Chapter Thirteen
Declan
My father was a devout Mormon, donating thousands of dollars to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints every year.
He played the pipe organ at services each weekend, enforcing a strict rule that everyone in our household had to attend every Sunday.
If we didn’t, we faced two hours of reading from either the Holy Bible or the Book of Mormon.
Though my Catholic mother disagreed, my father baptized me as a Mormon.
The act itself wasn’t terrible, but I hated church and everything that came with it.
After my mother divorced him, I got a brief reprieve.
Though, it wasn’t long before I was forced to go to Catholic Sunday School.
Then, shortly after she remarried, I had to endure services at a vanilla Christian church every Sunday.
By the time I was fourteen, I’d concluded that organized religion was all a giant hoax, a clever scheme to trick people out of their money.
Growing up, my brother George had an uncontrollable temper, unlike me.
Our father was an abusive prick, and we couldn’t stop him from taking his anger out on us whenever or wherever.
He didn’t have a favorite weapon. He used fists, books, extension cords, anything he could get his hands on.
Unfortunately, like our dad, it didn’t take much for George to explode either.
A random person could give him a questionable look, and he’d spiral through a raging fit, breaking objects and prompting the police to be called.
Shortly before my twenty-first birthday, I attended George’s high school baseball game at the local park.
Typically, it wasn’t a big deal, but on that day, a professional scout for the big leagues was also there.
During the game, George was called out on strikes.
Convinced it was a terrible call, he lost it, yelling at the umpire who made the call and getting ejected from the game.
As he walked back to the dugout, he turned back several times, shouting obscenities.
Once he reached the bench, he didn’t stop.
He grabbed all the bats and helmets and hurled them onto the field one by one, each accompanied by a new curse.
The umpire finally had enough and demanded he leave.
George wouldn’t comply, feeling betrayed.
On his way to his car, his rage boiled over as he picked up a baseball-sized rock and, with all his might, threw it toward home plate, aiming for the umpire.
Fortunately, it missed, sailing over his head, and no one was hurt.
But the damage was done. The cops were called, and because of the pressure from the parents of the other players, George made a deal to avoid jail time—he would never play baseball again.
After that incident, George threw himself into his local church, where he learned that through prayer and hard work, he could control his emotions.
Even though I don’t believe in God, at least not as any one religion describes Him, I start to wonder if what worked for my troubled brother might work for me. Sitting frozen still in front of the Campos residence, I need to clear my head enough to drive home.
“God,” I say aloud, resting my chest against the steering wheel and rolling my eyes to look up through the windshield.
But I can’t bring myself to ask him for shit.
Fuck him. If he exists, he’s as much the reason I’m here as anything else.
If he exists, he knows what’s in my mind.
If he exists, he can take the pain of losing her years ago away.
But no. It hurts. And I find myself in a familiar mental state, unable to shake her free.
I know it’s unlikely, but all these years later I still hope our paths will cross again.
I’ve grown to understand our relationship was unconventional.
And I can’t explain it, but those four years we dated were when I was the happiest. Not a day goes by that I don’t look back and wish I could hold her one more time.
I dream about her running into my arms. The feel of her pristine body against mine.
The taste of her lips pressed to mine. If only I had a genie to make it all come true.
Holding back tears, I buckle my seatbelt and shift the Dodge into drive.