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  After a minute she told herself, Start over. She took another shower, and after brushing her teeth she slipped on some fresh clothes, did her hair, and put on her face before making her way back to the living room, still not quite ready to deal with either Juanito or Ruben.

  “What took you so long?” Juan asked, pointing at his left ankle as Fabi joined him and Ruben in the living room. “I think this thing is broke.” His ankle was purple and blue around the joint and to the toes, tiger-striping up the middle of his calf. Fabi moved to sit by her son on the couch; Ruben leaned forward on the mismatched chair facing them. Juan had been fine after the game, minus the upset stomach, and Fabi wondered just how he’d hurt himself so badly. Whether the police had anything to do with it. She reached out to touch his ankle, but Juan pulled away, wincing as he did.

  “Would you like a ride to the hospital?” Ruben asked Fabi, ignoring Juan. “It’s no problem.”

  “No.” Juan shut him down before Fabi could answer. “Why don’t you leave already? Don’t you have deals to make?” He slumped down in his seat, crossed his arms, looking every bit the angry teen.

  “C’mon, Juan,” Fabi said. “You’re being rude, to both of us.”

  “You two are an ‘us’ now? I get it.” Juan was trying to make her feel worse than the worst mother on the planet. It was working.

  “I don’t want to bother you,” Fabi said to Ruben, trying to ignore Juan. Ruben half stood, like he wanted to join them on the couch, but she motioned for him to sit his ass back down.

  “It’s no problem,” Ruben persisted, readjusting in his seat.

  “I think it’s a problem,” Juan said. “But no one ever wants my opinion around here.”

  “Shut up already!” Fabi felt like the rope in a game of tug-of-war. “You are in enough trouble! And Ruben, thank you for the offer, mi cariño.” She immediately wished she hadn’t called him that, him smiling the same toothy smile he did at the end of one of his cheesy used-car commercials.

  That smile. Would he smile the same way at the news of her being pregnant? Would he turn noble, talk about being there for her and the baby and possibly mean it? Would she find out Ruben had other baby mamas, a track record of knocking women up and then leaving, never to be heard from again? The simple possibility of that stunned her, and what stunned her even more was realizing she didn’t know Ruben well enough to guess what he’d do. But all that would have to wait until after dealing with Juanito’s ankle. “I’ll call you later tonight. Okay?” she said to Ruben. “I’ve got my hands full today.”

  “Okay . . . bueno pues,” Ruben said, still smiling as he sprung up to leave. Juan exhaled loudly, in that way teenagers do when they don’t have the words to express how stupid they find everything, and zeroed in on the television, suddenly interested in a cooking show where a woman was wrapping seemingly everything she was making in bacon.

  • • •

  Without insurance, urgent care cost $120 for the visit and extra $30 for the air cast the doctor fitted on Juan’s ankle—not to mention a day without pay and the hell Fabi would get from her man-boy boss, the twenty-five-year-old who went by Chuchi and dropped out of UTEP after one semester as a business major. The entire morning had a price tag of $450, more than Fabi had. The cost seemed steep for Juan, too; she could tell by the way he was staring at his ankle like his foot had been amputated.

  “At least it’s not broken,” Fabi said as she drove home. “Doc said a month or so and you should be good. It’s just a sprain.”

  “With ligament damage. How am I gonna explain this to Coach?”

  “It’s not the end of the world. You can focus on your grades instead of basketball.”

  “It’s too late for focusing on grades to do me any good,” Juan said. “Besides, I’m already failing.”

  “You’re failing?” Fabi asked. How was he failing?

  “What a shock that you didn’t know.” Juan stared out the passenger window, his reflection in the glass looking like it was floating outside, looking a world away.

  “Why do you gotta keep giving me shit? I didn’t do anything. You just got out of jail. You’re the one in trouble, not me. ¿Entiendes?” She pressed hard on the gas of her old truck, the engine revving higher and her quickly changing gears, sending the black Mazda flying down the street.

  “I didn’t even do anything.”

  “Tell me you understand, Juan.”

  “Yes, already. I get it.”

  “They don’t put people in jail for nothing.” Fabi squeezed the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white.

  “Well they did me, but whatever.” He shifted in his seat. Turned his body away from her, like she was radioactive.

