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  “For this test, there are fifteen short-answer questions, each worth five points,” Mrs. Howard-Hernandez said to the quiet room. “And one essay question worth twenty-five points.”

  “I don’t get it,” Tony said. “I mean the essay question, can you explain it?”

  José glanced at the test in front of him. It was over the two of the hardest stories in the book: “Speaking of Courage” and “Notes.” When his teacher had read them aloud in class, it was quiet like now—except for a few people in the class sniffling and wiping away tears.

  “Tim’s friend Norman was trying to reach out for help. How did he succeed? How did he not? Should Tim be held responsible for Norman’s suicide since Tim was the one he reached out to for help? And finally, relate it to your life. Write about a time when someone needed your help, and say how you reacted.”

  José raced through the short-answer questions. Not only had he read those stories on his own more than once, but he’d researched them at the library. But when José reached the essay question, he went blank. It was too personal. He suddenly felt sick. Intoxicado.

  A wave of nausea raced through José. Without a word, he raced for the front of the room, snatched the bathroom pass/key, and ran down the hall toward the bathroom. He barely made it into the stall before the contents of his stomach emptied. Beads of sweat ran down José’s face from beneath the red wool cap still on his head. He wiped his mouth, flushed the toilet, and started to stand, but as if he’d been smacked with a hammer—or fallen off a ladder—he couldn’t move.

  On the dirty floor of the Rondo bathroom, José allowed himself to cry. He cried for himself, his family, his future. After a few minutes, José heard the door open.

  “José, are you okay?” It was Mr. Aaron.

  José stared at the floor, composing himself. “Yes,” he replied after a minute. “Yes.” He was okay. His future would be too.

  “José, te necesito!” José heard his mother shout from his parents’ bedroom. He sat at the kitchen table, putting the final touches on the essay that his teacher had let him finish at home.

  José raced to bedroom to find his father on the floor, unconscious. “Mamá, ¿qué pasó?”

  José’s mother explained that his father had been reaching for something on the top shelf of their closet when he lost his balance and fell awkwardly onto the floor. José could tell his father was breathing, but his eyes were closed. He dialed 911 without asking or thinking. This time there would be no misunderstanding. José explained that his father had hit his head and needed an ambulance. He spoke calmly, confidently.

  José stayed by his father’s side as they waited for the ambulance. In the other room, he heard his mom praying and his aunt making calls, trying to find someone to watch her children.

  José wiped the trickle of blood from his father’s nose. When he touched his father’s misshapen face, José’s father’s eyes opened slowly. “Papi, ¿estás bien?” José asked.

  To José it looked like his dad was trying to smile but couldn’t, like he was trying to assure José. When his dad started to speak, José put a finger softly against his lips. His dad said nothing else; instead he reached out his left arm toward José, asking for help.

  José let his dad wrap his left arm around his shoulders, strong from throwing boxes, stacking cans, and carrying the weight for his family, and he pulled his father up.

  13

  EVENING / MONDAY, JANUARY 27

  ST. PAUL REGIONS HOSPITAL

  Unlike the hospital in Benson, the emergency room at Regions was crowded with faces of all colors, both patients and staff. On the walls, signs were in English, Spanish, Somali, and Hmong, the four languages spoken most in St. Paul.

  After the ambulance left with José’s parents, José and his aunt drove to Tony’s house, where Tony and his mom agreed to watch Cecilia’s children. When they arrived at the hospital, his parents were nowhere to be seen. José waited his turn and approached the desk.

  “Pepe Gomez? I’m his son. Where is he?” José asked. The nurse explained that his father had been admitted and was waiting for a doctor. “Can I see him?”

  The nurse nodded. “First, we need some information, OK?” The nurse pushed a clipboard filled with forms across the desk. “Your mother was too upset to fill them out.”

  The forms were in English, which José realized might have been the real reason. He took the clipboard and sat next to his aunt.

