Page 87 of Interpreter

“Oh my God.” Milah pulls me to her chest, pulling my head down to rest in the dip in her shoulder.

After a moment, I pull back. “It was a long time ago,” I add.

“Regardless,” she argues, “I can’t even imagine how I would feel if my mami left me so suddenly.” Her fingers drag along my jaw, easing the unintentional clenching I had going. “Is that why you joined the military?”

I nod. “Our security guy, King, was a Marine. When I was young, he talked about this brotherhood and, even then, he still met up with those guys. I was alone and didn’t know what to do after college, so I did some research and ended up joining the Marines. I had found that brotherhood he talked about. I was finally getting my life back after her death. I even played the piano in the military band.”

“But then your hearing started going?”

I tried not to look away. “Yes. I didn’t pass the physical, and I was honorably discharged.” I laugh a bitter and cold laugh. “I was so fucking lost. I went back to my mother’s home she bought when she moved from Vegas. All I saw was her and music and failure. So, I left. I promised myself I wouldn’t be like her. I wouldn’t have hope because I wouldn’t love anything. That day, I killed the old Timaeus. Tim didn’t need a home. The street was just fine. The new Tim wouldn’t ever play music again.”

My lips purse, and I take a deep breath. “I became homeless—a wreck of a man until Anniston found Hayes, Vic, Mason, and me.”

Milah places a gentle kiss to my lips. “You got better being at the foundation.”

“I did. I didn’t want to, but eventually, the hate started to lessen as I found a family again. A brotherhood.”

Milah’s head tilts just slightly. “Are all of the guys Marines?”

I grin. “They are.”

“Huh. It’s like fate put you all together.”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“So, you don’t want the surgery because you’re afraid it won’t work?”

“I’m not afraid,” I snap.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to try. What if it does work?”

And what if it doesn’t? I never want to feel that kind of pain again. The pain of losing everything. Hope is a dangerous thing to lose. “I don’t need it. I’m fine the way I am.”

At least, I thought I was.

Ten times.

That’s how many times Tim has peeked behind the curtain to stare at the packed Performing Art’s Center crowd. Part of me thinks I should say something. Something encouraging. Something consoling. But I know him better now, and the last thing he wants me to do is baby him.

So, I’m not going to.

I’m going to stay strong and make sure he knows he’s not alone on the stage tonight.

I’m going to show my support the only way I know how.

I’m going to take off my shoes.

One and then the other, I slip off the sparkly heels that match perfectly with the champagne-colored gown. I felt like a princess this evening when I stared in the mirror, taking in my reflection. My hair is curled and pulled to one side of my shoulder. The teardrop-shaped fake diamonds dangle from my ears like a reminder of the gift I’ve been given. I’m going to go out there with the bright lights heating my cheeks and wait on my cue. Then I’m going to let every ounce of confidence that Felipe, Mami, and Abuelita instilled in me flood my soul. And I’m going to sing.

Sing for Tim who will never hear a single note again.

I’ll sing for Mami and her sacrifice to provide a better life for her only daughter.

I’ll sing for Oliver who hovers at Tim’s side, itching to take his hand. But even he knows Tim needs a moment.

But most of all, I’m going to sing for me and the last time I’ll ever get the opportunity to sing for these kids. For this community. For this country. For this man.

I’m leaving everything out there on the stage tonight.

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