  “Don’t say another word, cabrón. I’m trying to think about what I’m gonna do with you.” Her hands looked like two ugly knots. Like they didn’t belong to her.

  In a few weeks Juan would have an arraignment hearing—so he would need a lawyer, and even an okay one would cost more than Fabi could afford. How bad would it be if they went with a public defender? How big a deal could evading arrest be? And then there was the baby. Pregnant! How many weeks was she? Four weeks? Eight? ¡Ay Dios!

  Fabi sped through a four-way stop without taking her foot off the accelerator.

  “Mom! What the hell?” Juan braced himself for an impact, grunting as he banged his ankle against the passenger floorboard.

  She glanced at her speedometer—60 MPH—and took her foot off the gas. Her knuckles ached from how hard she’d been squeezing the wheel. She loosened her grip, her hands now trembling.

  “What is wrong with you?” Juan asked, gingerly holding his ankle. “Where are we even going? We passed the house already.” The color had drained from his face, his lips dry and grayish pink, eyes bloodshot.

  Fabi’s heart thumped hard in her chest.

  Juan was staring at her. “Má, what’s wrong with you?” he said. “We could’ve been T-boned!”

  “I’m taking you to Grampá’s,” Fabi said, the idea coming to her as she was saying it. “You’ll be fine there.” She decided she couldn’t wait to see the doctor. She would find one today, say it was an emergency and not leave the office until she knew all she needed to about the pregnancy. She would figure out the cost later.

  • • •

  Grampá was sitting on the porch, drinking a tallboy and wearing, as always, his blue Dickies coveralls. A bandanna collected sweat from his forehead; at his feet lay an open toolbox and an AM/FM radio with the antenna pulled all the way out, static-filled Oldies vibrating through the cracked speakers. The yard, which used to have grass—as a little girl Fabi remembered taking off her shoes so she could feel the soft green blades between her toes—was now a hard dirt lot with junky cars stalled on it, waiting for his attention.

  Her dad didn’t move when he saw Fabi and Juan pull up. Fabi wondered if he’d heard about Juan’s trip to county. News like arrests, unplanned babies, divorces, and deaths spread quickly, Hollywood paparazzi not having shit on the metiches in Central. Fabi killed the engine and remained seated as it coughed to a stop; she wasn’t quite ready to make her way to the porch. Since he retired from twenty years with the city as an electrician, her daddy made extra cash fixing cars or working on busted washing machines—anything, really, him the neighborhood Mr. Fix It—and when he was done working for the day, he spent his time relaxing in the backyard, patiently tinkering on an old Chrysler she was sure he’d never finish. It had probably been there since she was Juan’s age. He stood as she hopped from the truck at last, watching her, suspicious as always.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Fabi said, taking a deep breath and then climbing the stairs to join him. “Is it okay if Juan stays here for a while?”

  Taking a sip from his beer, her father craned his neck in order to see Juan still sitting stonily inside the truck. “Is it okay with him, Fabiola? He looks like he’s the one who minds.”

  “He’s fine,” Fabi sighed. “He hurt his ankle and I don’t want
to leave him alone at the house.”

  “At the apartment?”

  “Yes, the apartment.” Grampá nodded, his usual know-it-all nod. “They gave Juan meds at the doctor, and I don’t want him alone while he’s on them.”

  “You mean drugs? What’d they give him, acid? Mota? Pinches doctors are worse than narcos.”

  “It’s just ibuprofen. For the swelling.”

  “What kind of drugs are you really on, mijo?!” he yelled down to Juan. “Are you gonna flip out or something? Eat my face? Should I chain you in the yard?” Juan stared back.

  “He’s not gonna flip out,” Fabi said, not wanting to argue, at least not yet. “Can I leave him here or is that going to be too big a deal for you?”

  She could tell she was pissing him off; he was rubbing his face and then giving her the same look he used to give her as a teenager. Fixed scowl. Squinty eyes. The lines around his eyes were deeper now, though, the spots on his cheeks darker. “So where did he hurt it?”

  “You ask him. He’ll tell you, and then maybe you can tell me exactly what the hell happened.”

  “You working tonight?” Grampá was standing close enough to hug Fabi but hadn’t. She hadn’t moved in to hug him either. Every moment between them was like this, an almost-something moment. Almost a fight. Almost a cease-fire. Almost the apocalypse.

