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Snorting, he spikes his fingers into his hair. “I’m not a great brother, Annalise. I’m not a great lot of things.”
I soften my voice. “Why do you say that? You’re great with your family and they adore you.” Truth.
He groans. “Rachel is a mess. Mom calls her a free spirit, but all that really means is she does things her own way.”
I see his point, and I’ve watched enough late-night, true-crime shows to know that when a woman gets described as free-spirited,it’s nothing but a euphemism forheaded for disaster.
“I’m telling you, Rachel isthisclose to giving it all away, and she isn’t going to get a thing in return, and like you said, Mom is a pushover. Rachel needs someone around to cut through her crap, get her head out of the clouds and knock some sense into her.” He grumbles. “Metaphorically, of course.” He looks toward the sky. “She used to text me all the time, but lately, since Tanner…My mother and my sister need me, but I can’t…I’m not there for them.”
“You have a job, a career.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re family. And now, even if I wanted to make a change…”
I wait for the rest of the sentence, but it doesn’t come. He’s quiet, kind of like the calm before the storm.
“Mom has been sweeping floors and mopping up little kids’ puke for sixteen years. It’s hard work and she’s not getting younger. The trailer is on its last leg, they’re down to one car that works when it feels like it, and all I’ve done is send a measly hundred bucks now and then.”
“Then send more if you can, but you’re doing your job. A job that helps people and that enables you to send anything at all. You’re not her only family, either.” He shouldn’t take all of this on himself.
“But I am her only son. Besides, Maria and Adolfo have four kids. They do what they can, but they don’t have two dimes to rub together. And, he informed me last night that he’s taken a new job: they’re moving to Santa Fe next month. That’s a four-hour drive.”
No, that is not helpful to his predicament—which I still wonder if he’s coloring a bit black. His mom seems content, confident, and in control to me.
In silence, Marco and I stare across the magnificent valley. I’m caught on his words and their heaviness,now, even if I wanted to…
He thumps his hands on his thighs, a habit, I’ve noticed, whenever he’s done with a subject.
The unshakeable affect is back, although this time I know he’s as human as the rest of us. I’ll have to keep that in mind for those times when I’m tempted to bring him along as a guest to my nonstop pity party.
“Ready?”
I stare up at his outstretched hands, strong hands that have soothed cranky babies and very adult panic. Hands that have carried to safety and traced lazy circles on my skin.
Nope. This is a good time to remind myself that those big old hands well may have killed people, too.
Now there’s a sobering thought to hold me in check.
He pulls me to my feet, and we begin our way up the trail, but it isn’t long before he notices my flagging strength and takes matters into his own hands.
I could say that being carried piggyback by Marco Gonzalez reminds me of strolls along the beach with my daddy when I was a little girl.
But I would be lying.
The faint sheen of sweat that glistens his neck as we approach the trailhead fails to bother me. I just want to lay my head against him…and rest.
∞∞∞
The sun is squarely in the western sky when we pull up to the chain-link fence surrounding the Gonzalez’s yard. I feel terrible for thinking it, but it’s a sad little place, although I give his mother high marks for making it a home. There’s a clay pot with bright petunias on the tiny porch, a fence-line free of weeds, and not a hint of the junk that bedazzles so many of the yards in this area.
Marco grabs my bags before I can, then waits for me at the bottom of the steps, frowning at a beat-up old sedan making its way to the end of the street. His mood has traveled south ever since the park. In fact, I’m not sure he’s been entirely himself all day. If I didn’t know better, I might think the upbeat moments were a little forced.
Do I know better?
We part ways inside, him mumbling something about texting his mom about dinner. I expected a stern admonition to take my missed medications, and it’s silly to be disappointed when it doesn’t come.
How lame am I?
Refilling a water bottle in the bathroom sink, I deliberate whether to double up or to consider the last doses missed and move on from there. As I swallow a mouthful of pills, Marco knocks on my door, then pokes his head in. “Guess we’re on our own for dinner. There’s plenty left over from last night, though.”
