Page 85 of Damnation
“It’s only been two days, Mom. And I’ve been really busy.” It’s partially true. And partially not. In actuality, I just haven’t made a decision yet.
“Of course, I understand that. But I would hope that amongst the thousands of commitments that populate your days, you could find a small opening for your mother, maybe? It would mean so much to me, Vanessa.”
I can’t help but give a snort inside my head because I can see the game she’s playing. The same one as always: trying to make me feel sorry for her and then playing on my guilty feelings because she knows it will always work on me. “Okay, Mom. I accept your invitation. Or rather, we accept. Thomas will come too, as you suggested, but I can’t tell you when. Right now, I’m struggling to catch my breath between work and school commitments. But I promise you that I will do my best to make time.” I take a drink of my coffee and immediately wipe my mouth with a napkin.
“Okay, I’ll be waiting for you call, then. In any case, I was thinking of making a reservation at Maple Garden. Does Thomas eat meat?” she asks with a breeziness that feels so out of place for her, especially when she’s talking about the boy she kicked me out over. But I chooseto ignore this. I suppose this is her way of apologizing and trying to make a new start.
“I thought we were going to eat at home? But either way, he doesn’t have any food restrictions; anything will be fine.”
“Eating at home was the plan, but then Victor and I thought it might have felt too formal.”
So Victor will be there too…fantastic.
There’s a moment of silence, and then she adds: “Tell me, how are you doing? Is school going well?”
“It’s challenging, like always,” I answer vaguely, dusting muffin residue from my shirt.
“Well, you know, hard work always wins in the end.” It’s a mantra of hers that I know by heart.
“Yeah, I hope that’s true. At least then this will all have been worth it.” I glance quickly at my wristwatch and decide it’s time for me to go. We exchange a few more pleasantries before saying goodbye. I finish my breakfast, put a tip on the table, and go to the register, but when it’s my turn to pay and I’m just about to reach for my wallet, Thomas materializes at my side. He asks the cashier for a pack of Marlboro Reds and, without giving me a chance to do anything, also pays for my breakfast. The checkout guy gives him the receipt, and he crumples it in his fist before slipping it into his pocket with a sly little grin. I glare at him, but he ignores me, deliberately.
As we head for the exit, he drapes an arm around my shoulders and kisses my left temple. “You always complain that I’m not gentlemanly. But when I do some gentlemanly stuff, you still complain. You women are all the same, never happy.”
“I hate those kinds of generalizations; don’t compare me to other women. Also, sorry, but as far I know, you don’t work. How do you pay for all this?” I gesture to his car before getting into it. “The bike, the car… How do you always have cash on hand?” I fasten my seat belt and stare at him, waiting for a response.
“I run a human trafficking ring,” Thomas nonchalantly turns the key in the ignition and starts the car.
“Ha-ha,” I reply, not amused at all.
“I’ve had the bike for a while,” he answers with a more serious expression. “It got pretty beaten up in the accident, so before I left the city, I had my friend’s dad fix it up. He has a garage. As for the rest of it, my grandparents left a small trust fund for Leila and me that I was able to access when I turned twenty-one. Since I already had the basketball scholarship, the first thing I did was buy this car. But it spends more time with my sister than with me.”
“Why did you decide to fix the motorcycle instead of getting a new one?”
“Because the last memory I have of my brother was on that bike.”
I feel a pang in my heart that I try to ignore. “Were you ever afraid to drive it again? After the accident?”
Thomas shakes his head, staring out the windshield with his left elbow resting on the glass of the rolled-down window. “It’s an outlet that I need. I like pushing limits. I like taking risks. And I like to cheat death. Even basketball doesn’t give me the spike of adrenaline that I get when I take the bike out at top speed.”
“You like cheating death even after what happened?” I murmur, gulping.
“Especially after what happened,” he answers gravely, and I can tell from his suddenly darkening look that it’s time to close this topic.
We spend the rest of the trip in silence: him lost in his own thoughts, me working on my article but always with one eye on him, trying to spot some microscopic change in his face. After another hour of driving north, we finally get to Portland. The atmosphere hovering around us isn’t what I would have chosen, but getting to delve into what was, until recently, his world, his nuances and habits, makes my heart swell. And that’s why, when he suggests we take a tour of the city, I enthusiastically agree. Even though I realize what is behind his proposal: fear of setting foot back in what was once his home.
We cross the red bridge over the Willamette River and pass by the downtown buildings that gleam in the midday sun. We park and walk away from the city center, along small streets covered in dry leaves thatcrunch under our feet. Eventually, we find ourselves in front of his old high school. Thomas tells me about all the trouble he made and the teachers he got into scrapes with. Then we come to a large open lot that local kids used as a meeting place. They came every weekend to work on their bikes, fixing them up and improvising small neighborhood races.
From there, Thomas takes me to an empty and neglected basketball court with cracks all over the asphalt and a rusty hoop without a net. There’s a miraculously still-inflated ball abandoned under a cement bench. Thomas grabs it and starts dribbling with his right hand.
“Me and some of the guys used to spend whole afternoons here.” He tosses the ball at the hoop, sinking it on the first attempt with impressive ease. The ball returns to him in two bounces. “He always came along…my brother…”
Another dribble.
Another basket.
“He’d sit right there.” He points to the bench in front of us. “And he’d cheer for me.” His voice breaks a little bit, as though he can see the boy sitting there now. His eyes grow moist. “He believed in me,” he continues. “He was probably the only person who did. The only person who was truly convinced that there was a future in this thing that came so easily to me. He was so sure that, sooner or later, someone was going to notice my potential, and then I’d be rich and famous, and he’d spend the rest of his life in the lap of luxury thanks to me and my success. In the end, he was partly right. Someone did notice me. But I have yet to become rich and famous.” A bitter shadow of a smile curls his lips while he struggles to tear his gaze away from that bench.
“He said that?” I ask, taking his hand and entwining our fingers before resting my head against his chest. Thomas nods. “It’s not a bad plan. He clearly knew his stuff,” I answer tenderly.