  “If it’s gonna be a big deal, then forget it. I was thinking of what was best for Juan. Your grandson.”

  “I didn’t say no. Don’t be so grosera . . . and come give your jefe a hug, for God’s sake. You want favors but won’t even ask nice.”

  Why did he have to be such an ass? Fabi motioned for Juan to join them. Juan at last hobbled from the truck and limped up the stairs, Grampá saying to Juan, “I’ve got crutches somewhere in the yard.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Fabi said. “I’ll be back to get him tonight. I just have some things that need my attention.”

  “Like going to work?”

  “That too.” Fabi sighed. “Entonces, tomorrow. I’ll get him in the morning.”

  Fabi kissed Juan on the forehead and told him she’d drive him to school the next day, no arguments, then she headed straight for the truck. She drove off in the direction of Project Vida, the free clinic, deciding she had more time than money. She called Ruben, listened to his Ringback song, some cheesy reggaeton she didn’t recognize that sounded awful. Ruben didn’t answer, his voicemail instructing her to leave a message and he’d call back. Fabi had dated men like Ruben before, flashy types. Macho types. Ruben was nicer than the others. But Fabi knew being nice wasn’t the same thing as being good. They were only related. Nice was like Good’s cousin, cool but sometimes shady. Still, Fabi decided she would tell Ruben about being pregnant—she was not going to make that mistake again—but not until she knew what she was going to do about it. She hung up without saying a word.

  • • •

  In the waiting room Fabi tried to keep from freaking out by going through her bills; her mail was still stuffed inside her purse from the day before, when Flor tried to corner her at the mailboxes and Fabi rushed to get away. Of course looking at bills didn’t help. The credit card she’d thought maybe she could put a lawyer on was almost maxed. The payday loan, used to buy a new transmission when the one in her crappy truck died, was coming due. Flor’s overdue rent.

  A muted TV hung on the wall, mostly ignored by the other pregnant women in the room, most of them half Fabi’s age. They seemed busy reading pamphlets or thumbing through pregnancy magazines. Staring blankly at their phones. The television played one of Ruben’s cheesy commercials. The one with him dressed like a soldier, fighting the “war on prices.” God, those were corny.

  Fabi thought about the years ahead of the soon-to-be mothers. Not just the moments after their babies were born—the sleepless nights and feeding schedules, thinking you might be messing everything up—but motherhood after the beginning. The part where you were messing everything up. Someone had forgotten their sonogram on the table beside her. She remembered her first one, the little blob on the screen, the flicker emanating from somewhere inside it. Juan’s heartbeat. That had been the moment she’d realized she would keep him, thinking before that she wouldn’t.

  Fabi came across the last envelope in her pile, the corners bent and soft. Like they’d been rubbed. Fabi recognized the name on the return address immediately: Armando Aranda, 999178, Polunsky Unit, 3872 FM 350, South Livingston, TX 77351.

  Throw it away, was her first thought. Do anything but read it. Armando Aranda. He’d been her boyfriend from a lifetime ago. Her cariño. She hadn’t thought of Mando in years and now had the strangest sensation, as if she were traveling in some sort of time machine—a fucked-up time machine that was dragging her back to the worst moments of her life. She stared at the address. Why now?

  She’d never responded to a single letter after his sentencing. It was one of the ways she’d planned to get on with her life; for a long time Fabi blamed him for her missing Mamá’s final moments. Eventually, the letters stopped. And now she didn’t know what to expect after cutting him off so completely. Anger? Hatred? Maybe, but Fabi sensed that wasn’t why he’d written. Something else had to be happening. Something dramatic. She rubbed at those bent corners of the envelope. Damn. She was already on the verge of crying. The Mando Fabi remembered wasn’t smooth but could talk, was smart but didn’t know it—like Juanito—and was hopelessly honest. Now she wondered, what kind of man did Mando become on death row? And with a fierce tear, she opened the letter.

  Fabi,

  I’ve been wanting to write you for a long time, and it’s been hard not to. At first it was because I didn’t want to bother you. Not again. I know you have a son, maybe more kids, an entire family. A life. I’ve spent more than seventeen years in this place. More time than I could have imagined. But I’m out of time now. I have a date for the gurney. It’s next month. Valentine’s Day.

