The Kiss Principle (Hazardverse: Sidetracks)

17

That night turned into the next day, and somehow, I didn’t die. That was a good reminder: no matter how much it hurts, it won’t kill you. Life had taught me that a long time ago, but at some point, I’d forgotten.

I canceled my appointments that day. And the next day, too. I rotted on the couch in between bouts of robotically taking care of Igz. She was fussy, of course. I’d forgotten that babies can be in a bad mood too.

I didn’t see Mom and Cannon; they’d left at some point during the night. I got a text telling me they were going on a cruise. Good for them. Mom needed to recover from the trauma and my abusive behavior. Cannon probably needed somewhere fresh to wet his willy. Chuy rotted on the couch with me. I showed him how to change a diaper, but after that one time, I did everything myself. Igz wouldn’t settle down when Chuy held her. And Chuy, for his part, didn’t seem all that interested. I kept having to tell him to support her neck. And he kept forgetting to hold her bottle for her.

I wrote out texts to Zé: I’m sorry and Can we please talk? and I fucked up . But I deleted all of them without sending them. I thought maybe he might text me, or call, or something. Let me know where he was. That he was safe. I tried to think of something happy—a goofy picture, like the ones he used to send. Zé on the beach dressed like he was in a mariachi band. When that thought came into my mind, I had to go to the bathroom and turn on the water, and I cried like I hadn’t since I was twelve years old.

One day turned into another. And then another. We settled into something like a rhythm. I moved Igz into my room and got up with her at night. I got her ready in the morning. Chuy watched her when I had to leave for work. He got better about holding her correctly. And he didn’t drop the bottle anymore. But he watched a lot of TV, and sometimes, when I picked her up, her diaper needed changing, and I wondered how long she’d been wet.

By the end of that first, horrible week, I remembered the first days with Igz: the unrelenting demands on my time and energy, the hazy days, the broken sleep. It was like walking through a cloud. I found my memories mixing with when Mom had first brought Augustus home, when I’d realized how much he needed and how little I could do. Memories of when I’d been older. When I’d started working. Throwing newspapers before school. Picking up mismatched shifts after school wherever I could. Going home to fall asleep doing my homework. The impossible days. That’s what I’d called them, later, when I’d been far enough away from them to look back. And they were here again. I could see them stretching out ahead of me, the rest of my life a string of one impossible day after another.

But it was better, I knew, than the alternative. Because I felt like I was moving through a cloud all day. Because I didn’t think—couldn’t think, even if I’d wanted to. Because I was so tired that, against all odds, I was able to sleep. A gray, grainy sleep. But sleep. And before I could sleep too long, before I could dream, Igz would wake me, and we’d start all over again.

Somehow, it eventually became a routine. Sleep and work and a bag of tacos or DoorDashed burgers and TV and a few empty words with Chuy and then sleep again.

Igz wasn’t happy. She wasn’t sleeping well, which meant I wasn’t sleeping well. She fussed all the time. She went through a bout of colic one night when the only thing that would keep her from screaming was for me to walk her, and so I shuffled through the night singing every song I knew by Sublime. I figured it had worked all right with Augustus.

When it started, I recognized the signs. Chuy began keeping strange hours. He’d stay up late. He’d sleep in, and I’d have to wake him at ten, eleven, twelve—whenever I needed to leave for an appointment. He’d spend all day on the couch watching TV, with Igz either propped against him or in her swing.

“What’s going on?” I asked him after the first few days of this.

“Why do you always ask me that?” he said, and then Igz started crying, and he left me to deal with her.

I tried other times, and I got the same non-answers: I’m fine , I don’t know what you’re talking about , even You always do this , even though I had no idea what that meant.

He started going out.

The first time he came home, I was all over him. But his eyes were clear, and I couldn’t smell anything on him. I told him what would happen if I caught him using.

