Page 8 of The Silence Between

8

HOLDING PATTERNS

LEO

“D iego's science fair project was quite remarkable,” Ms. Rivera began, pushing her rectangular glasses higher on her nose. “His understanding of renewable energy systems shows creativity and insight well beyond his grade level placement.”

I nodded, familiar with the pattern. Good news first, concerns to follow.

“However,” she continued right on cue, “I'm concerned about how he responds to collaborative work. The partner phase of the science fair was especially challenging. He refused to compromise on his design and became highly agitated when his partner suggested modifications.”

“He struggles with changes to his plans,” I countered, keeping my voice level. “Diego gets overwhelmed when his ideas are dismissed without consideration.”

Ms. Rivera tilted her head slightly, acknowledging the point. “Fair enough. But there was also the incident last week during our ecosystem unit. He refused to participate in the group simulation entirely. When pressed, he became... quite vocal about the 'unrealistic parameters' of the activity.”

Despite everything, I felt a flicker of pride. Diego had always been the most analytical of the three.

“He's passionate about scientific accuracy,” I explained. “And group work is particularly difficult for him. The constant school changes when he was younger didn't help. He's sixteen but academically behind because we moved so much.”

“I'm aware of his history,” Ms. Rivera said, her tone gentler than most teachers'. “Which is actually why I wanted to meet with you specifically, rather than just sending a note home.”

She pulled out a worn book from her desk drawer and slid it across to me. “Have you ever heard of neurodivergent learning styles? This book helped me understand my own daughter's needs. Some of what I'm seeing with Diego reminds me of her experiences.”

I took the book, scanning the cover: “Different Minds, Different Brilliance: Understanding Neurodivergent Children.” It wasn't a glossy brochure with prohibitively expensive services listed inside, just a well-used paperback offered with what seemed like genuine concern.

“I know you've already spoken with the school about formal assessment options,” Ms. Rivera continued. “But while you're navigating that process, I'd like to try adapting my classroom approach for Diego. I've had success with similar students using alternative assignment structures.”

I studied her face, looking for the agenda, the judgment, the subtle blame I'd grown accustomed to detecting in these meetings. Found nothing but professional concern and what appeared to be authentic understanding.

“What kind of adaptations?” I asked cautiously.

“Option for individual work when group projects are assigned. Written instructions rather than just verbal. Advance warning about sensory activities like labs with strong smells or loud demonstrations.” She pulled out a simple checklist. “If you have time, could you indicate which of these accommodations might help Diego specifically? You know him best.”

Something tight in my chest loosened slightly. Not another burden being placed on my shoulders, but an actual offer of support. It felt so unfamiliar I almost didn't recognize it.

“I can do that,” I said, accepting the checklist. “Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, we emerged with a folder of resources, potential strategies, and the weight of another complex problem without easy solutions. The hallway bustled with end-of-day activity, students slamming lockers and teachers looking simultaneously relieved and exhausted.

We passed a bulletin board plastered with college acceptance letters from recent graduates, their excited faces beaming beside logos of universities across the country. I paused briefly, an old ache resurfacing at the sight of opportunities I'd never had.

Diego hung back, watching me study the board. “This is what you want for me and Mari, isn't it?” he asked quietly.

I turned to find him slouched against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets with that particular teenage awkwardness that seemed at odds with his analytical mind.

“I want you both to have options,” I said carefully. “Whatever those might be.”

He scuffed his worn sneaker against the floor. “I know I'm making things harder. All these meetings, the testing you can't afford... it's just one more problem for you to solve.”

The resignation in his voice hit me harder than anger would have. Sixteen years old, but carrying the weight of feeling like a burden—already calculating his worth against the trouble he caused.

“Listen to me,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder, respecting his height while maintaining connection. “Everyone's story is written differently. What looks like the end of a sentence to some people might just be a pause in yours.”

He glanced at my wrist, where the semicolon tattoo was partially visible below my sleeve. “That's what your tattoo means, right? The pause thing?”

“Yeah,” I admitted, offering a rare piece of my private history.

A hint of a smile flickered across his face. “Kinda nerdy. Using punctuation as a tattoo.”

“Says the kid who designed a fully functioning scale model solar array for science fair,” I countered, grateful for his attempt at lightening the mood.

“Fair point.” He straightened up slightly. “I should catch the bus.”

“Yeah. I've got to get to work.” I squeezed his shoulder once more. “Diego? The hard stuff—the meetings, the tests, all of it—it's worth it. You're worth it.”

