Chapter 34 Myrtle
Myrtle
I’m running at such a fast speed that I slam into the side of my car. I pull on the door handle. It’s locked.
“Shit,” I mutter.
My keys are in my jeans, and all my clothes got scattered when I got hit by the SUV and went flying.
“Yo,” says Oscar, catching up to me.
He’s actually holding my pants in a bundle in his arm. I guess he managed to pick them up as we were running away from Nash and Nikolai. He reaches into one of the front pockets, pulls out my car keys, and throws them to me.
I press a button twice on the key fob, and it beeps and unlocks all the doors. Once we’re inside the car, Oscar throws my jeans over my naked lap.
I start the engine, shift gears, and slam on the accelerator.
We’re both bruised and bloody. We’re still breathing hard. Our hearts are thumping like bass drums.
Oscar looks out the back window.
“Are we good?” I ask.
“Nobody’s behind us.”
Oscar is now staring down at his hands, which are shaking.
I say, “You okay?”
“Nah, man,” he replies. “I just stabbed a dude in the neck! Do you think he’s dead? I hope he’s not dead.”
“I mean, I don’t know.”
“Hunter, I don’t wanna go to jail. I got relatives in jail.
I swore up and down my whole life I wasn’t gonna be like them.
I can’t get in trouble like that. But the thing I’m worried about most is, my mom would be so disappointed in me.
Like, she and my dad went through a lot to get from Cuba to America.
I mean, my dad died on the way here. You know that.
And I don’t want my mom to think she came all the way to America for her son to end up locked up. ”
“You’re not going to jail, Oscar,” I assure him. “That guy was gonna shoot me in my face. You were defending me.”
What I don’t say is that jail is probably the least of his worries.
From what I can tell, Nikolai is some kind of big-time criminal, involved in drugs probably, maybe more.
If he survives, I’m afraid of retaliation.
If he doesn’t survive, then it sounds like he’s part of a shady organization that could very well come after Oscar, come after me.
There’s no telling what they might do to settle the score.
As if my conscience weren’t stained enough, I keep feeling worse and worse about myself. My stupid hidden-camera project, my dumb porn “business”: it all led to Alessandra’s death and, now, to Oscar stabbing a vengeful crime boss and me stabbing my own brother, both of whom may or may not be dead.
If there’s such a thing as a hell, I always thought I would be going there after I die. But now it’s certain. It’s a done deal. See you soon, Satan!
“Dude, I don’t think I’m into fuck parties,” says Oscar. “That shit’s way too intense for me.”
“Me too.”
“And . . . uh . . .” Oscar hesitates. “I’m not gonna tell anyone about what happened in there, okay? I’m not gonna say anything, okay?”
I think Oscar feels weird about “Olympic skiing” next to me. I get it.
“Yeah,” I say. “I won’t say anything either. It dies here.”
Oscar nods, satisfied that what happened will remain secret.
He then suddenly moans in pain. “I feel like everything in my body is broken.”
I stretch out my neck. “Same here.”
“Now what?”
I hurt all over. “We gotta get to a hospital.”
“Like the ER and shit? Nah, man, my family don’t got insurance. If I go, they’re gonna send my mom a bill for like thousands of dollars. We don’t got that kind of money.”
“I’ll pay for it,” I say. “We have to see a doctor.”
“Pay for it with what?” Oscar asks. “All your money is gone.”
He’s right. And not only that, my porn side hustle got shut down, so I have no new money coming in.
Then, a name just pops out of my mouth: “Patricia.”
About an hour later, we’re back in Point Liberty.
As Oscar and I approach the front porch of Patricia’s house, we hear the laughter of several people coming from inside.
“You sure this is it?” asks Oscar.
“I think so.”
When I saw Patricia at the hospital earlier today, she wrote all her contact information on a piece of paper since my phone was (and is still) dead.
