CHAPTER 15

Dale and I make tomato soup and grilled cheese with sourdough and Swiss.

He fills me in on the shots they had to get today and the grueling process of doing a million and one takes.

I try to listen and nod sympathetically, but I'm chugging wine so fast my throat hurts from the acidity.

I slice my finger chopping a red onion for the salad; Dale likes to keep the knives sharp, one of these days I'll slip on an artery.

In the bathroom medicine cabinet I find Bacitracin and douse the throbbing gash.

I howl when the antiseptic hits it and hop on one foot to distract myself.

I can't stop obsessing, and now my obsessions are all moody and sluggish from alcohol.

I've known a million kids that are cutters, and I get the psychology.

I've never cut myself intentionally, even the thought of it unnerves me.

I watch a giant red drop of blood gather at one end of the cut, and I quickly stick my finger under water to wash the red off.

I kind of get the distraction, the pull to the wound.

It removes your brain from the larger pain lurking inside you.

I hit it again with the liquid then wrap it in gauze and a band-aid.

It throbs like a giant thumb, mute, but screaming at me.

Dale knocks on the door softly and murmurs my name.

I feel like jamming my fist into my mouth and tearing the broken flesh with my teeth.

But what I do instead is open the door with a smile, hold up my bandaged finger to prove I wasn't just hiding in the bathroom eating my feelings.

Stuffing myself sick on a whole goddamned smorgasbord of emotion, an all you can eat buffet of Lana's regret dinner-special.

We eat in our little sun-filled kitchen and talk about plans for the weekend.

Dale does the dishes, and I pay bills on my phone with my measly bank account.

I usually send whatever is left to my parents.

They try to pay my uncle at least some rent at the end of each month.

Mom got some hours sewing costumes for a small theatre company, and Dad is still occupied with an early morning paper route.

Lexi has a full-time job now even though he dropped out of college.

He works as a janitor in a large public high school.

It's a big enough place to employ a whole team, and apparently Lex is in charge, he's the king of the janitors.

He tries to supplement Mom and Dad's income as well, but he hasn't got a lot to spare.

I've got to try harder to get work full-time.

It always depresses me thinking about Lex using his mind to put pink sawdust on puke and my dad lugging around newspapers nobody reads at four in the morning.

Why didn't I study law or medicine or finance? I can't save the whole fucking world or all the delinquents in Los Angeles; I should have been more practical and just tried to save my family.

"A penny for your thoughts," Dale says, wiping his hands from the sink.

All my thoughts are crazy, Dale.

You don't want to hear them.

I've got a scowly face on, and I'm chewing my nails.

I look up at Dale and wish he would disappear.

I want out of my life.

"I wish I had money.

And balls.

I really wish I had some nuts."

Dale wipes his hands on jeans and sighs; he's not into my depression or my lame humor.

"Maybe we should call it quits, Lan.

It's been a while since you were happy.

You could stay here until you find a job.

I mean there's no rush.

We could talk about it more or maybe try to see a counselor."

"Did you meet someone else?" I don't care if he did, and I'm not sure why I'm asking.

I don't really want a romantic relationship with Dale.

I may have never wanted it, but every time he tries to break up with me I react by digging my claws in deeper.

The freedom scares me and makes me feel sick.

As soon as Dale agrees with me, I immediately back track.

I'm like that annoying car in front of you on the highway.

The one that slow tortures you until you're cursing and biting down on your teeth.

When the passing lane finally opens up and you step on the gas, slow torture car speeds up too because he can't imagine driving without torturing you.

"Okay," I say, and I have to hold my jaw from producing the most inopportune yawn.

"Okay, what? We'll break up or find therapy?" Dale is annoyed.

He's crossing his arms.

This isn't something you just agree to without hours of analysis, not something you shrug at and stifle a yawn.

"You said yourself last time we went through this you and I were living together like strangers."

"What are you going to do? Try to find a new place?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet, Dale.

You just asked me two seconds ago."

"Why the sudden acquiescence? You were always the one who refused to budge."

Because every time I come into contact with Mozey Cruz I suddenly wake up.

"Because you're right.

I'm just stubborn and scared.

It's not worth it anymore to torture you with my reluctance.

I bring apathy to this relationship.

I know I'm guilty."

Dale just nods at me and purses his lips.

He's probably trying like hell not to grab the closest box and throw all of my shit in it.

To the left, Lana.

To the left, to the left.

"This doesn't have anything to do with you seeing that old client of yours in jail, does it?" I take the last sip of wine from my mug and set it and the phone down on the kitchen table before I answer.

"It has everything and nothing to do with it.

And he's in detention, not jail."

"You're such a bad liar.

That's illegal, you know.

You could lose your license."

"For going to visit an ex-client in detention who needs a little advice.

I highly doubt it.

You're searching for reasons."

I feel like he wants to fight and that's not where I'm going with this.

I don't have a drop of malice for this man who's been an amazing friend and companion.

"Listen, Dale you're right, it's time.

I love your filmmaking, and your passion for people.

