Chapter 2: Trauma

Athena Ramirez

I pull the old Creaky Toyota into the parking lot and shut off the engine. It shudders, coughing and wheezing like some wild animal with emphysema, but eventually shuts down. The engine ticks and tocks as it cools, and I climb out of the car with a groan.

“You look like how I feel these days, old friend”I say tiredly..

I stretch myself out, my muscles sore after another long day at my new job, I stare grimacing at my car as I remembered how some of the employees stared at me while driving in. One looked at me like I was some pig they picked out of a pigsty post. I don't blame them, neither can I blame the car either......

It might be old, rusty and she might even have more oxidized spots than paint now but it still gets me to and fro from work. Although most days, getting to work is way more of an adventure than it should be. I know she’s not long for this world, which makes me nervous. I don’t know what I’m going to do without the car, It’s not like I have the money for extensive repairs, let alone getting something to replace some of the old part. 

And I know it's a matter of time before it shuts down for good but it's all I have. The same way am all Troy has in this world, after the death of my sister and her husband in that car accident. Have been his only guardian and parent.  

It's been hard....

Believe me its still is, I still have to struggle to take care of him and manage my time with work and taking care of a kid... Although a part of me is thankful for the agency that recommended me for this new job, apparently my new boss is quite the selective type. The rumors have heard about him, most of them might be exaggerated but I confirmed some of them today...

Seeing him at the office made my insides quaver and its obvious I didn't make quite the impression, infact am sure he hates me. But I guess I can last long in the job because I have no interest in seducing him like the others. 

Apparently, Eros Ramazzotti, our CEO is a workaholic who’s sick of having his young secretaries and PA fall in love with him and lose concentration on their job. Turns out unattractiveness is considered a bonus since he didn’t want to be distracted either. I had submitted my resume a long time ago and had being struggling through menial job, and part-time.. waitressing, cleaning, teaching you name it have done all the odd jobs you could think of. 

Anyway I didn't give up that easily until it seems luck smiled on me and I finally got the job which I’m not going to give up that easily no matter how much of a jerk he is. I convinced the agency to send me for the interview. For good measure and not to be blacklisted, I added a pair of ugly glasses to my normal dressing and pulled my hair into an unflattering bun, and voila I now look unattractive and serious which is a good thing.

Grabbing my bag out of the car I close the door and lock it, not bothering to set the alarm – not that it actually works. But even if it did, who’s going to steal it anyway? I could probably leave the car sitting there, all the windows down, doors open wide, and nobody would take it. 

 Of course, I’d be pretty screwed if they did, so I at least make the pretense of locking it.

With a sigh, I head into the building, collecting my mail, and trudge up the three flights of stairs. I knock on the door for apartment 4B, which is directly across from my unit, which should be labeled 4C, but the 3 fell off long ago.

A moment later, the door opens and Mrs.Cruz, a tall woman with olive colored skin, hair that’s more gray than black anymore, and kind eyes, smiles at me.

“Hola, Athena", she beams, her voice carrying a bare hint of her accent.

“Hola, Mrs. Cruz,” I smile back at her, smiling.

She's been a sweet and kind woman to me and Troy. Infact she's been a life saver, in her younger days, the woman was a stunner. She was all legs and had that exotic appeal men fall all over themselves for. Once upon a time, she was a dancer. Unfortunately, she never got her big break, but she made a good living performing in some off-Broadway shows and whatnot. How do I know this? Well if she hadn’t taken me down on a trip to memory lane and showed me pictures, I wouldn’t have had any difficulty believing it. With her long lines and light movements, she exudes an almost regal grace from every pore of her being.

Well now she's retired from the stage and now widowed, Mrs. Cruz now earns some extra cash doing daycare and babysitting from her apartment. She and I have gotten to be good friends over the years, and she always cuts me a break on what she charges for watching Troy while I’m at work. I know for a fact she charges me way less to watch Troy than she does for watching the other kids. Some weeks, she refuses money from me at all – which I am incredibly grateful for. It’s almost like she instinctively knows which weeks are tighter financially, and always comes through for me.

I wish I could say I’m in a position to refuse her refusals of payment and force the money on her, but sometimes I’m just grateful for the break. It means I can put a few more groceries in the cupboards or keep the lights on for another month.

“How's the new job, dear?”She asks 

I shrug. “Well I didn’t slap anybody, so yeah. It's been great”I say smiling

Her laughter is rich and deep. “Then I’d say it’s a successful day.”