(And both my and Oscar’s phones are still back at Perpetual Sunset.) The paper has been folded up inside my wallet all day, and my wallet has been in my jeans, and luckily, because of Oscar, I have my jeans.
But when we dived into the swimming pool on Nash’s college campus, the writing on the paper got smudged. I’m able to make out the street (Myrtle Avenue), but not all of the numbers. As best as I can tell, it’s 2365 Myrtle Avenue. We’ll see.
I press the doorbell. It’s a soothing chime.
The door opens, and it’s Patricia’s wife, Jo, whom I recognize from the couple of funerals I’ve seen her at. Her light red hair is cut short, her face has freckles, and she’s wearing a dress with a flower pattern on it. She is very pregnant.
When she lays her eyes on Oscar and me, she looks confused, disturbed.
I’m shirtless and shoeless, wearing nothing but jeans. And aside from the very visible bruises and blood all over my body and Oscar’s, we’re covered in dirt and other stains, our hair is messed up, and our clothes are tattered and torn.
“Can I help you?” asks Jo.
“Sorry for bothering you,” I say. “My name is Hunter. Patricia is my cousin.”
“Hunter? Oh, my God, Hunter! I remember seeing you at some family events, and Patrica’s talked so much about you.” She looks us up and down. “What happened to you guys?”
I gesture. “This is my friend Oscar. We got into some trouble tonight.”
Jo pokes her head out the door to see if there’s anybody else around.
“Come in, come in.” She steps aside.
Patricia appears, wearing a casual black dress. Behind her are two men: one Black guy in his late thirties and one Asian dude in his late twenties. All three of them are holding glasses of red wine.
An expression of surprise and concern washes over Patrica’s face. “Jesus Christ! Hunter, what the hell happened?!”
“It’s a long story,” I say. “But basically we both got hit by a car. An SUV. And everything hurts.”
The Black guy says, “Sit down, boys.”
“Do you want some water?” says the Asian dude.
Jo starts walking up the stairs. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”
Oscar and I sit on the plush couch, while the two men head to the kitchen and Jo goes upstairs.
Patricia kneels down before us. “Was it a hit and run?”
“Something like that,” I say. “Oh, and this is Oscar.”
“Hi, Oscar.”
Oscar lifts up his chin. “‘Sup?”
Patricia then says to me, smiling, “Is this your boyfriend?”
Oscar scrunches his face. “Boyfriend? Nah. We straight.”
Patricia sits next to me.
I whisper to her, “I’m not out yet.”
“Oh, sorry,” says Patricia. “I’m a little tipsy from the wine. We all are. Except for Jo, of course. Can’t drink because of the . . .” She mimes having a pregnant stomach.
I nod because I don’t know what else to do.
“Did you get my text?” she asks. “About your test results? You’re completely in the clear, so at least that’s one good thing.”
“Thank God,” I say. “I forgot that my phone is dead, so I never got your text.”
The two men come back into the living room, each with a glass of water, and Jo returns with a first aid kit and some clothes.
“Thanks,” Oscar says, taking a glass. He drinks all of it.
“Thanks,” I say and do the same.
Patricia opens the first aid kit. “Let’s get you both cleaned up, and then Jo will drive us all to my hospital, so we can take some x-rays. My bosses will be pissed, but who the hell cares?”
Jo has now retrieved a washbasin and some towels, and the two men have refilled our glasses of water.
All of a sudden, I start crying. It’s odd. I guess I’m just moved by how, within seconds of Oscar and me showing up on Patricia’s front door, everybody sprang into action. Two men, strangers, and Jo, who doesn’t really know me or Oscar at all, started to help us both out.
“What’s the matter, Hunter?” asks Patricia.
“I don’t know. Everybody’s so nice. I guess I’m not used to it.” I wipe the tears from my face.
“Well,” says Patricia, “it’s probably because you’re too young to know this but . . . There’s the family you’re born with and the family you choose. And sometimes, when it matters most, the family you choose is the one that comes through for you in the end.”