Seeds of Hate (18 page)

"Sure. I enjoy everything. If it's good."

"Right. Like you enjoy life," I replied.

Javier pushed the cassette back in and pressed play. The music came out soft and simple. I couldn't imagine anyone hating it, let alone not loving it, but as everything else in my room, it had memories. Memories that brought out its importance.

"It's pretty," he said.

I chuckled. "It is pretty."

"Where's the rest of your music?" he asked.

"What music?" I replied.

"You know, your CD collection. Or I guess, for you, more cassettes. Every kid our age has a collection." He pushed things around and opened up drawers. Everything was clean and neat, no clutter, no collections, nothing that didn't have a memory.

"This is all I listen to," I said.

"You only listen to French music?"

"No, I only listen to that cassette when I'm in here."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it's home. I'm home. I only want home," I replied.

He backed away from my desk and took a seat on my bed, relaxing against the pillows. I watched him as he closed his eyes and the rise and fall of his chest slowed.

"Do you ever miss Nathan?" I asked.

"Miss him? Selah, I despise him."

"Now you do, but do you miss the old him? The way things were when you were younger?" I asked.

"It's not healthy to miss something that's never coming back. All you end up doing is hating your reality."

I thought over his words and chose my next ones carefully. "I miss my mom," I said. I walked around the room and then stopped in front of my window. I stared out at the sky, concentrating on the moving clouds.

He sat up. "But not your dad?" he asked. "Izzy told me that they were gone. Was it hard?"

The cassette quieted and turned to the next song. Our song. My lullaby. My feet followed the path of my ten-year-old body and I sang along to the memory. Refusing once more the reality of her death. And refusing the reality of Javier's question.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

I smiled and kept moving. "Dancing," I replied.

"By yourself?"

"My mother used to sing me this song every night before bed, and on the nights I wasn't sleepy, she would dance me to sleep." I closed my eyes and held onto my invisible partner, wishing her alive.

The room held still and my toes stepped lightly to the beat of her memory. My lips sang each word with precision, but no sound left my voice because I was singing to her, in my head, in my heart.

Warmth tingled up my back as a hand pressed into me and then another grabbed my wrist. I didn't open my eyes, too afraid of crying. He brought me near to him and held me. Not as a girl, but as a friend. Someone reaching out to another's pain and offering to help them carry it.

I rested my head against his chest and relaxed. His smell told me otherwise, but my mind, unwilling to see the flesh in front of me, believed it was her. Just this once. Just one last time.

We moved slow and steady to my lullaby. His hand caressing and holding me, encouraging me to let go. And so I did. I let it all go. The first tear dropped light and clear, cold to the touch and hard to the soul.

His lips moved to my ear and his words released the rest. "You loved her?" he asked.

"She was my best friend."

He breathed in deep. "I don't love my mom like you and I still have mine."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Bitterness. Blame. Pain. Lots of reasons," he said.

I thought of my mom and the idea of not loving her. "Does she try?"

"Does she try what?" he asked.

"To love you?" I replied.

He paused briefly, thinking it over. "I guess, but it's like she took too long."

I lifted my head and looked him in the eye. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"When I needed her most," he replied, "she ... she wasn't there."

"Is she there now?"

"Yeah," he replied.

I laid my head back down and wished my mom was alive. "Then focus on loving her now and not hating her for then."

Javier scoffed, "I don't hate her."

"Then show her that," I said.

We continued dancing until the song ended and moved to the next. When we pulled away, our hands were clammy with shared emotion. He moved back to the bed and sat down, his face in his hands. I turned the music off and sat down next to him.

"How did they die?" he asked.

"My parents?"

"Yeah."

No one had ever asked me before. Those that were close enough knew and those that weren't didn't care.

"My mom died in Africa. They were medical missionaries. It's a complicated situation."

"They moved there without you?" he asked.

This was part of the reason I never shared. It was hard to explain, and no one understood. "This was always a dream of theirs. To be AIDS missionaries, traveling the world, saving people with their medical knowledge. I was a surprise. A wanted surprise, but nonetheless, not really planned. I put their dreams on hold."

"I still don't understand how they could've left you behind," he said.

I grabbed the letter under my pillow and fingered the edges out of habit and out of need.

"At the time, I believed they had left me in great care, and they had leave to visit me twice during the twelve-month commitment. So really, I would've only gone four months without seeing them. Or that was the plan."

He shifted his weight and leaned to the side, propping his head up on his hand. "What happened then, did she get sick?"

I ran my fingers across the flowers on my comforter. My room was white, but the flowers were pink. The only source of color. "I wish it had been that easy to accept. She was murdered," I said.

"Murdered?"

The back of my hand rubbed across my eye and I bit back the pain I felt the day I found out. "They were visiting a township one day. High crime and poverty," I replied.

"What happened?" he asked.

"They got lost. Took a wrong turn or something. Sounds so simple. And ... basically ... I was told my mother was killed immediately, but my father was only shot a few times."

Javier lay back down and stared at my ceiling. "Your parents were shot down by South African ... vigilantes?"

"Yeah, I know. Sometimes I don't even believe it myself, but my mother's gravesite says otherwise."