  José had to leave many blanks empty: his dad’s employer, insurance, medications, doctor’s name, social security number, driver’s license. My dad’s life, José thought, is a blank form.

  After he handed in the form, he returned to sit next to his aunt. She was crying. José tried to comfort her, but it seemed to only make things worse. She’d start to speak and then have to stop. When Cecilia did speak, she used the volume she was most accustomed to in talking with her children and arguing with her older sister: loud.

  Cecilia finally composed herself, wiped her tears, and apologized to José in the tone of a confession.

  “Todo va a estar bien,” José replied, and said it again in English. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Cecilia didn’t argue. She just continued telling José how sorry and ashamed she was for her actions and how she treated José’s mother. With deep emotion in her voice, José’s aunt talked about feeling trapped—first in Mexico, by poverty, and then in the US, by her own bad choices. “Todo va a estar bien,” José repeated.

  “José Gomez?” a nurse called out. José almost ran to the desk. “The doctor wants to talk with you. Come this way, please.” José followed the nurse, fear building with each step.

  The nurse walked too slowly for José along a line of closed blue drapes. Near the end of the hall, she pulled back the drape. José saw his father sitting up in the bed. There was another nurse, a doctor, and young woman speaking to José’s mom in Spanish.

  “We need some medical history, José,” the nurse said, flipping a few pages in his notes. “Has your father had a stroke?”

  “No … about ten years ago he fell off a ladder at work and hit his head on the ground.”

  “His left side, correct?” the doctor asked. José nodded. How did she know that?

  “After he fell the first time, did things get back to normal?” the doctor continued.

  José answered no, and the doctor nodded like she’d expected that.

  “So he was never quite the same, and then he fell again today.”

  José nodded again to confirm.

  “Back when he fell before, he probably suffered a traumatic brain injury,” the doctor explained. “I hope he got medical treatment for that. Do you remember, at the hospital, what—”

  “He didn’t get treated at the hospital right away,” José said, his shame overwhelming him.

  “Why not?”

  José paused. He could lie to the doctor and tell him it was because they didn’t have money or because he was undocumented, but he knew he needed to tell the truth.

  “He kept repeating ‘intoxicado,’ so that’s the word I told them. They took him to jail. They thought he was drunk.”

  14

  TEN YEARS EARLIER, LATE SPRING

  BENSON, MINNESOTA

  Just like every day since he father was moved from the county jail to the hospital, José and his mom stood next to the bed. His mom clutched her rosary; José held his father’s limp right hand. The beeping sounds of modern medical machines drowned out his mom’s mumbled prayers. The lines of the screens moved, but his dad didn’t. He was in a coma for the third day.

  Exhausted, José sat in the small, hard chair next to the bed. Other than going to the bathroom, he hadn’t left his father’s side—or, just as importantly, his mom’s. She needed him, not just for support, but in case the doctor came in to explain what was going on. But other than nurses coming and going, no other medical personnel had entered the room. The Hispanic janitors helped by answering questions and bringing snacks f
or José to eat. His mom had refused food, telling José she would eat again when her husband could eat, not one second before.

  His dad’s friends from work brought José meals and stayed for short periods of time. They told José how the foreman hadn’t reported that his dad had fallen from a ladder. The foreman had told everyone on the crew that José’s dad was drunk and that’s why he fell. Oscar, his dad’s best friend at work, confirmed what José knew in his heart: his dad hadn’t been drunk. The problem, Oscar said, was that the foreman had made his dad use a faulty ladder.

  Near the end of the third day, a doctor arrived. “What’s wrong with him?” José asked.

  “Your father suffered a concussion, which led to bleeding in the brain and resulted in a coma,” the doctor explained. José tried his best to understand the doctor’s words. “The good news is that he should come out of it. But when he does, things won’t be the same. He fell on his left side, so when he wakes up, there will be damage to his right side. What I don’t understand is why he wasn’t treated here immediately.” The doctor paged through the notes in his dad’s patient file. “Looks as though the nurse thought you were saying he was intoxicated. If we would’ve understood you, we could’ve treated him sooner, and the damage would be less.”