Diego gave me a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, the strain of the parent-teacher conference still visible in the tension across his shoulders. We'd spent the last hour listening to his math teacher praise his abilities while his History teacher expressed “concerns about engagement.” The same story, different year.

“I know, Thanks for coming with me.”

The familiar ringtone interrupted us, Tasha's name lighting up my phone screen. My stomach dropped instantly—she never called with good news.

“You know what, go ahead and take the car home,” I told Diego, handing him the keys. “I need to handle this.”

He hesitated, concern flashing across his face. “Is it?—”

“Just go home,” I said, more sharply than intended. “Tell Mari I might be late.”

Once Diego drove away, I answered the call, moving toward the shade of a nearby tree. “Tasha. What happened?”

“It’s your Dad. They found him behind the old Quick Mart in The Hollows,” she said, her voice carrying the professional detachment she'd developed after years in social services. “Unconscious, needle still in his arm. Third time this year.”

I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers against the bridge of my nose. “Is he?—”

“Alive. Barely. They're working on him now.” She paused. “I'm only calling because I happened to be on shift when they brought him in. Thought you'd want to know, despite everything.”

The familiar conflict twisted in my chest—resentment battling obligation. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“You don't have to come, Leo. Nobody would blame you.”

But we both knew I would. No matter how many times he'd chosen drugs over his children, no matter how many promises he'd broken, some stubborn thread of responsibility still tied me to the man who'd contributed half my DNA.

“I'll be there in thirty minutes,” I said, already walking toward the bus stop.

* * *

Riverton Memorial Hospital hadn't changed in the decade I'd been making these occasional pilgrimages. Same antiseptic smell barely masking human suffering. Same flickering fluorescent light in the east wing corridor. Same knot in my stomach that formed the moment I passed through the automatic doors.

I found him in a curtained emergency room bay, diminished and aged far beyond his fifty years. Addiction had hollowed him from the inside out, leaving his skin draped over bones like ill-fitting clothes. His eyes fluttered open as I approached the bed.

“Leo,” he croaked, recognition flickering across his gaunt face. “You came.”

“Yeah,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. What was the appropriate greeting for a father you saw maybe twice a year, always in hospital rooms or recovery centers, never by choice?

“Didn't think you would.”

“Neither did I,” I admitted, sitting in the molded plastic chair beside the bed. It was the truth. Every time I swore it would be the last, that I was done setting myself up for disappointment. Yet I always came, driven by some obligation I couldn't name—not to Miguel as father but to the memory of the man who had once carried me on his shoulders, who had taught me to ride a bike, who had existed before pills rewrote our family story.

“How long has it been?” he asked, eyes clearer than I'd expected. “Since I've seen you?”

“Four years ago. Ran into you at St. Mary's food pantry. You said you were doing better.”

He nodded vaguely, perhaps remembering, perhaps just pretending to. “I was. For a while.”

The familiar dance of addiction—brief periods of function punctuating the longer stretches of chaos, each “better” moment providing just enough hope to devastate you when the inevitable crash came.

“The kids?” he asked.

“They're fine,” I said, the automatic response that prevented further questions. “How did you end up behind Jiffy Mart?”

“Don't remember,” he mumbled, then surprised me with greater lucidity. “Saw your mother last week.”

My guard, already high, strengthened further. “Where?”

“Community center. She's looking good. Ninety days sober.”

I'd heard that before—thirty days, sixty days, ninety days. Magical thresholds that were supposed to indicate real change but had proven meaningless over years of repeated relapses.

“That's good,” I said noncommittally. “I hope it sticks this time.”

“She wants to see the kids.”

“We've talked about this, Dad.” The word felt foreign in my mouth, unused for so long. “When she reaches six months sober, we can discuss supervised visits. Same as always.”

“She's their mother. You can't keep them from her forever.”

“I'm not keeping them from anyone,” I said, the old argument igniting familiar frustration. “I'm protecting them from being disappointed over and over. From getting their hopes up just to have them crushed when she relapses. Again.”

He looked away, perhaps recognizing the parallel to his own pattern of brief returns and lengthy absences. We sat in tense silence for several minutes, the only sounds coming from monitors and the muffled hospital activity beyond the curtain.

“How's that boy?” he asked suddenly.

“What boy?”

“That one from West Riverton. You never talk about him anymore.”

The question caught me completely off-guard. Miguel had barely noticed my friends even when nominally present in our lives. For him to remember Ethan specifically seemed impossible.

