Sins of the Father

1 | Groceries

It's my birthday, and I can't stop thinking about my bike.

Sometime yesterday, I lost the lock. I only realized it when I had already rode it to school this morning, and then I scrambled through my backpack looking for it. Matt convinced me to just leave my bike on the rack, and having no other choice, I did as he said.

I spend the entire school day paranoid that someone's going to steal it. It would be Jake, if anyone. Nothing he did to me was ever enough. Not the punches in fourth grade, not the passive-aggressive shoulder-bumping in middle school, and not the cruel teasing and occasional shoves now in high school. If he sees my bike without a lock, he's going to take it, and I don't know how I'm going to explain that to Mom.

When the dismissal bell rings, I practically run out the door. Matt follows at my heels and shakes his head when I triumphantly slide my bike out of the rack.

"I told you," he grumbles. "No one wants that junk."

If that came from the middle and upper-class students that make up a majority of this school, I'd find it offensive. But Matt's mom is a single working mother like mine, and we're both poor. He's allowed to tell me how pathetic my bike is because his is the same. The only difference today is that he still has his lock.

"Even Jake wouldn't touch that thing with a ten-foot-pole," he continues.

I grin. "Shut up, man."

Both our bikes make awful, mechanical noises as we walk them down the road. Matt says a few more self-deprecating but funny things about how ugly we are, and I shake my head and laugh. Then my phone rings.

It's—you guessed it—a flip phone with the cheapest plan Mom could afford. That's why I'm surprised she's calling me, especially when she knows I'll be home in a few minutes.

"Hi, sweetie," she says when I pick up. I can hear the clatter of diner plates behind her, and my heart drops a little because I know where she is, and she isn't supposed to be there. Not now.

"Hi," I say softly.

"Happy Birthday!" she cheers. "I wish I could've told you that before you left for school, but Priya was out and I took her morning shift. Did you like the pancakes?"

"They were great, Mom. Thank you. And don't worry, it's okay."

There's a moment of silence. Then she says, "I took the afternoon shift as well...and I'm planning on taking the night shift, too." Another pause.  "I—"

"It's okay, Mom. You don't have to explain. I understand."

She sighs. "Of course you do. You're sweet that way. I'm still sorry. I'll be home around one, and we'll celebrate your birthday tomorrow morning. I promise."

I smile. "Sounds great. See you soon."

"I love you. See you soon."

I shove the flip phone back into my pocket. Matt and I walk in silence, and once the awkwardness has faded, he ventures an offer.

"Wanna go swimming in the creek?" he suggests. "Or ride down the old bridge?"

I shake my head. "Thanks, but I should go home."

He shrugs. "Alright. Have a good birthday, man."

We split ways; he goes left to his house, and I go right to mine. I walk my bike one block more before I hop on and start riding it. The trip home is three minutes. I used to take the bus, but when Jake and I got put on the same route this year, I elected to get to and from school myself.

I lock the door behind me once I'm home. Only one working lightbulb remains in our kitchen's ceiling light, and it takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dimness. Sitting in the fridge is my birthday cake, complete with a 16 candle. It'll have to go uneaten today.

I put a pot on the stove and start making mac and cheese. The house is eerily quiet, so I break the silence by humming. Occasionally I glance at our mail, stacked next to the fruit basket. Mom prefers for me to not go through it; she's afraid that all the bills and notices and rejections from programs will depress me. But now that I'm sixteen, I'm old enough to start applying to jobs myself. Our situation is going to change, and she won't have to be afraid of the mail.

I eat half the mac and cheese, pour the rest into a tupperware, put it in the fridge. I take a piece of paper, write there's food for you—have a good night :) on it, and stick it to the fridge door with a magnet. I'll be asleep when Mom comes home, and hopefully this puts a smile on her face.

When I'm done cleaning up, it's around five-thirty. It's almost spring break, so teachers have stopped assigning us things. There's no homework to occupy my time. A gleam in the window catches my eye, and I peer out at the sunny day. It's a little chilly outside, but it looks lovely.

I lock the door behind me after I leave. It's too late to hang out with Matt, he's got an evening shift. So I avoid the creek and the old bridge, knowing those things are no fun without him, and simply ride along, squeezing my eyes every now and then to counter the breeze.

I'm near the back end of a parking lot when I notice a woman struggling to get her groceries in her car. Her shopping cart is full of bags, and she lifts everything into the trunk slowly, inhaling with each effort. I slow to a stop and look between her and the sidewalk that stretches out in front of me.

A good thing happened to me today: my bike did not get stolen. I should pay the luck forward.

"I can help you with that," I call out.

She glances up fearfully, startled by the approach of a stranger, and then relaxes when I grab the heavy bottle of vegetable oil and put it in the trunk.

"Thank you," she says sweetly.

"No problem."

We move her groceries together. I reach for the heavier-looking bags before she can get to them, and she chuckles every time she notices. She's around Mom's age, crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, orthopedic shoes to alleviate the pain that begins with middle age and doesn't go away until you die.

When we're down to the last bag, she says, "Oh, I can get that one!"

But I'm already reaching for it, and our hands collide. A sharp pain slices through my skin, and I yelp and yank my hand away. There's a gash cutting through the palm, and blood drips down my wrist.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaims. "It was my ring, I'm so sorry!"

Her ring is now bloody. It has a few sharp edges along the part that holds the gem, one of which I've had the misfortune of ramming my hand against.

"It's alright," I stammer, but I have no idea how to treat this wound. The gash is big, and I'm worried about getting an infection. Whatever germs were on her ring are already inside the cut.

She grabs my hand and inspects it. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. "Such a lovely palm. It's a shame I've ruined it."

Her tone on the word lovely makes me take a step back. She's looking at me weird, and despite her apologies, her mouth stretches into a smile.

"It's fine," I stammer again. "It's...I should go."

Before she can say anything else, I get back on my bike and start pedaling. My healthy hand is on its handlebar, and the injured one, I hold close to my chest. The breeze is making it feel worse. The blood is seeping into my sleeve.

And I'm getting dizzy.

My vision blurs, and I slow down. But this shouldn't be happening—I've bled more from a basic nosebleed, and never did that blood loss make feel the way I'm feeling now. Black spots dance in the corners of my vision, and my eyes start to close, and it's hard to open them again.

Without warning, a rough hand grabs me by the elbow. I'm yanked off my bike and tumble to the ground. A cloth is clamped over my mouth, and an acrid, chemical smell fills my nose, and I can't fight back at all.

Next thing I know, my world is dark.