The sound of children laughing deeper in the apartment draws my attention, and I feel a flutter of hope in my chest – hope that maybe Troy is joining in with their laughter and games. It’s a hope I have for him every single time I have to drop him off at Mrs.Cruz’s place.

“It was something,” I chuckle. “How's he today?”

“Quiet. Not interested in interacting with the other children,” she tells me.

And every single time I pick him up from her place, those hopes are dashed. He rarely speaks to anybody and is mostly often found with his nose in a book or just off in some other world of his own creation. It’s probably a world where his mother is still alive, and he never has to go without.

“So, the usual,” I say.

“I’m afraid so,” she says gently.

Her smile softens, and I see the look of compassion in her eyes. She knows the whole story – we’ve traded sob stories about our lives over wine often enough that I’m not sure there’s anything she doesn’t know about me. Except for my best friend Catherine, Mrs.Cruz may know me better than anybody else on the planet.

“I just keep hoping he’ll snap out of it one of these days,” I shake my head miserably.

“And he might still. Be patient,” she tells me. “He’s been through a lot. As have you.”

“It’s been three years,” I say.

She shrugs. “Patience sweetie, remember he went through hell, he was in the same car with his parents when they died”She says sadly..

I let out a small breath and nod, I literally haveno choice in the matter. I have to get over it quickly. After all, the kid was traumatized. He was awake the whole time before help could even come, I just hope he gets better and starts enjoying his time. I can't even afford to mourn because I have a child to raise. I don't have the time or luxury of wallowing in my grief. In some ways, that’s a good thing. It forced me to do whatever I could to take care of Troy.

My sister and I were so close that losing her was like losing a vital limb. And ever since she was taken from me, I’ve never felt quite whole. But, knowing that Tory relies on me, I had no options other than to put away the tears and start to figure it out. It's just like Mrs.Cruz said, give it time.

“I’ll go and get him,” Mrs.Cruz offers.

“Thank you,” I respond. “I just want to go home and sit down for a while.”

Her smile is warm and genuine. “That, I can understand.”

She turns and walks down the short hallway into her apartment. I hear her soft voice telling Troy that I’m at the door. A moment later, he plods out of her apartment, shoulders slumped and head down, eyes fixed on the ground. He neither looks at nor greets me in any fashion. He just walks over to our door and leans against the wall, waiting for me.

I turn back to Mrs. Cruz, who’s returned to her doorway. Her eyes follows Troy, and when she turns back, she gives me a small smile of encouragement and sympathy.

“It will get better,” she whispers to me. “Just give it time.”

Time!

I hope the smile on my face isn’t as wooden and stiff as it feels. I know she’s trying to help, but it’s been so long already. I’m losing hope that it’s ever going to change or get better with each passing day.

“Thank you,” I say to Mrs.Cruz.

I turn and walk over to my door. Seeing Troy standing there with that constant look of pain and loneliness on his face makes me feel even more defeated than when I left work earlier today. Nothing about this is easy. Nothing about it has gone right. And not for the first time, I wonder if maybe Troy would have been better off in a foster home than with me.

Slipping the key into the lock; I open the door and push it inward. Tory silently stalks into the apartment and disappears down into the bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Dinner in twenty minutes,” I call after him.

I shut the door and turn all three locks on it, sealing us inside for the night. We live in a pretty rough neighborhood, and it’s not unheard of for somebody’s apartment to be broken into. I’ve heard more than one story about people being murdered in the building, though thankfully not in the time we’ve been living here. But that’s probably the reason I got such a great deal on this place. After all, who’d want to live in a building where people’s apartments are being broken into and they’re being beaten or murdered?

I drop my bag on the table and toss my keys into the bowl that sits atop the small table beside the door. As I walk into the kitchen, I rifle through the stack of mail I collected on my way up earlier, feeling my heart sink a little more with each envelope.

“Bill. Bill. Collection agency,” I mutter. “Past due. Critically past due.”

I open the one marked ‘Critical’ and remove the letter from the envelope. It’s from Con Ed – our area’s electricity company. I thought I had at least one or two more days before I got the letter telling me the power is going to be shut off if I don’t make a payment immediately. I sigh and drop the letter onto the counter.

That’s the most critical bill outstanding right now, so I’m going to have to pay that first. The others can wait. I’ve got at least a couple of weeks before I start getting critical letters from some of the other utilities I’m responsible for, so they can wait. And of course, rent is going to be due in a couple of weeks as well.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. That’s how it is most months – triaging all of my bills to see which ones I can afford to pay and which ones I can put off a little while longer.