“From the debate team,” he continued, filling my stunned silence. “Smart kid. Came over once to study. I told you he'd help you get into college.”

The memory surfaced slowly—senior year, during one of Dad's brief periods of sobriety, he had come home early from a construction job to find Ethan and me at the kitchen table surrounded by textbooks. He'd been clear-eyed and pleasant, even made awkward small talk before retreating to give us privacy. Later that night, he'd mentioned that “friends like that” would help me get into a good school, break the family cycle.

Two weeks later, he'd disappeared with the rent money, beginning a six-month absence.

“That was a long time ago,” I managed, my carefully constructed compartmentalization faltering. “We lost touch after graduation.”

“Too bad,” he murmured, eyes drifting closed. “He seemed good for you.”

I mumbled something noncommittal and escaped to the hallway, leaning against the wall as memories I'd suppressed for years threatened to break through the surface. Ethan reading poetry aloud on the railroad bridge. Ethan helping Mari with homework at our kitchen table. Ethan's hand in mine, warm and steady when everything else in my life was chaos.

The weight of all I'd carried pressed down suddenly, nearly buckling my knees. I took several deep breaths, forcing the past back into its carefully sealed container.

A passing nurse glanced at me with concern. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I lied, straightening. “Just tired.”

The story of my life in two words.

It was past one in the morning when I returned home from the hospital, expecting to find the apartment quiet and dark. Instead, I discovered Mari sitting on our small balcony despite the late hour, moonlight catching in her dark hair.

“Hey,” I said softly, stepping outside to join her. “Everything okay? Kids asleep?”

She nodded, making room on the narrow concrete ledge. “Sophie was out by eight-thirty. Diego read until about ten, but he's been asleep since then.”

“Thanks for handling things.” I settled beside her, our shoulders touching in the limited space. “You should be asleep too.”

“I’m fine. How's... him?”

We rarely used parental titles for Miguel or Gloria anymore. They had become “him” and “her” years ago, familial designation stripped away by repeated disappointments.

“Same as always,” I said, not bothering to sugarcoat with Mari. “They'll release him to the recovery center on Pine tomorrow, until he decides to walk out.”

She nodded, unsurprised. We sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, watching the occasional car pass on the street below, headlights briefly illuminating the shabby buildings of The Hollows before darkness reclaimed them.

“I heard from Northwestern,” she said finally, voice carefully neutral.

My attention sharpened immediately. “And?”

“Preliminary acceptance. Early decision. With the Young Scientists scholarship.”

Pride surged through me, momentarily displacing exhaustion. “Mari, that's amazing! Congratulations!”

“It would cover most of tuition,” she continued, still in that measured tone that suggested she was withholding something. “But not room and board. And it's in Chicago.”

Chicago. Over two thousand miles away. Might as well be another planet.

“We'll figure it out,” I said automatically, my mind already calculating possibilities—additional work hours, loan applications, selling the car I'd saved three years to buy.

“Leo.” She turned to face me fully, moonlight revealing the conflict in her expression. “It's too far. Too expensive. And you need me here with Diego and Sophie.”

“No,” I said firmly. “That's not how this works. You're going. End of discussion.”

“It's not that simple?—”

“It is exactly that simple. Everything we've done—everything I've done—has been about giving you this exact opportunity. The chance to go wherever your brain can take you.” I gestured vaguely toward the surrounding neighborhood. “To get out of here. To have the options I never had.”

“But what about Diego's appointments? And Sophie's after-school stuff? And your work schedule? We barely manage now with both of us.”

She was right, of course. Our careful family system relied on her help. Picking up the younger kids when my work schedule overlapped with school dismissal, helping with homework while I worked evening shifts, managing household tasks I couldn't fit between jobs. Her departure would destabilize everything.

“We'll adapt,” I said, more confidently than I felt. “I'll adjust my hours. Find new arrangements. Whatever it takes.”

“But—”

“No buts. You're going.” I put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “We'll figure out the rest.”

She didn't argue further, but I felt the tension in her body, the weight of responsibility she'd carried too young pressing against her excitement for this opportunity. We sat in silence afterward, both contemplating the approaching changes.

For the first time in years, I allowed myself to consider what Mari's departure might mean not just for our family logistics but for my own deferred dreams.

“You could apply to schools too,” she said suddenly, as if reading my thoughts. “With me gone, maybe it's time.”

The suggestion hung in the night air, dangerous in its possibility.

