Seeds of Hate
Seeds of Hate
Melissa Perea
For my husband.
For my daughter.
For the one on the way.
And for everyone who has ever felt unloved.
“No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”
NELSON MANDELA,
Long Walk to Freedom
Chapter 1
The Last Day of Summer
(Javier)
I knocked on my mother's bedroom door. Entering, I saw her unmade bed, clothes tossed about and several pairs of shoes scattered. One was hanging from a knob on her dresser. A little piece of yellow paper stuck to the side of her lamp grabbed my attention.
"I love you. Dinner on the stove. Make wise choices. - Mom"
I picked up the note and walked to my room. I reached underneath my nightstand and pulled out an old shoebox. The edges were worn, but it was clean. I smiled. The lid popped off with a flick of my finger and a pile of papers in various colors, shapes and sizes filled the space. I placed the newest one down, put the lid back on and pushed it back under. The carpet laid flat from its continuous path. Back and forth. Lid off and on.
A small section of my sheets dangled from the side and I pushed them in tight before adjusting my pillows and sitting down. My shoelaces bounced as my foot tapped against the floor. Pulling out my notebook, I wrote down three words. A smile touched my lips once more and I headed toward the kitchen.
Dinner that night was simple. I microwaved, ate and then cleaned. When our clock chimed ten times I got ready for bed. I left a small note on a plate in the fridge, put my books in my backpack and turned off the lights.
The house was quiet, I was asleep and my mother was gone.
The soft hum of classical music that played on a timer until three AM acted as a lullaby. The violin calmed my nerves. They were the most anxious at night, when I tried to sleep. When I was alone.
And yet, I liked being alone. But, somehow, it equally terrified me.
Poor choices. Poor choices. Poor choices.
A soft knock woke me from my sleep. I got up, walked to the door, unlocked the dead bolt and let him in. It was always him. Not every night, but most nights.
Four feet tall and dressed in Superman flannel, Giovanni yawned and went straight to my room.
"No TV?" I asked.
He shook his head from east to west. I nodded and followed.
"Did you leave a note for her, Gio?"
Another shaking of the head.
"But your mom?"
Silence.
"What if she wonders?"
He looked deep into my eyes. Nine years of life shouldn't look this old. His hair—parted on the left—stuck up in a wild array of distress. He never slept well either.
I knelt down in front of him and placed my hands on his shoulders. "Should I go write a note for your mom? She'll wonder where you are."
His chin fell to his chest and his shoulders rose to his ears.
"You sure?" I asked.
More silence.
I pulled out the extra mattress I kept under my bed. The first time, all I had was a blanket, and the second time a sleeping bag. After three times I saw the pattern. I wanted him to be comfortable. He had been my neighbor for a little over two years now and every time I saw that mattress I felt better.
Gio went to the closet, grabbed a blanket and went straight to bed. I waited for his breathing to slow and even out. When I knew he was asleep, I pulled the blanket up to his chin and said a prayer. His future had even less assurance than mine.
I tiptoed into the hallway and walked tight against the wall, dodging the creaky floorboards. Picking up the key he always dropped on our entrance table, I opened the door and left. I had stopped being angry with his mother when I realized it wasn't my anger she needed. It wouldn't solve anything, and it wouldn't ease the hardship of her position. This was life. Ugly. Complicated. Out of control. Lonely.
I wondered if most eighteen-year-olds felt this way.
My breath created little clouds as I entered the apartment next to mine. No heat again. I checked the fridge—a few drops of milk, old take-out, an apple and a slice of cheese. I made a mental note to go shopping tomorrow, nothing extravagant. Maybe mac and cheese in a box, his favorite ... some bananas and a couple frozen meals. It would go unnoticed by Gianna. It had to. It always did. No pain. No pressure. No judgment. Gio would eat.
I found half of a white envelope that had been ripped open, the word
bill
in red on the front side. Scrawling my message, I jumped at the sound of an unexpected telephone call. Don't answer it. Answer it.
What if it's her?
What if it's not her?
Don't. Do. Don't do. My life's failures and accomplishments could be surmised by these words. I let it ring and ring and ring. Regretting it the entire time. Until it stopped. Then I felt okay. Free from the choice.
I took my message, looked around for a few seconds and set the note inside their medicine cabinet. It rested underneath a bottle of Ambien. She'd understand. We had so many conversations and yet we never spoke. Not since Gio spent his first night. Her pride. Her loss.
I locked the door behind me and went back home. Gio was snoring as Beethoven's 5
th
Symphony rose in triumph. His blanket had fallen, so I lifted it back up and snuck into my own bed. Then I increased the timer for another hour. I would need the extra music. The extra calm.
Six hours of sleep and it would begin again. My same life. Nothing new. Nothing new meant nothing unknown. Or nothing from Nathan.