  You’re the one person in my whole life that I loved all the way. I only had my jefe in my life before you. He was a hard motherfucker to even like, us always getting into fights, him beating my ass, so being a good son, one that loved him no matter what, was too much for me. I never had to try with you. Everything was always easy—at least it was until I fucked everything up. It would be good if you could write to me before my time runs out.

  Mando

  Armando Aranda, 999178

  Polunsky Unit

  3872 FM 350 South

  Livingston, TX 77351

  MORE THAN YOU CAN HANDLE

  (CHAPTER FIVE)

  “You’ll get through this, Juan. God doesn’t give anyone more than they can handle,” Eddie was saying. Zero and first period practice was just about over. JD and Eddie had gravitated toward Juan, who was pedaling away on an exercise bike planted for him on the sideline of the PAC. Grampá had woken up early and driven him in Má’s truck. She’d come to get him at Grampá’s but fell asleep on the sofa, and Grampá decided to be cool for once, not wanting him to walk with a “gamey” ankle.

  “Except when he gives you too much AIDS,” JD countered. “Or cancer.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Eddie said. “He’s challenging you, Juan.”

  Juan didn’t feel like being inspired by the backup point guard, the guy now taking his spot in the starting lineup and who Coach Paul told to stay by his side.

  “Right, like he’s challenged everyone who’s ever committed suicide?” JD said, turning to Juan. “What is up with this dude?”

  “I get what you’re saying, Eddie,” Juan said, wishing they’d both shut up. “JD is just being . . . JD.” All Juan wanted to do was get the day over with, go home, and apologize to Má for getting arrested, for costing them money he knew they didn’t have. To keep rehabbing his ankle.

  JD gave Juan a confused look. “You can’t be buying this Ultimate Jesus Challenge garbage. You don’t even go to church. . . .” Coach Paul watched them from center court. JD and Eddie were holding basketb
alls instead of doing their cooldowns—a tired session of shoot-arounds done after practice. Juan kept pumping away on the bike’s pedals as the rest of the team heaved buckets, the sound of the balls clanging against the rim and ricocheting across the gym floor constant. This would end badly for JD and Eddie; chitchat always pissed Coach Paul off.

  “Maybe this is God’s way of reaching out to you, Juan,” Eddie said. “He works in mysterious ways.”

  “That’s even more garbage. People only say that when they can’t explain why shitty things happened,” JD argued. “Look, man, I’m sorry you fucked your ankle up. I guess you shouldn’t have followed me, but if you think about it, cops and walls are the real problems. Not me.”

  “I’m trying to concentrate here,” Juan said, wanting to ignore both of them. JD loved talking crazy, his arms now flailing, his mouth flapping like a hummingbird’s wings. His crazy was no different than Eddie’s.

  Eddie leaned toward Juan. “With God, there is always hope, a way,” he said, almost at a whisper. “Put your faith in Him.” Eddie would be the perfect recruit the following year. With Danny’s dad recording and editing his games, him talking God to recruiters and coaches, he was sure to score a scholarship at some small school or Christian university, even with a game half as good as Juan’s.

  “Are you two morons done talking?” Coach Paul yelled from across the gym. “Everyone line it up. If you have enough energy to chitchat, then you have enough to run.” Coach Paul blew his whistle and the Panthers groaned as they stopped the cooldown session and lined up across the baseline. Juan wished he were on the court, able to run as hard as he could. In six weeks the season—his season—would be over. It was killing him to think he could never play for a team again.

  Juan pedaled harder, his ankle taped and stuffed inside a loosely laced tennis shoe. Numb. The doctor at urgent care told him it would take four to six weeks to heal, but there was a chance he could come back early—if he rehabbed. Juan had never been hurt before, and the sight of his ankle—at one point looking like a purple alien head was growing from the side of his foot—had freaked him out. Knowing the most important part of rehab was to lessen the swelling, he’d started a steady diet of ibuprofen and ankle exercises. The doctor had told him to take it easy for a few days, but there wasn’t time for fucking around. He was already putting weight on it, aiming to be back on the court in half the time. So, what the hell—maybe Eddie was onto something. A little prayer couldn’t hurt, even if Juan had never prayed before.