“Let's focus on getting you to Chicago first,” I deflected. “One massive life change at a time.”

But the seed had been planted, and I couldn't pretend it hadn't taken root.

* * *

Second Chapter Bookstore existed in a strange neutral zone between East and West Riverton, occupying the ground floor of a Victorian house that had seen better days but maintained a certain faded dignity. The bell above the door chimed as I entered during my lunch break, the familiar smell of old paper and coffee wrapping around me like a welcome.

This place had become a sanctuary since high school, when Ethan first brought me here senior year. What started as occasional visits with him transformed into my own refuge after we parted ways—a quiet escape between responsibilities where I could reconnect with the person I used to be. The maze of overstuffed shelves created hidden corners where you could disappear into other worlds for as long as your schedule allowed.

Eleanor emerged from behind the counter, her silver hair swept into its usual practical bun. At seventy-three, she moved more slowly than when I'd first met her, but her eyes remained sharp and observant behind bifocals.

“Right on time,” she said, gesturing toward the small table where she'd set up coffee and sandwiches. “Tuna salad okay? I ran out of turkey.”

“Tuna's great. Thanks.” I settled across from her, aware of the minutes ticking down before I needed to head to my next job. “Your message said you wanted to discuss something?”

Eleanor never wasted time on preamble. “I'm cutting back my hours. Doctor's orders and Arthur's insistence.” She named her husband of forty-five years with familiar exasperation. “Arthritis is making inventory days a special kind of hell.”

I nodded, unsure where this was heading.

“I need someone to manage the place three days a week. Someone who knows books, who customers trust, who won't try to 'modernize' me out of business with computerized inventory systems and social media campaigns.”

It took me a moment to realize she was describing me, not explaining someone she'd already hired.

“You're offering me a job?”

“Part-time management. Better pay than that diner, more consistent hours than your handyman work, and considerably less disgusting than whatever you clean at the high school.” She sipped her coffee, watching me process this unexpected possibility. “You'd still need another part-time job for financial stability, but not three of them.”

My practical mind raced ahead to obstacles—I'd need to keep at least one additional job, the schedule would require rearranging Diego's therapy appointments, and I'd need to find someone reliable to watch Sophie after school. Yet beneath these considerations ran a current of unexpected possibility—work connected to my love of literature, mental rather than physical labor, potential stepping stone toward eventually resuming education.

“I don't know what to say,” I admitted finally.

“Yes would work,” Eleanor suggested with a small smile. “But think about it. Take a few days.”

I nodded, still trying to process what this opportunity might mean. Fewer hours at physically demanding jobs, slightly better pay, more consistent schedule. Small improvements that felt monumental after years of barely keeping my head above water.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Eleanor added, her casual tone immediately setting off my internal alarms. “I heard from Marcus Jenkins that Riverton High is hiring a new English teacher. Someone returning to town after making quite a name for himself as a writer.”

“I know, Tasha told me about it.” I said.

“Apparently he's written several successful novels. Quite the literary celebrity, by Riverton standards.” Eleanor watched me over her coffee cup. “Small world, isn't it?”

“I should get going,” I said, gathering my things. “Next job starts at two.”

“Think about my offer,” she called as I headed for the door. “Books have always been good to you, Leo. Maybe it's time you came back to them.”

* * *

The rain fell softly around me as I sat on the fire escape at three in the morning, unable to sleep after my night shift. Through the window behind me, I could hear the quiet breathing of my siblings—Diego and Sophie sharing the bedroom, Mari on the pull-out couch in the living room. The familiar sounds had always anchored me, reminded me why every sacrifice was necessary.

Tonight, they couldn't drown out the noise in my head.

The semicolon tattoo on my wrist seemed to pulse in the dim light, drawing me back to the night three years ago when I'd reached my breaking point. I rarely allowed myself to remember that darkness, but tonight, with everything shifting, the memory surfaced with brutal clarity.

Now, three years later, I traced the faded tattoo with my finger, rain mingling with unexpected tears.

For ten years, I'd carefully suppressed my own wants and needs, viewing them as luxuries I couldn't afford. What would happen if I allowed myself to want things again? To imagine a future beyond endless responsibility?

Below me, The Hollows slumbered in predawn stillness, indifferent to my internal turmoil. Inside, my family slept, unaware that the careful balance of our lives stood on the precipice of change.

I remained on the fire escape until the first hint of sunrise colored the horizon, the semicolon on my wrist a constant reminder that even the most difficult sentences eventually continue.