“I know, I know,” he said as he went down the hall to his room. What had been Zé’s room. He sounded like we were playing. Like this was a joke we always told each other. “You’ll kick me out.”

The next morning, when I finally got him out of bed (it was technically still morning at eleven-thirty), I said, “I want you to start seeing somebody.”

He rubbed his eyes as he leaned into the refrigerator. “How are we out of milk?”

“A therapist.”

He made a noise that could have meant anything.

“God damn it, Chuy, are you listening to me?”

“Sure, papi.” He kissed my cheek, and I shoved him away. He laughed and said, “Whatever you want.”

But he skipped the first appointment—left the house and went God knows where. And he didn’t even pretend to go to the second.

The mood swings. The suspicious sleepiness. I checked his arms and couldn’t find any marks. I couldn’t find anything. And he laughed and acted like we were horsing around. One afternoon, I was trying to work, and a thump broke the stillness of the house. Igz began crying. I ran out of my office and found her on the floor next to the couch, where she’d obviously rolled and fallen. Chuy’s eyes were still closed, and in a moment of disbelief, I realized that somehow, he’d slept through it.

I hit him, a flurry of blows as I bent to pick up Igz. He woke slowly, moaning, his voice thick as he said, “What the fuck?”

“What the fuck?” I checked Igz as best I could, but she seemed scared more than anything else. As I tucked her into my shoulder, she began to scream in earnest. “What the fuck? You let her fall off the fucking couch, you worthless piece of shit. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I fell asleep!”

“I know you fell asleep, shit-bird! It’s two in the fucking afternoon! Why the fuck are you sleeping?”

He stared at me from those dark, sunken eyes, and I couldn’t stand looking at him anymore. I took Igz out onto the deck and walked her. It was almost June, and the day was warm, the sun licking my skin. Below us, the valley looked like it was on the other side of a piece of smoked glass, but everywhere else, the day was clear and bright with crisp shadows. I walked Igz, and I wanted Zé. Wanted him like it was the only thing I knew how to do, every inch of me turned toward that wanting. Like I could make him appear if I tried hard enough. Like a prayer.

He’d had fans and friends and a life, I thought as I walked Igz in the sun, in the shade, making a loop around the porch, the air smelling like sage. He had a family. He believed all those people loved him. And he lost all of them, all at once. And he kept going, somehow. But you—the thought was scathing. You, the first time things get a little scary, you sell him out as fast as you can. You all but said you’d throw him out if you needed to. You said you didn’t know what she was talking about.

I remembered the look in his eyes. The devastation. And how he’d said, I am not going to do this again.

But it happened anyway, I thought. I blinked to clear my eyes, but the valley was a smear of green and gray now. You did it. He trusted you. He took a chance on you. And you took everything away from him again.

Igz was settling down, so I carried her into my room and shut the door. We lay on the bed in the dark. My work phone rang. I turned it off.

He’s gone, I thought as I stared up at the ceiling, smelling Igz’s Johnson & Johnson, watching the afternoon shadows move. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.

The next day, my back was killing me again. I had an opening that morning, so I booked a massage—somewhere local, a place I’d never been before. I drove halfway there in shorts and a tee, and I saw myself in the mirror and thought, What am I doing? I turned around and went home.

When I got out of the Escalade, I could hear Igz crying. I ran to the door. He let her fall again, and this time it’s bad. He’s high, and he rolled over on her. He’s high, and he dropped her. He’s high.

I found Igz in the living room. She was in her swing, rocking gently, and her crying sounded like annoyance that had escalated, over time, into genuine worry. I scooped her up, and almost immediately she began to settle into hiccups and discontented noises, telling me how angry she was with me, beating me up with her little fists.

“Chuy?”

He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t in the bathroom.

I stopped in his doorway. I knew what his bedroom looked like when he ran. I stared for a moment at the emptiness.

Shushing Igz, I stroked her back. Her tiny body quivered with relief and fear and whatever else was working its way through her.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

And then I shut the door.