Page 109 of Gambler's Fallacy

My mother is on the floor next to the oven. Blood is trickling slowly down her face.

My vision goes hazy. “What happened?” I ask sharply, crouching down so I can look at her more closely. Her nose is bleeding, and her cheek has already started to darken into a bruise. “What did he do, Mamá?”

This is the part where she lies and tells me he hasn’t done anything.

That’s how it’s played out every other time she’s called me, no matter what the injury is.

“I…” The lie is right there on the tip of her tongue, and I’m preparing myself to fight with everything I have when she says, “I think I want to leave, mijo.”

My breath catches, and I think I misheard her.

I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, though.

“Okay,” I say immediately. “Okay. I’ll pack up your things. Some clothes, money, your documents. Where are your passport and green card?”

She sobs lightly. “In a box under the bed. It’s all there. Your birth certificate too.”

I nod. “Okay. Can you get up? We’ll take only the essentials.”

She lets me help her up, and I dampen a few paper towels so I can wipe her face clean.

I don’t know when she started to look so much older, but the tears and redness in her cheeks don’t help.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I don’t have any money, Javi. I can’t pay you.”

“Mamá…” I shake my head. “I don’t need money from you. I just want you to be safe.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” she insists.

I’m so afraid that she’s going to change her mind if I let her stand here and ruminate, so I gently take her arm and start to lead her toward her bedroom. “Where’s your bag? I’ll start to pack for you.”

She follows, feeling fragile and delicate beneath my touch. “In the closet. Javi, I can get it.”

“You focus on yourself right now,” I say, finding one of the unused suitcases in the closet. The only time we ever traveled anywhere was one Christmas, before the Step Asshole, when we’d gone to San Antonio to meet one of her cousins.

I wonder if I can reach out to her and get her to support my mom.

I open the suitcase and toss a few of her clothes. Then I reach under the bed and pull out a small container. It has my American birth certificate, her Mexican birth certificate, photocopies of my passport… but it doesn’t have her passport or her green card.

“Mamá,” I ask with dread. “Does Marcus know you keep the important stuff in here?”

“Of course, Javi,” she says. “Why—” Her voice goes high as she looks down into the container and says, “Oh.” A choked sob escapes her. “He’s not a bad man, Javi. He’s not. He makes mistakes, that’s all.”

“He is,” I counter, but I remember what Seven had said, how upset he’d been when I’d called my mother stupid for staying.

I put the container inside the suitcase and go for the Step Asshole’s bedside drawer. I toss out the underwear and socks, and I find a fifty dollar bill but no passports. Frustrated, I start rummaging in the back of all the drawers.

That piece of shit knows that my mother is screwed without those documents.

I still remember waiting in the USCIS office with her while she nervously clutched her documents. She and the asshole had done separate interviews and proved they were properly married before they finally issued her the permanent residency. That day, I’d wondered if my instinctive dislike of Marcus had been irrational. After all, he’d paid for the whole procedure and ensured she could stay in the country with me.

Nope. My gut feelings about him had been right.

“Where else could he hide your documents?” I ask her. “You have to help me look. We need to find them and get out of here.”

“Maybe I should stay,” she hedges. “I’ll talk to him when he gets home.”

She’s too close to leaving for me to give up this easily. “Where would he have hidden them, Mamá?” I ask her, trying to keep my impatience from my voice.

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