growing up, we had little to nothing in the way of clothing and food. My dad worked at a cement plant day and night, and barely made enough for us to eat well. My mother educated and nurtured us and did what she could for our family, but her health prohibited her from working. It hurt her so dearly
not being able to help with the income. She did, however, prove extremely valuable to our education.

We were homeschooled before we started the second grade at public school. My mother was a brilliant woman. Before she could finish her PhD in linguistics, her health deteriorated quickly, keeping her bedridden for quite some time. The summer before my seventh birthday, she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Every year that withered away, so did a little of my mother, who I deeply adored. When my mom left this earth, a part of me went with her, and I haven’t been the same since.

She was determined to teach us multiple languages when we were young. I think it made her feel better, teaching us as a continuation of her education. Her well-trained, educated tongue taught us how to fluently speak Russian and French. It became second nature to Gabe and me, especially Gabe. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t absorb in that swollen brain of his. I never thought much about learning a different language at the time because we were so young, and I don’t know of what value it serves for us now, except for the little joking chit-chat Gabe and I share when we don’t want anyone to know what we are saying. It’s sort of our secret language.

Other than a little Italian, Irish Gaelic is the only other language that Gabe and I speak to one another. This is a sacred language our Uncle Finnegan taught us when he was home from Iraq, waiting to be deployed again. For three years, my Uncle Finnegan, my mother’s brother, stayed with us during his retreat. He loved my mother so much that when her health was diminishing, he promised to care for her whenever he was sent home. He never married, but he always kept family a priority.

We lived in a house that was short of sub-standard living conditions. I owned three outfits and one pair of shoes that had been glued, taped, and stapled more than once in their long, miserable, pathetic existence. My mother couldn’t work because of her condition, and my father’s income was just enough to supply us with the basic needs. I never knew what poor was until I went to school. Comparing myself to others around me was absolutely depressing. Kids could be cruel, with their contemptuous remarks at my expense. I loathed every moment I had to walk the uninviting halls to my classes.

Ironically enough, the first school I ever attended gave a poverty-stricken impression, which reflected nothing of the kids who went there. The sunken ceiling was spattered with water stains that cast certain artistic figures if seen at the right angle, just as the ones we used to see in the clouds when we were younger and more imaginative. Unfortunately, social popularity replaces that when you get older.