Nothing from Nathan meant peace. More chances to breathe. Continue. Live. My same life.
Is that what I wanted? The same? No adventures, no risks, no trials.
Be me. Make of life what I wish. Don't cower. Take a chance. The worst thing I could've possibly faced in life had been faced. What else was there to lose?
Chapter 2
Bad Moms, Good Moms
(Javier)
My chest and arms began to turn red as the spray from the showerhead pounded me. I tried to relax. To breathe. Burning away the pain never worked, but it didn't stop me from trying or from believing that one day it might. The water ran down my neck, over and across my back and then fell to the floor. I leaned both hands against the tile and watched the drain swallow every problem, pain, worry and fear—but they wouldn't fit.
I could still see them. All of them. Puddling at my feet.
Ten minutes later and the water turned cold. I grabbed a towel, got out and wiped away the fog on the mirror. My reflection said so many things, and as I searched for what it wanted me to hear, I heard nothing. When you don't even want to be who you are, how do you listen when you try to tell yourself something? I discarded the conversation onto the floor along with my towel and got dressed. There would be no resolutions today.
I tried to keep my mind on the simple and move forward. School started in two hours. That left me one hour to handle Gio’s situation, maybe see his mother and grab coffee. Or maybe Izzy would.
The kitchen tile was cold on my bare feet as I pulled out eggs, chorizo, onions and tortillas. I learned how to cook when I was ten. Eight years later it was still my mother's favorite and the only thing Gio wouldn't turn down. I heated the skillet, threw in the chorizo and cracked the eggs in a smaller bowl. The faucet in the bathroom turned on, as flushing water echoed behind it. She was awake.
I chopped a small onion, placed it in the pan and mixed it in with the chorizo. Light smoke spread throughout the house and carried the scent of breakfast. I heard slippers cross the linoleum of our apartment. Turning the heat down low, I poured in the eggs and turned around.
"Breakfast, hijo?" She yawned.
"Sí," I said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiled. I leaned down and gave her a firm peck on the forehead.
"You're up early. Que pasa?" I asked. My eyebrows pinched as I turned back to cook, hoping Gio stayed in the bedroom.
"Nothing," she said, watching me stir. I turned on the other burner, threw a tortilla on the flame and heated it, flipping it several times.
Her small hands reached from behind me, wrapped around my midsection and squeezed tightly. My eyes shut. We both paused. I turned off the burner but continued flipping the tortillas. She didn't let go. I placed my hand on top of hers and patted. She held on stronger.
"Did he spend the night again?" she asked.
"Who?" I asked.
Pulling away, she opened up the brown laminate cabinet door and grabbed three mismatched plates. She dabbed at her eye. I straightened in response. She set the table, ignoring me and focusing on the plastic silverware.
"Mama, I couldn't just leave him out there. Alone," I said, my hands out at my sides in defense. I moved to fill three cups with Tampico. My mother twirled a strand of hair between her thumb and forefinger.
"Javi," she said.
"Yes?"
"I love you."
My back squared as I clenched my teeth. "I know."
Four feet of sleepiness exited my bedroom right at the end of our exchange.
"Good morning, mijo. Did you sleep well?" she asked.
Gio nodded as a shy yawn escaped his mouth. He looked at me and back at my mom. His eyes expanded as he took in breakfast.
"It's getting cold," I said.
We all sat down. My mother relaxed and accepted the situation for what it was. I wouldn't tell Gio no. Ever. Our silence was balanced by the scraping of fork to plate and loud, hungry chewing. Breakfast was good. My mother moved into her bedroom to sleep for the rest of the morning, and Gio helped me clean up.
"Do you want to shower here?" I asked as he dried the dishes. He didn't respond. I knew he was afraid to say yes and afraid to say no.
"I checked your heater last night. It wouldn't turn on. I'm assuming you have no hot water either." He still didn't respond. "Gio ... she won't know."
His tiny hands rubbed at his eyes as he walked away and sat back down at the table. His shoulders hunched in and he leaned forward, resting his head on his arms.
"Take a shower. It's okay," I encouraged, trying to make the decision for him.
I took a seat and stared into his eyes. They didn't shift or lose focus. They just looked straight ahead—right through the wall that we shared. His cold apartment with no food and no mother just on the other side.
Sitting up, Gio nodded and walked to the bathroom. I followed until he closed the door behind him and locked it. My fist tapped the door and I whispered, "You okay? You don't need any help?"
My questions were met with silence, until I heard a clinking of keys outside our front door. I watched as the knob jiggled back and forth from the inside. My feet dragged over the carpet and I popped up the little slider over the peephole and looked out.
Gianna.
I unlocked the door and opened it. She stumbled back in her four-inch heels and hit the iron railing.