Deanna Roy - Forever Loved

Then I slipped from her room, down the quieting halls, and back to my motorcycle and my own empty apartment.

My father sat on the sofa by the window, sullen as Mom planned their day. I had convinced her to visit the museums in Balboa Park, insisting she bring me a set of note cards from the gift store in the Museum of Art, one you couldn’t get anywhere else. I told her I had thank-you notes to send and only those cards would do.

A gift basket had arrived from Cool Beans, a bunch of coffees and chocolates and a couple magazines. Jason, who often worked with me at the coffee shop, was undoubtedly the one who inserted a packet of Hot Pumpkin Spice tea, his new nickname for me ever since I’d started dating again. Better that than the old one, Frozen Latte.

I was anxious for them to leave, as I knew the social worker was bound to return. I did not want them there — I didn’t even want them to know she had been coming by.

“Are you going to take a taxi?” I asked, hoping to hurry them along.

“I think that will be easier than the bus,” Mom said. “Arthur, are you ready?”

“I still think you’re just clearing me out,” he said.

“I am indeed,” I said. “I can’t study with you hovering.”

“I was hoping to catch the doctor, see if you would get discharged today,” Mom said.

I tried not to scream with frustration. “I can handle it. I am the patient, after all.”

They stood up finally and came over to hug me. “Should we go by your place for some real clothes, just in case?” Mom asked.

I almost said, “I can ask Gavin to do it,” but I just shook my head. “We’ll arrange it when they tell me it’s time to go.”

Dad still frowned as Mom led him out the door. When the room was clear, I settled back in relief. I was weaker than I was letting on, and sometimes, if I got tense, a panic came over me like I wouldn’t be able to breathe in at all. But that morning when I blew into the stupid ball and tube contraption, I kept all the balls up for several seconds. The nurse seemed pleased.

Now if only I could get this interview over with. I had a niggling feeling that the social worker was a problem, that she might hold me back.

I read one of my lit assignments for a while until someone knocked at the door.

I summoned my cheery voice and called out, “Come in!”

Sure enough, Sabrina came in looking frazzled, her dress splattered with paint on the shoulders and sleeves.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“Art therapy.” She smoothed the front of her blouse, grimacing at the blotches of color. “An apron wasn’t enough protection.”

“Little kids?”

She settled on a stool. “That would make sense, wouldn’t it? No, a few patients who were frustrated with my incompetence at the paint spinner.”

I choked back a laugh. “Are you an artist too?”

“No, I am not. Stick figures are a stretch. But one of our major donors bequeathed a large sum for an art therapy program, and I got stuck trying to implement it. We’re trying to hire someone with an art background, but the therapy component means we need someone who is also well schooled in helping patients work through grief issues.”

I immediately thought of Tina, who traveled to various colleges to speak about loss, and who had also just finished her degree in art and hadn’t found a job. “Does the person have to be a licensed therapist?”

“Oh, I doubt we could attract one of those with this job and pay scale. I’ve been searching for someone for a couple weeks.”

I reached for my backpack. I was pretty sure I had stuck Tina’s card in there after I drove her to the airport last week. God, that seemed like a lifetime ago now. But she had helped me. Maybe I could do something for her. “I know a girl who might be perfect. She does speaking tours and just got her art degree.” I dug around and found the pale pink card.

Sabrina took it from me. “Interesting. I’ll give her a call.”

“She does suicide prevention.” As soon as I said it, I regretted it.

“So you went to a suicide talk?” Sabrina asked.

Damn. “Actually, no. I was asked to drive her to the airport after one. She was nice, and had some helpful things to say. She also lost a baby as a teenager.”

Sabrina nodded, her thick bangs falling onto the rims of her dramatic glasses. “What did she say that was so helpful?”

God, what to mention that wasn’t incriminating? “That I should give Gavin another chance. He was the father of the baby. He left me after the baby died and just recently came back into my life.”

“Has it worked out? Giving Gavin another chance?”

“Oh, definitely. We have a ways to go. I have to trust he won’t leave again. But we’re working through it.”