"What about your dad?" he asked.

"What about him?"

"You don't talk about him like your mom. Did you not get along?" He looked at me with worry and hope, and I wiggled in response. His concern made my face flush. I wiped my hands along my skirt

"No, my father was great. The best. Whenever my mom would go out for the night, he always let me have ice cream for dinner. Ice cream and waffles. I loved it." Reflecting on those moments, the happy ones, always made me feel full.

Javier sat up. "What do you do to remember him?" he asked.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Why not?"

I swallowed deep and pushed down the layers of anger that had been building since I was ten. At least I had learned to stop the tears. Only my mother received those.

"He doesn't deserve to be remembered. He's still alive."

"But I thought you said..."

"He got shot, but he didn't die."

"Then where is he?" he asked, his hands falling at his sides.

I looked at the top of his knuckles. They had healed, but you could still see the marks from where he tore open his skin. I wondered if my dad had marks like that on his heart.

"He's still there," I replied.

"He never came back?" Javier moved to the edge of the bed and threw his feet over the side. "Why wouldn't he come back?"

I had repeated the same questions over and over to myself. Eventually moving on, because the only truth I found was that I didn't know.

"Guilt. Pain. Fear. I'm not sure," I replied. "He's told me over a dozen times that he was coming back. Each time has become a lie."

"You mean you haven't seen your father since your mom died?"

"I haven't seen my father since they both left. He didn't even come home for the funeral."

Javier grabbed my hand and laid it on his leg, palm side up. He ran his fingers along the lines and then trailed back and forth over my wrist. "What's he still doing there?" he asked.

My toes twitched in my shoes as I searched for my bottle of water. It was on the desk—too far for me to reach. If I got up, my hand would follow me and my hand didn't want to get up. My hand was quite content. I breathed through my nose and focused on his question.

"Working. Treating people. He's started up dozens of village hospitals and I'm sure has saved a thousand lives," I said.

"But he didn't save the one you wanted," he replied.

"No," I began. "He didn't come back for the one he should've wanted. I don't blame him for my mother's death. I blame him for not coming back home. For leaving me here to be raised by people who didn't really want me either."

"Do you ever talk? Does he call or write?" Javier's question brought me back to the last letter. The one I still had yet to open.

"He writes me. Once every few months. Updates me on how things are out there. And how it's everything my mom would've wanted."

He stopped tracing my palm and looked up at me. "I'm sure he would've come home if you just asked?"

"I did. I asked every month for that first year. All I got were excuses. That he was either finishing up the work they had started or finalizing things with my mother's death. After a while I stopped asking. I stopped caring. I should never have had to ask to begin with," I replied.

"Do you look like her?" he asked.

"My mother? I look just like her."

"Do you ever think—" Javier paused. He scratched his jaw and then continued, "I mean, maybe it was just too hard for him to face you?"

I stood up and walked away, my hand no longer wanting his touch. "No. No. No." I shook my head from side to side after each word, my frustration hiding behind clenched teeth. "I don't think a parent can ever find a good enough excuse to not come home and take care of their child." I turned to face him—looking into his eyes now harder than before.

His head tilted to the side, and he placed his hands on his knees. "Agreed, but parent or not, sometimes people just can't face certain fears," he replied.

His words were a first for me. He didn't seem fazed. Did he support my father's choice?

I bit my tongue, but I couldn't hold it down. "Easy for you to say, you have your mom." I looked away.

"I don't have a dad, though. I never had a dad."

"So that makes it easier for you," I said.

"How so?" he asked.

"You never loved him in order to miss him."

"Maybe, but your dad has his reasons. Mine had none."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I just know," he replied.

"You just know? Well, either way you still have your mom. I have no one."

"If you have no one, Selah, that's on you. Ten years from now, are you going to blame everything on your father?"

And with that he got up, pressed play on my stereo and walked to the door. He stopped with his hands on each side of the frame, his back to me. "Your anger and pain toward him can only last so long. At some point, they'll need to end."

I stood in the middle of my room for what felt like hours. I wouldn't blame my father for the rest of my life. I wouldn't hold myself in misery for his choices. I wouldn't ... would I?

When I had enough time to process what he said, I ran. I ran down the stairs and out the front door. He had made it to the edge of the neighbor's driveway. His walk was always the same, one foot in front of the other, strong and thoughtful.

"And what about you?" I screamed out and across the empty concrete.

He stopped, turned around and removed his hands from his pockets. "What about me?" he asked.

"Regardless of your circumstances, have you tried to make your life better?"

Javier raised his hands up in the air and opened his mouth, but he just stood there. No words coming to life. He dropped his arms and his head followed.

"I tried, but I was wrong," he replied.

And then his hands went back into his pockets and he turned around and continued—strong and thoughtful, one foot in front of the other.

Chapter 24

Merry-Go-Round

(Javier)

I arrived to school late every day that week. I avoided them both between classes and at lunch. It was just easier. The dance was tomorrow and every conversation would be focused on what they were wearing, where they would eat and how fun it would be. I knew Selah was excited, and I was glad Izzy offered to take her. At least she knew why I couldn't or wouldn't. Not that I had thought of asking her.