Your homemade brew even when it turns out sour and your impeccable green thumb.

I love your Carbonara from your grandma's recipe and all those nights we spent eating takeout and watching old movies.

But you're the one who always says we could never get married.

It's you who thinks we're just killing time in this relationship."

Dale just walks into the living room without saying anything.

And that's when I know for sure its due time and this isn't a mistake.

After two years, Dale and I are over, and I didn't even hear either one of our hearts break.

I spend the next four days moving everything I own into storage, and holy crap, it's cathartic.

Had I known how good it could feel to get rid of all your shit, I'd have hauled it to the dump ages ago.

I'm light and free and full of creative ideas.

I sit in the bedroom with the balcony door wide open and watch random passersby survey my pile of goods I've left on the sidewalk.

They peruse my books and my vinyl records with care as if they're shopping at a real store.

I crack myself up by popping up and shouting down to tell them they'll like it.

Some people look up, shield their eyes from the sun and say thanks.

Others drop whatever they're holding like a hot potato and run away with the fear that they've been caught red handed.

As the day dawdles on and I've eaten four peanut butter and banana sandwiches, my pile slowly walks away, each part of it holding hands with a new stranger.

I spoon out the very last slug of peanut butter from the jar.

For some reason I'm being mean because I've got the burn to finish it all and leave the empty jar in the cabinet.

Dale never kept track of when we were running out of things, but when they turned up empty it was always my fault.

Congratulations, Dale! Here's to your new life with no toilet paper.

I'm sorting through my clothes when I decide to call Lexi.

I often call him on his lunch and we chat for a minute.

I put him on speakerphone, and he answers with a garbled, "Hello."

"Why the hell you answer with a full mouth, bruh, first fucking chew and then swallow."

Lex snorts at my rudeness and smacks his lips.

I pick up my coffee cup and slurp as loud as possible.

Then we're both laughing, and Lex asks, "What's up?"

"I broke up with Dale.

I'm moving out tomorrow."

"Really? Where are you moving? Did you find a new job?"

"Not yet, but don't worry, Lex.

I'm feeling really good about this."

"So weird, because you know, I just spoke with Mozey last night, and he said he saw you.

Said that you were in a committed relationship.

That you wouldn't really talk to him."

Oh the truth hurts like a bitch.

Especially when it surprise socks you in the face.

A swift kick to the gut just to illustrate how mean you come off when you're trying to protect yourself.

"He said that? When did you talk to him? I wasn't that mean.

I told him I would try to help him."

"I think you really hurt his feelings.

He could barely even talk about it."

Well, shit, fuck.

Shit, fuck.

SHIT, FUCK, FUCK! I don't want to hurt his feelings.

I just want to love him.

"Lex, I didn't mean it.

I've been here every night researching how to get him an extension.

My feelings toward him make me feel uncomfortable.

But that's my own issue.

I certainly didn't want to come off as an asshole."

"Well, great job.

What a shitty way to leave it.

You two were always crazy for each other, and now you totally ruined it."

"I've got a whole packet for him.

I can run it down today.

Some other legal options, immigration advocates, the whole bit.

I'll apologize, I swear.

I really want to help him."

Lex is silent on the phone, and I chew my nail well into the skin.

"He left, Lana.

The ship's gone.

It sailed out to sea."

Everything shuts down, my breathing and my nervous system.

My tear ducts dry up, and my eyelids scratch as they bang down like tarps over my fear filled eyeball.

His words ping pong around my head until they stop making sense.

What did you do, Lana? What did you do? How many times can you fuck it up with this man? "What do you mean he's gone? I told him to call if they moved him! Where is he now?"

"In Texas.

In Laredo, or Nuevo Laredo—whichever is the Mexican side.

They dumped him there yesterday.

He's only got so much cash and a backpack of spray paint."

"No.

That can't be true.

They removed him without a trial.

I researched the misdemeanors and moral turpitude charges.

He's got right to representation.

His son was born here."

"I think it's just like a one day you're in the next you're out.

It's a random process.

Like winning the backwards lottery.

Your card gets pulled —the winner gets tossed out.

I got an advance on my paycheck last night.

I wired him the money—he said he'd pick it up in Tijuana.

He wants to go look for his sister and then find his family in Mexico City."

"Do you have an address for him, a cell number? Some way to reach him?"

"Nothing.

Just the Western Union code for the transfer I sent him.

They'll notify me when it's picked up.

But he could be anywhere."

"Give me the tracking number.

I'll drive down there.

It's not too far.

I can find him.

I know it."

"He wants to go.

There's nothing left for him here.

His ex won't let him see his kid.

He wants to start over fresh.

I doubt you'll find him.

But if you do, he might not want to see you.

He might not want to come back."

"And that's fine if he doesn't.

Let me at least find him and run through his options, and he can decide where he wants to go.

How's he planning on getting south without any money? Hop one of those limb-chewing death trains? Walk? I could at least drive him to the capitol."

"So you want to go find him, give him your folder and deliver him to Mexico?"