Face Of The Monster

21 - Blood

Tiago grips my fingers, his knuckles turning white. It's Monday and we're outside of Enrique's room at the rehab facility. I have not been to visit him here, and the kids haven't been to visit at all. I can feel Cande's discomfort in the way she keeps fidgeting with the zipper of her jacket. Normally, I would have reached over and stilled her hand. Unfortunately, this isn't normally. I don't know what she'll do if I touch her.

It's so nice to have a break from home and all its intruders. Isabel has been crying on and off, pulling my arm and trying to talk to me about "modern recovery options". There are hippie communes in upstate new york, buddhist retreats in rural Arizona. She says they're proven to work better than "western medicine". I say she's insane.

His mother has been cooking furiously, which I suppose is her way of dealing with this. I haven't talked to her and she hasn't talked to me, but she shoved a Tupperware container of tamales under my arm before we left to take to her son.

If anything, the cousins have gotten worse. They have graduated from simple vandalism to acts of assault. The bruise on Tiago's cheek has healed, but now he has a series of cuts on his arm from when Sofia shoved him down the stairs yesterday. I had to rush him to the emergency room. Even then, Isabel refused to believe her little angels had done anything wrong. They've been tormenting Duckie as well, trapping him under thick blankets until someone walks by are realizes that the wriggling mass on the couch is, in fact, a dog. They like to kick him around like a hockey puck on the kitchen floor. Worse yet, on Friday they cut off the tip of his ear with a pair of fabric scissors. I can't remember the last time I yelled that loud.

But now we're at Riverside Stroke Rehabilitation Center in San Francisco, a location that is nowhere in sight of a river, and the demon children are out of my mind. I squeeze Tiago's hand and tell him, "There's nothing to be worried about, Buddy. It's just your Papa."

"You said he's different now," Ti says, his fingers lodged in his mouth.

I did give them a little talk about strokes before we came here. Here's what a stroke is, this is what it does to your body, this is what it does to your brain, here's how you get better. I told them Papa's face would be droopy on one side like a half melted snowman and Tiago started to giggle. Then he thought about it for another second and began to sob.

I kneel down beside him, ignoring Cande's impatient huff. "He's not different," I tell him. His big brown eyes latch onto mine, looking for a truth to believe. "He's the same person. All that's different is, now there are some things he can't do. Alright? He still loves you."

"But he's different."

I rest my head on his soft tummy. "Think of it like this," I say. "Do you remember Martin in your first-grade class?"

Tiago nods his head. Of course he does. Martin caused quite the upset in our house. He was in a car crash, that poor boy, and ended up with a prosthetic leg. All the kids in the class were simultaneously terrified and in awe.

"Remember how Martin was just the same person when he came back?" I say. "He was just the same, only his leg was plastic. But the inside of him didn't change at all."

Only, Tiago shakes his head at me. "His insides changeded, Mommy," he informs me. "He used to told jokes and make funny noises as lunch, but now he sits by himself and if you try to sit next to him he cries. He's a big baby. And he always gots in trouble now and he throwed his leg at the teacher and he yelled at her and she telled him to go to the principal but he says, fuck you lady and runned away."

By the end of his ramble, Tiago is crying again. His big sister looks haughtily down at him, her arms crossed. She would be on her phone, but I took it away after she ran off.

I squeeze my son's arms, trying to take in all of what he just said. "You shouldn't say that word," I tell him.

"I know." Tiago cries harder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

There are people in this hallway, other families and aids and recovering stroke patients with walkers. I hide my face in Tiago's shirt, too embarrassed to meet anyone's eye. I feel like crying as well. "Ti," I say, carefully constructing the sentence in my head before I say it out loud, "Martin is a kid, but your Papa is an adult. He might be a little bit sad that he can't do things he used to do, but he will never stop loving you. Understand?"

Tiago sniffles. "I don't want to see him," he blurts out. "I don't wanna."

I hope to god that Ricky can't hear us through the door. I shush my son, trying to dissect the pain on his face. There's nothing there but discomfort and tears. "Oh, honey. Don't you want to see your dad? Don't you miss him?"

Tiago shakes his head furiously. "I don't wanna," he repeats. "Don't make me, Mommy, please! I'm scared."

A quick spark of rage interrupts my sympathy. It isn't Ricky's fault he had a stroke, is it? He shouldn't have to be all alone just because a surgeon hit a blood vessel in his brain. "Fine," I say, "but your sister and I are going in. You can stay right here."

Cande glares at me. "I'm staying with Ti."

I want to slap them both, but I hold myself back. "Alright." I take a deep breath, willing myself not to explode on them. "Stay right here. I'll be out in a few minutes."

They stare at me, Tiago with his watery baby eyes and Cande with her cold, slightly uncertain ones. I can tell that past the rough exterior, part of her wants me to yell at her, wants me to make her go. I won't. I don't have the energy.

I open the door and leave them behind, allowing myself a sigh of relief. It's quiet now, still. I feel the anger diffuse from my body like water swirling down the drain, all gone at once. I slump against the door, muscles unwinding. I haven't slept since . . . since when? Since I went to visit Phoebe, I suppose. Since she held me on her couch and let me drift away in her strong arms.

Ricky's room is awash with soft colors, blues and purples reaching out with soothing hands. It smells mainly of a contrived vanilla, but beneath it there is sweat and waste and dirt. There are three beds. The first is empty, the last has a curtain drawn, occupant hidden. My husband lays in the middle one. Unless I'm making it up, his eyes smile when he sees me.

"Darling," I breath, approaching his bed. "Look how pale you are."

There's a soft little disappointment nursing in my stomach, something pathetic and unworthy of sustenance. I don't know what I was expecting; a sudden transformation? A full smile? A sentence, a word, a sound? Of course not. Nothing has changed and I should have known that nothing would.

I think of his two children. the ones I promised to bring him, now cowering in the hallway outside. I think of his friends, calling to send condolences and vague promises to come see him sometime. I think of his sister, his mother, his family, distraught, but quietly terrified of his state. My poor baby. It's as if he has been dipped in a vat of contagious poison.

"The kids are outside," I explain to him. He blinks serenely as I caress the melted side of his face in my hand. "They didn't want to come in. Don't worry, they'll come around."

He tilts his head to the side, looking away with something like shame. My heart aches for him. "I still love you," I tell him, as if that's enough. "I'm still here."

The kiss is soft and one sided. I place my open lips on his, letting them close over his mouth. I part his lips with my tongue, forcing my way into his stale mouth. I move my hand to his pants, but there's nothing there. That shouldn't surprise me. He can't move the entire right side of his body. What makes me think that would still be in order.

He lets out a soft whimper of pleasure, though, which is enough for me. His moans are like wheezes, breaths in and out as I move my lips from his face to his neck. He sounds sick, sounds old. I pull away, suddenly very shy. I am kissing a stranger.