Star Witness

7

JESSE

Come Monday, I head for my bus stop at 7AM, texting Nico. I'm almost out of pills again. The distant mountains are obscured by fog, and there's a chill in the air that doesn't bother me. I miss the cold of Illinois, the kind with sharp teeth.

Like I always do on my morning route, I pass the Escamilla-Bloom house. My phone lowers for a moment. I think: Tomás is sleeping in there somewhere.

Just as I start walking again, my name is called from behind me.

I turn to see Tom's sister, jogging down the driveway. "Mia," I say, confused.

"Jesse," she says, which she said already. She pauses. "You didn't hear."

"Didn't hear what?"

"Tom was admitted last night." She fidgets her fingers. "To the hospital."

My blood runs cold, the drop and sway and not quite belief that comes with this kind of news.

"It happens all the time," she says, and I think it's reassurance, but there's something upset in her eyes. "Um, both my moms are with him."

"Is he gonna be okay?" I ask, almost wanting to grab her and dig my nails in til she says yes.

Mia stares at me for a second, then digs into her pocket; I hear the jangle of keys. "You wanna come on a drive?"

-

"He goes in really often." Mia is not as cautious of a driver as Tom, but she's better than Nico. We drive aimlessly, working in some circle around our neighborhood. "I mean, it's not the same every time, but... they call it an exacerbation. Infection, usually, or caused by it. Sometimes just a general decline." Mia hooks a right at 40, and I'm unaffected by the lurch. "They've been debating for a while, but he was coughing blood, so they finally checked him in. And people ask, is he going to get better, and it sucks because, no. Yes, he'll bounce back after this visit. But then things will get bad again. There is no getting better."

"Can I see him?" I ask.

"I'm not sure yet. Sometimes they wait on visitors, because of germs."

She pulls over and parks the car in a random lot.

"I'm sorry," I tell her.

She glances toward me. "Why are you doing that?" she asks, twitchy.

I frown.

"The scratching! Fuck. Why are you... why are you scratching yourself like that? Why are you doing that," and she puts her head down on the steering wheel and starts to cry.

I look down. I'm scratching my left arm, deep enough that it feels tingly when I stop. "I'm sorry," I say again, but I don't think I'm apologizing for the marker and skin caught under my nails. And I don't think that's what Mia's crying about, either.

The machines spin and spin in the laundromat we've parked in front of. I think about my mother and our laundry runs. The stink of change on my hands and her heels kicking against the machine, orange hair twitched over her shoulder. Her eyes were always pink around the edges; like those weeping Virgin Mary paintings, plastered everywhere at the Salvation Army. My mom was pretty enough that men treated her differently, fumbled or spoke boldly or watched us cross the parking lot in a way that made me want to turn and hiss. I never understood how she used it for herself--wheedling free cigarettes and rides out of strangers--but then let so many boyfriends treat her like nothing. Now I know. She needed what she needed, just like how, no matter my scabs, Nico has the Oxy.

I don't tell Mia not to cry, or that everything's okay. Sometimes it just isn't.

Next to the laundromat, there's a building called Maids N' More.