The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(32)

“Gotcha. I’ll put on my heart-guard and wear blinders.”

He chuckles. “You’ll be okay. People visit death row every day. It can be emotional, for sure, but no one’s ever committed suicide in the visitation room.”

I think that’s an insensitive statement to make, but I don’t mention it.

After hanging up, I leave the room and ask the young Hispanic woman at the front desk how to get to La Colonia, the Mexican restaurant I want to try. It isn’t far, a ten-minute drive. The place looks pretty low-rent, but it’s authentic. I order a fajita plate with rice, charro beans, pico de gallo, and guacamole with flour tortillas. And it’s darned good. I just hope it won’t upset my stomach; my insides are already topsy-turvy to begin with. However, the two margaritas help calm my nerves. Over dinner, my thoughts return to that summer of 1977, when my long-distance relationship with Eddie came to an abrupt end. The alcohol serves as a travel guide of sorts into my memories.

When I came home to Limite that May, the first thing I noticed was that my mother looked terrible. Maybe I hadn’t paid much attention the last time I was there, but it seemed as if she had aged ten years since I’d last seen her. She’d lost weight. Dark circles surrounded her eyes. When I hugged her, it felt as if I could easily crush her fragile frame with little effort. Dad looked pretty much the same, although it was obvious he was having a difficult time dealing with her. He took me aside and told me the news.

“She doesn’t do much anymore,” he said. “She stays home, won’t go out, and doesn’t see her friends. I’m worried about her.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“That she’s depressed. She takes these … pills. Frankly, I think they do her more harm than good. They make her like a zombie most days.”

At the time, I simply trusted that her doctor knew what he was doing; I didn’t bother looking into what drugs she was taking. I would later find out that she was on a cocktail of Elavil, a tricyclic antidepressant, and Valium, a benzodiazepine, otherwise known as a tranquilizer. No wonder she got hooked and fell into a whirlpool of mental illness.

This time, I was determined to spend more time with her while I was home, but I also wanted to see Eddie as soon as possible. I phoned his house, spoke to his mother, and learned that he wasn’t home at the moment. She’d tell him that I called.

I spent a couple of hours with my parents over dinner. It was difficult to have a decent conversation with my mother; she didn’t have a whole lot to say. She had managed to cook a nice meal—with my help. Dad and I did most of the talking. At any rate, Eddie called around nine p.m. and I went across the street. Opening the gate at the side of his house, I crossed the yard to the bomb shelter door and knocked. There was no answer, so I opened it myself.

“Eddie?”

“Down here!”

The whiff of marijuana smoke hit me in the face. I remember disapproving. I hadn’t really indulged at school for the past few months. The partying of my first semester at grad school had tapered down during the second half. Courses had been more difficult, and my mind was on Eddie, among other things. I wasn’t prepared to get blitzed with him again. Nevertheless, I went down the steps into the dimly lit, compressed space. The lava lamp was going strong, the smoke filled the room like a blanket, and the television was on. After coughing a bit, I said, “Geez, Eddie, how can you breathe in here?”

“It’s ventilated, just like always.” He embraced me, and we held each other for a moment. I guess I’d never really noticed how smoky the shelter got whenever we partook before. My eyes burned and I coughed some more as he tried to kiss me. His hands were all over me. I pushed him away, perhaps a little too roughly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“It’s too smoky in here, Eddie. Can we go outside? It’s nice out. Let’s take a walk around the block, or go to the park.”

He shrugged. “Okay.” He turned off the TV and we left the shelter. The sun had just set, and the moon was bright and the stars were out. “The cops don’t like people in the park after dark,” he said.

“When did that start?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s always been that way.”

“When we were kids we were in the park at night.”

“I know. That was a long time ago.”

We walked toward the park anyway. At one point, he stopped, put his arms around me, and gave me a long, sensual kiss. “Happy birthday,” he said. “You’re a year older than me again.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s a present waiting for you back at the bomb shelter. And it’s not another drawing.”

I laughed. “That doesn’t matter, I’m just happy to see you again.”

He held my hand and asked how I was doing. I told him that my mother wasn’t well, and he explained that his mother wasn’t doing great either. She was drinking more than usual. “How come both our mothers are in bad shape?” I asked. “Isn’t that strange?”

“I don’t know. My father did it to my mother. What’s your mom’s prob—oh. I remember.”

“She was never the same after Michael’s abduction.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault.”