  15

  EARLY MORNING / FRIDAY, JANUARY 31

  RONDO DEAN’S OFFICE / ADVISORY PERIOD

  José sat slumped in the chair in Mrs. Baker’s office. His dad was back home and José was back at school, but that was about the only good news in José’s shuffled life. While Mrs. Baker understood José missing school to be with his father at the hospital, his boss at Rainbow did not. Despite his record of working hard every minute, his boss fired him over the phone for being unreliable.

  “You’ll have to make up your assignments,” Mrs. Baker said. José nodded in agreement.

  “But it isn’t just school you’ve missed,” Mrs. Baker continued. “Even before your father went into the hospital, I noticed you weren’t attending after-school tutoring. Why not?”

  “I’m too busy.”

  “José, that’s no excuse,” Mrs. Baker snapped. She seemed angry. “You have to learn to set priorities. Make good choices.”

  Another nod, but it was mostly out of habit. He had no good alternatives.

  “You’re doing well in language arts. What’s different about that class for you?” Mrs. Baker asked. “Maybe you could think about that and then apply it to other classes.”

  “I think it’s the book we’re reading. I guess I can relate to it some way.”

  “I know that’s harder in other classes, so here’s what I want to do. I want you to attend after-school tutoring like you promised, and—”

  “I don’t think I can,” José said. “I lost my job at Rainbow, and I need those job credits. I’m going to call up Mr. Harmon at UPS. Maybe he can take me on again, part-time after school.”

  “Okay, that’s fair. So here’s what we’ll do. Do you know Kayla Robins?”

  “Some.”

  “Mr. Hunter says Kayla is interested in becoming a science teacher. She can start with you,” Mrs. Baker said. “I’ll talk with her about tutoring you during advisory. She would earn credits too.”

  José looked at the floor and nodded.

  “You’ve dug yourself in deep, José, but Rondo is the ladder that’s gonna help you rise up.” Mrs. Baker encouraged him until the bell rang, when she added, “Work on being on time, okay? We start at eight o’clock, not eight fifteen!”

  José took his seat in language arts just as Mrs. Howard-Hernandez was starting up.

  “Today we’ll read ‘Ghost Soldiers,’ and then we’ll break into pairs for an assignment.” The teacher read the story about O’Brien being shot. After she finished, she said, “Who can tell me the theme of this story?”

  José raised his hand. Mrs. Howard- Hernandez appeared stunned by the rare sight. “José?”

  “I think O’Brien realizes that the pain of a gunshot isn’t actually as bad as the fear of being shot.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Mrs. Howard-Hernandez said with a smile. “Building up a fear of something is often worse than actually experiencing it.”

  José couldn’t smile back. All he could think of was the secret he’d been keeping from his family for so long. Was O’Brien right? Was the fear of pain worse than the pain itself?

  16

  LATE AFTERNOON / FRIDAY, JANUARY 31

  RAINBOW FOODS IN ST. PAUL

  After he picked up his father from physical therapy, José stopped at Rainbow to pick up his last paycheck. He hoped he wouldn’t see his old boss. José wondered, based on his experience at Rainbow and his father’s with Benson Roofing, if most bosses were jerks and cowards.

  José asked his father to stay in the car. He didn’t plan to be long or talk to anyone.

  “What happened to you, José?” asked Angelica Cruz, a pretty girl stocking fruit, when she saw him enter the store. He quickly told her why he got fired. “That’s not right.”

  “I know, but he’s the boss,” José replied. “He gets to make the rules.”

  “It’s still not fair,” Angelica said, which was true of most of the boss’s rules.

  “Let me tell you what else isn’t fair,” José said, and he told Angelica a little bit about his life. She stopped what she was doing and listened intently. He wondered if the sensitive-guy vibe he gave off—not an act, as it was for some of his friends—was winning him points. “So, it’s been a rough week, I guess you could say,” he finished.

