Mila Santos Is (Not) Dead

v: unlikely suspect

TALIA CLUNG to their dad's leg, sitting on his shoe to prevent him from leaving. She tilted her head backward, her mouth open in a never-ending howl. Her face was blotchy and red. Tears sprang from her eyes. He tried to pull away from her, disgusted by this show of affection from his young daughter, already running late.

"DADDY, NO!" Talia sobbed. "NO! DON'T LEAVE ME!"

Malachi watched, emotionless, from the couch. He didn't move. Didn't cry.

In Malachi's memories, his dad was a statue. Cold and gray and unyielding. So still you wouldn't think he was breathing. Wearing his army fatigues. When Malachi thought back on his father, that's all he ever saw him dressed in. His face expressionless, devoid of emotion. Malachi had never once seen the man smile.

His dad looked over his shoulder and gave his mom, who stood in front of the couch chewing on her thumbnail, a pleading look. She shook her head at him, her lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. Then she relented.

She walked over and yanked Talia off his leg. Talia screamed, frantically grabbing at his leg, but their mom was stronger than her. She held her against her chest, stroking her hair. "Shh, Tali. He'll be back before you know it."

Talia screamed louder and fought to get out of their mom's grasp. Eventually, she gave in and sobbed into her shoulder, giving up the fight.

With Talia pacified, their dad walked over to Malachi. "Stand up, boy."

Malachi knew to do as he was told. He stood. He was about eye-level with his dad's chest.

"Look at me."

Malachi's eyes glanced up at his dad's face then quickly darted away.

"In the eye."

Malachi couldn't. Didn't want to. Didn't know how. He forced himself to look at his face.

"You're the man of the house now," his dad said, his voice low like he was sharing a secret. "Take care of the girls while I'm gone."

Malachi stared at him. He was a child; he couldn't take care of anybody. He nodded.

"When I give you an order," his dad reminded him, "you say 'yes sir.'"

"Yes sir," Malachi mumbled.

"You're a man, son. Talk louder."

"Yes sir," Malachi said.

"Louder."

"YES SIR."

"Good boy." He ruffled his son's hair and walked over to his wife. He kissed her, ruffled Talia's hair like he'd ruffled Malachi's, then walked out the door without properly saying goodbye.

Malachi slumped onto the couch. He knew he might never see his dad again. And yet all he felt watching him go was relief.

***

ICED COFFEE IN HAND, Malachi shoved the door open. The flyers and the staple guns were heavy in his bag, reminding him of what he could be doing right now instead. He tossed his bag and shoes to the floor, piling his outerwear on top of them.

Talia peeked her head out of the bedroom they shared. She blinked at him sleepily, still pajama-clad. She threw the door open with a grin and ran to Malachi, her messy brown bun bobbing on top of her head.

"MALACHI!" She slammed into him, nearly knocking him off his feet with the force of her hug. "You'll never guess what—"

Malachi's mom stepped out of the kitchen. With her loose gray cardigan, black leggings, and fuzzy socks, she looked harmless and cozy. She cupped her hands around a steaming mug of tea. "Malachi!" She smiled and tucked a dark curl behind her ear. "I was hoping you'd stop by. Come sit."