It’s not the most ideal existence for either me or Troy, But we’re surviving. We’re managing. Though the food may not be bountiful, we don’t go to bed hungry, and we’ve never had the lights shut off – well, except for that one time, but that wasn’t my fault. I’ve gotten incredibly skilled at stretching a buck and juggling all of my bills.

I’d be impressed with myself if it didn’t suck so hard.

Thankful once again for this new job of mine, and also the fat pay check which will cover all our expenses!

Not feeling all that hungry, I set about making dinner anyway. If left to my own devices, I’d probably eat toast or a bowl of cereal. Or maybe even not eat at all. But I have to take care of my nephew. I always have to take care of my nephew. So I finish making tonight’s dinner – a feast of macaroni and cheese with sliced hot dogs – a meal we have two or three times a week. It’s not much, but it fills the void.

As our meal, such as it is, finishes cooking, I carry plates, bowls, and silverware out to the small round slab of wood that serves as our table. The wooden surface is chipped and scarred – it was a find down at the local thrift store. I’m sure some hipsters out there would call it vintage. I just call it a piece of junk that was cheap, but it’s better than nothing.

After setting the table, I walk to the small kitchen and fetch the prepackaged salad and dressing from the refrigerator. It’s my attempt to put something healthy into Troy. When everything is done, I dish out our food and put the empty pot into the sink. I walk down the hall and knock on Troy’s door.

“Troy, come on out,” I call through the door. “Dinner’s ready.”

I return to the small table and take a seat. A few moments later, I hear Troy's door open, and the sullen boy shuffles down the hall, his gaze still fixed – as it always is – on the floor beneath his feet. He takes a seat at the table without uttering a word. Troy looks at his plate, and I can’t help but see the revulsion on his face. I can practically read his thoughts

 This shit again? Not that I blame him. I’m pretty tired of this shit myself. But it’s not like I have the money to serve him much of anything better.

“Don't worry once I get my paycheck by the end of this month we can get whatever you want to eat, just name it”I say trying to clear the sullen look on his face but as always no response.

We then ate in the same strained silence that marks most of our time together. Troy and I never talk much. It’s not like I have a whole lot in common with an eleven-year-old, or we have any shared interests to discuss over dinner. I’ve tried to make a connection with him. I really have. But I’ve never been comfortable around kids. And the three years I’ve spent raising him haven’t done much to ease that burden or make it any easier for me.

What’s probably worse is that we’ve never spoken about what happened to his mom. To this day, we haven’t said one word to each other about it. I don’t know what he saw that night, and I don’t want to bring it up. I’d rather not re-traumatize him if I can help it.

But even if he did want to talk about it, I wouldn’t know what to say. Even after all these years, I don’t know that I’ve entirely coped with it. I’ve more just shoved it all down inside. I haven’t had the time to deal with all of my emotions. Nor do I have the money to hire a therapist. Although have been saving up a bit and when it's enough I intend to take him to go see a therapist..

I definitely can't drag this on and he needs help. My sister would never have wanted her son to be like this and I owe it to her to try my best in my him happy.

I clear my throat. “So, how was school today?”

“Fine,” he mutters without looking up.

“Did you do anything – interesting?”

He shrugs. “Not really.”

Getting Troy to say more than two words at any one time is like pulling teeth. But I keep trying. I keep trying to forge some kind of connection with him. But I swear to God, at times it’s like I’m beating my head against the wall.

We continue to eat without speaking, the banging of our forks against the plates the only noise in the room. It’s silent in the room for several long minutes before Troy looks up at me.

“There’s a field trip at school,” he tells me. “To the aquarium.”

That’s all he says. Nine little words. But he says it with an enthusiasm I don’t think I’ve ever heard him muster up before.

“Would you like that?” I ask. “To go to the aquarium?”

Troy shrugs, his tone suddenly turning sullen again. “I guess so.”

“Are you interested in becoming a marine biologist or something?” I encourage him.

He gives me another shrug – which is his default gesture. “Yeah, maybe.”

He tries but can’t hide the small spark of enthusiasm I saw in him. It was there. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve seen the chance to make any sort of a connection with my nephew. Which means I have to find a way to get him on that field trip. It’s an expense I can’t afford. Not by a long shot. But I know I need to figure out a way to make it happen.

For Troy!

“Okay, we’ll figure it out,” I tell him.

He nods, and I swear I see the flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But just as quickly as I see it, it’s gone again, and he’s the same sullen boy he always is. It was there, though. I saw it. And I need to do everything I can to nurture it and stoke those smoldering embers into a burning fire.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I just know I have to.