  “That’s terrible, José.”

  “I’m just here to pick up my last paycheck, so I guess I won’t see you again.” José let the words dangle like bait, but Angelica didn’t bite or ask for his number. “I guess I’d better go.”

  José began to walk away, but then he heard Angelica call his name.

  He turned around and tried to dazzle her with his best smile. However, she wasn’t paying attention. “José, isn’t that your father?” Angelica pointed at his dad, standing by a pile of mangos. His father wiped the fruit against his dirty shirt and then took a bite out of it.

  “¿Qué estás haciendo?” José asked, running over to him. His father just chewed faster. It’s like being with a child, José thought, except a child will learn, but Dad can’t. We’re stuck in time.

  After dinner, José stood outside the apartment when he made the call to his boss at UPS. He hoped to leave a message and avoid begging for a job like he’d seen his dad do many times.

  “Hello, this is Bob Harmon.” It wasn’t a message.

  “Mr. Harmon, this is José Gomez. How are you?” What was he doing there now?

  “Busy, José, always busy. I was just thinking about you. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to come back.” There was no need to tell him about losing his Rainbow job.

  “Well, that’s very good news for me,” Mr. Harmon said. “You are one of the hardest workers I’ve known.” José smiled. Okay, that’s one boss who wasn’t a jerk or coward, he thought.

  “I could even start tonight if you wanted,” José offered.

  Mr. Harmon paused. Didn’t he want José back? “Well, the thing about it is that I’m not a foreman on third shift anymore. I got promoted,” Mr. Harmon said. José thought he sounded proud. Good for him. “I’m a manager on first shift.”

  “Well, maybe you could put in a good word about me with—”

  “I was hoping you’d call, José, because I’d like you to come back and start training to be a foreman. What do you say? Would you like that?”

  It was a no-brainer. José knew foremen made a lot more money. “Very much, Mr. Harmon.”

  “I’ll see you Monday. We start at eight a.m. sharp. You’ve made a good choice, José.”

  17

  TEN YEARS EARLIER, LATE SPRING

  BENSON, MINNESOTA

  The doctor asked José more questions about his father’s condition after the fall (slurred speech
, sick to his stomach, and forgetting things). Then he left José alone with his crying mother and unmoving father. The second the door closed, José’s mom began asking José questions about what the doctor had said, but José couldn’t answer them. If only he had told the nurses, “he hurt his head, and his stomach hurts too,” or anything else. But his dad kept saying “intoxicado,” so that was the word Jose used.

  José asked his mom to be quiet. He needed time put it together, like a math story problem at school. He’d used that word not knowing that in English, intoxicated meant drunk. The doctor had explained how some symptoms of a concussion, like slurred speech, could be mistaken sometimes for being drunk. José realized his word choice had caused the nurses to call the police instead of admitting him to the hospital to be treated. Instead of spending the night in a hospital bed with nurses checking on him, José guessed his father had spent the night sleeping on the cold floor of a jail cell.

  José blamed himself but also the nurses, for not knowing better, and the police. They were just like his dad’s foreman; they all seemed to assume his dad was drunk. José overheard how people talked: he was Mexican, after all, he must be drunk to be acting that way. José hated Benson, hated Minnesota, and hated the United States. He hated everything, but mostly himself.

  His father had worked ten hours a day for the roofer. His mother worked twelve hours at two jobs. All José had to do was one simple thing: be the bridge between his parents and the English-speaking world around them. He had failed, and now his family paid the price.

  “¿José, qué dijo el doctor?” his mom asked.

  “What did the doctor say?” José repeated. Then he managed a smile and lied to his mom’s crying face.

  18

  AFTERNOON / SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 1

  ST. PAUL

  Angelica was right about things being unfair. Yes, it was unfair that José got fired. But the greater unfairness lay in how his dad struggled to do something that came easy to everyone else: smile.