Page 69 of Not Made to Last

“And you’re here for which position?”

I swallow, nervous. “The one that’s evenings and weekends. I can’t work during school hours because…” I glance at Max, but don’t say anything more.

The woman smiles, but it’s so forced it makes me uncomfortable. “How old is your son?”

“He’s not—” I stop there, because who Max is to me isn’t important. The less people know, the better. “I don’t have a lot of experience,” I say, deflecting, “But I’m a very fast learner, and I’m not at school, so I’m somewhat flexible with hours, as long as I can find…” I realize I’m not breathing. That the fear of releasing my withheld tears has blocked oxygen in my airways. “Um… I?—”

“Olivia, I’m going to be honest with you, the position you’re applying for has already been filled.”

My heart drops. “Oh.”

“But—”

“I understand,” I interrupt, looking up at her. “If I had gotten here on time, would it have made a difference?”

Her gaze shifts, moving between my eyes, as if trying to decide how much the truth will hurt.

“I’m really sorry for wasting your time,” I tell her. “And thank you for your patience. With waiting for me and talking to me even though I’m… a lot right now.”

“You know what always helps me when I’m feeling a little overwhelmed?” Her smile is forced, made of nothing but pity, and she reaches across the table to cover my hand. I hate her pity almost as much as I need her touch. Her warmth coats my cold flesh, warms my icy heart. “A cup of cake!” Her grin widensas she looks over at Max. “I have just the right thing for both of you,” she says, sliding out of the booth. “It’s in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”

The moment she’s out of my vision, I slip out of the booth and help Max do the same. I rush to put Max’s coat back on him and then exit the building. As much as I appreciate the sentiment, a Cup of Cake isn’t going to save us. And neither is her pity. And I know that the longer we stay, the more questions she’ll have, and that’s the last thing we need.

The rain hasn’t eased up outside, and I squeeze Max’s hand, look down at him. “Can you please walk until you can’t anymore, and then I’ll carry you, okay?”

Max squeezes my hand back, and I smile. Genuine. And then I look up and ahead of us, through the sheath of rainfall so thick it’s impossible to see too far in front of us. I’m about to step out from under the sheltered eave when the shop door opens behind us. I cringe, turn to the woman. “I’m really sorry for wasting your time.”

She doesn’t disagree with me, just looks out at the rain. “I have a car. At least let me drive you home.”

“I can’t,” I say and step out into the storm. “I’m really sorry,” I repeat, because I truly am.

Max and I walk hand in hand, our heads lowered, his tiny steps forcing me to go slow. “I like the rain,” he says out of nowhere, and I turn toward him. He looks up, his dark eyes squinting as droplets crash against his face. “It means there’s something above us. And all around us. Maybe it comes from heaven. Like tears. From my mom and dad. From Dominic’s. And yours, too.”

I slow my steps even more. “So why do you like it, then?” I ask. “If it’s made of tears…”

“You can have happy tears, right?” he says, gripping my hand tighter as he jumps in a puddle. “Maybe they’re happy for us!”

I don’t understand how they could be, but I’m not here to argue with a three-year-old.

Max jumps in one puddle, and then another, and I watch him, transfixed, wondering how nice it must be to be too young to comprehend the realities oflife.

He turns, raindrops clinging to the tip of his nose when he looks up at me. “Maybe they’re happy because we’re still here… even if they can’t be.”

By the age of sixteen, I’d experienced three defining moments in my life.

The first was my mother’s reaction to me calling her “mom” to her face. I was only four years old, but I remember it clearly. She was so mad at me, so disgusted, so angry that this little girl had the audacity to remind her of her mistakes. Some days, I still see myself through her eyes, and I hate that I do.

The second was when Dominic called me Ohana for the first time. I’d just turned six, and he was four, and he’d been with us for a few months already. We were sitting next to each other on the couch when it happened. The final credits ofLilo and Stitchplayed on the television, and my grandparents were cleaning up the empty bowls of popcorn and juice boxes. Dominic took my hand in his, patted the back of it a few times, kissed my cheek, and said, “You’re my Ohana.” My grandparents stopped what they were doing and looked between us. I looked at them, conveying with my eyes what my heart knew it wanted. Within months, he was a Delgado. And I would forever be his Ohana.

The third defining moment was watching my grandparents being taken away in body bags. That’s… self-explanatory.

And I wondered—as I spent a few minutes puddle jumping in the rain with my three-year-old brother on the sidewalk—if this was another one of those moments. While he laughed along,squealing in delight to be rained on by the “happy tears” of our dead parents, I stomped in the pools of water, one after the other, and let the rain hide the tears of my anger, my frustration.

“Go, Ohana!” Max jumps up and down in glee, cheering me on. And so Igo. And I can’t stopgoing.I keep stomping on the rain-covered ground until my feet sting with the force of my actions. I push through the tears, through the silent sobs that wreak havoc on my insides. And I don’t stop… can’t. Even when a black SUV pulls up beside us and rolls down the rear window. The woman from the cake store pokes her head out, yells over the thunder cracking above us, “Get in!”

I kick a pool of water at her car. “We can’t!” I yell back and continue my path to self-destruction. Stomp after stomp, kick after kick.

“I’m tired now,” Max says, tugging on my arm. I hear him; I know I do. But at the same time… I feel like I’m nothere. Like I’m notpresent. I know I exist, and I know that I’m real—that I’m flesh and bones and working organs—but I don’tfeellikeit. I don’t feel like I’m living or breathing. I don’tfeelalive.

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