Sabrina smiled and stood up. “That all sounds very promising.” She fingered the card. “Do you think you’ll be ready to go when they discharge you?”

I flooded with relief. I had passed. “Definitely. I just need to catch up on school.”

“I’m sure you’ll do well. Good luck, Corabelle.” She shook my hand again, then left the room.

I flung back the covers, too antsy to stay in bed. I had done it. I would be free soon. I frowned at the strange heavy feeling in my chest when I stood up, but it didn’t matter. I could tell I was better. This was just some lingering issue. Soon I would be home.

Sunlight poured through the windows as I lifted the blinds and looked out over the city. I could text Gavin to come over and bring me some clothes. By Monday I’d be back at school like none of this ever happened.

I pressed my head against the glass, reveling in the coolness on my face. Everything was going to be perfect from now on.

My phone buzzed for the third time in a half hour as I dropped the hood of a Tahoe into place and wiped my hands on a shop towel. I glanced at the screen to make sure it wasn’t Corabelle. She had written earlier asking me to bring her some clothes.

Nope, still Rosa, a prostitute I used to visit in Mexico.

I didn’t know what she wanted, but I quit seeing her completely once Corabelle came back. My little vice of only sleeping with paid women was over and done.

But three calls in a short period made me wonder what might be going on with her. The last time I left her apartment in Tijuana, I’d gotten into a fight with a man outside her building and taken his gun. She lived in a tough neighborhood, and “Sideburns” might be hanging around looking for me. I hoped that this hadn’t somehow come back to involve her.

I tossed the keys to Mario and said, “I think I need to answer this,” and headed out the back door. I punched the call button and braced myself for something tough.

“Hey, Rosa.”

I got silence at first, then finally she said, “Gavinito.”

“I’m not used to you calling me.”

“I — I must speak with you now.” Her voice was shaky, and I pictured that asshole from her street standing behind her with a knife at her throat.

“Are you okay? Is someone trying to hurt you?”

“No. No hurt. I have problem. Big problem. I must see you.”

I leaned against the bricks of the back wall of the garage. “Rosa, I can’t come anymore. I have a girlfriend now. She wouldn’t like it.”

The line went silent again.

“I’m sorry, Rosa. Are you all right? Do you need money?” I didn’t have much of anything to give her, but I guess I could try. She’d been there for me on the worst night of my life, right after my illegal vasectomy, lost and in pain.

“That is not it. I — I don’t know what to say. How to say it.”

“Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“I have a little boy. He is three.”

That was a surprise. “Okay…I guess you keep him hidden. I never saw him.”

Her voice wavered. “He lives with my cousin Letty.”

Why was she telling me this? “What did you need me to do, Rosa?”

“They have trouble. My cousin’s husband leave her.”

I waited her out, still not sure how this involved me.

“I need to get my boy.”

“Did you want me to take you there?”

I heard her intake a breath, as if she had not thought of it. “Yes, yes! That is good idea.”

“I don’t have a car, but I could borrow one.”

“My brother has a car.”

Why wasn’t her brother taking her then? “Rosa, what’s going on? Why are you asking me all this? Don’t you have family? Some friends there?”

The line went silent for a moment. I looked out over the street, tapping my boot. I should try to listen to her, to understand, but she was part of my past. I wanted to leave her behind.

“Gavin, the little boy is yours.”

The world went gray, and I couldn’t respond. This was impossible. I was snipped. She was confused. I squeezed the back of my neck in irritation as I realized something was really off.

“Rosa, I can’t have babies anymore. I got—” I wasn’t sure if she would know the word. “I got a vasectomy. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, you got it the day we met. I remember.”

“So, the boy can’t be mine.”

“But he is. He cannot be any other.”

“Rosa, you know I like you. But in your…your line of work, couldn’t he belong to anyone? Besides, he’s three years old. Why didn’t you tell me about him before?”

Bud stuck his head out the back door. “Think you can take one more belt job today?”

I froze, wondering if he’d heard anything. He stared at me with a question on his face, so I glanced at my watch and nodded. “Rosa, I have to get back to work. I’m sorry. I wish I could help you. Just be safe, okay?”