And then, almost miraculously, Alene reappeared. She’d sobered up, earned her GED, gone to college. She’d eventually gotten a master’s degree and started a job with a food company. She’d married Stuart Robinson, whom she’d met at their church, and given birth to another child. When Gwen went to live with them soon after her fifteenth birthday, the Alene she met was so different from the one who had left her that it was almost like she’d been placed with another foster family. Her own experience had made Gwen shy away from the idea of having children. There were enough kids in the world already, she thought, too many of them unwanted.
* * *
After telling the receptionist that the girls from Lincoln might drop by, Gwen made her way back to her office. She called up the image of the lake on her computer again and tried to recapture her sense of calm. But the scene was flat now; it had lost all its power. Damn her mother, she thought. Damn her for so swiftly poisoning even this.
She brought her mind back to where she was, the office where she spent so much time that she sometimes inadvertently called it “home.” On the walls there were pictures of her colleagues at various work events, a certificate naming her employee of the year, a framed commendation from the city councilman for her outstanding work with youth. On her bulletin board, there were photos of kids who’d been in her groups, and school portraits of some of her colleagues’ children.
At the corner of the board, closest to her, was a picture of Robert. He was posing on a rock high up on a hiking trail with all of LA spread out behind him. His hands were on his hips and his chin was raised at a jaunty angle, as if he were a conquering hero. He looked beautiful and ridiculous, pleased with himself and with the world. Gwen had taken this picture two weeks before he died.
Robert had been in seventh grade when Gwen first met him; he’d been referred by a therapist at his school. A tall, gangly kid, he’d shown up for group sessions in threadbare clothes, with holes in his worn-out sneakers. But he was unfailingly polite, and he always seemed to speak in complete paragraphs, using words—sustainable, honor-bound, erudite, Darwinian—that were almost comically formal. When Gwen finally asked him what had brought him to group, he answered only, “I was suspended for fighting.”
She couldn’t fathom the idea that this gentle kid was a fighter, and so she tracked down the school therapist. That was how she learned that Robert and his little brother Isaac had bounced around to several homes as their mother fled an abusive relationship. Robert had seen the man hold a gun to his mother’s head; he’d watched him break her arm. He’d gotten into several fights at his new school, the therapist said, while standing up for girls when boys harassed them.
Robert had always been a good student, so he didn’t need help with academics. But he was awkward and shy and down on himself, so Gwen connected him with other activities—Devon’s job prep group, a digital media class, and a group that went on outings, like that hike in the local mountains. He stayed in her youth leadership group through middle school and high school, where he got mostly As and a couple of Bs. In his senior year he applied to UCLA, and when his acceptance letter arrived, there’d been an impromptu celebration at her office—cupcakes and soda and teary speeches from the staff, Robert grinning and embarrassed at the attention. He seemed like the ultimate success story—a black boy from Watts who’d grown up in extreme poverty, and who had made it to a top-notch university.
Then Robert showed up to group one day with a fresh black eye. He wouldn’t talk about what happened. But Trey, another student, told her that some boys had started bugging him again, a couple of the same ones from back in seventh grade. Robert was skinny and nerdy, too into his books—he thought he was something special. He didn’t try to get with girls; there must have been something wrong with him. Gwen went to talk to the principal but he just smiled and nodded absently; he was new to the area, from Maine or Maryland, and he said the boys should “work it out themselves.”
A few days later the boys cornered Robert in the locker room. They stripped off his clothes, knocked him around, and left him there, naked. There was speculation that more might have happened but no one knew for sure. When the school staff questioned Robert, he just shook his head, refusing to talk.
Gwen tried to get him to open up, to no avail. He’ll tell us when he’s ready, she’d thought. He was subdued for several weeks, but then he seemed to turn a corner, and everyone was cautiously relieved. This was a terrible thing, but he’d been through worse, and he’d get past it; he always did. As the school year wound down he grew more cheerful again; he almost seemed at peace. He was talking about plans for the summer, and they’d even gone on that wonderful hike. That was why everyone had been so stunned when Robert hanged himself.
It had happened a little more than a year ago, the second week of June, and Gwen still felt completely undone. All these months later, she still asked that question that people ask and never get an answer to: Why? And even more, particular to her: How could I not have known? It was easy to say in retrospect that she had always sensed Robert’s sadness; that there was a stillness in him that she couldn’t touch or understand. And maybe, with his recent troubles, that sadness had tipped over into despair. But mostly what she remembered was his hopefulness. She couldn’t believe that he was not coming back; she kept expecting him to walk through the door of her office.
But then she did believe it, and she believed it still. Robert was gone and he wasn’t returning; he’d chosen to take his life. And besides the feeling of loss that still threatened to swallow her whole, Gwen couldn’t get over the fact that she hadn’t done more to help. She should have made him tell her what had happened; she should have forced that principal to do his job. She should have told Robert that no matter how bad things seemed now, they’d get better; the trouble would pass.
Gwen looked back at the picture and her eyes filled with tears. Robert had overcome so much, and he had everything going for him—good grades, the toughness to survive a difficult home life, a future that was bright and limitless. If he couldn’t find a reason to keep going, what hope was there for the other kids she worked with? Why did she even bother? Why risk her own safety every day for the sake of kids and families who were so deeply mired in problems that they were never going to get better? She didn’t know what to do anymore with her helplessness, her grief. Now her eyes returned to the picture of the lake. Yes, she thought as she looked at it. Yes, she needed to get away from all this.
Chapter Two
Oscar
Oscar Barajas turned left onto York and immediately ran into stopped traffic. There was a line of it, both ways, bumper to bumper, inching slowly through the main corridor of Highland Park.
“Shit,” he said softly, and then he remembered Lily, his four-year-old daughter, who was sitting in back. He glanced up at the rearview mirror but she was staring out the window and hadn’t heard him.
“Papá, can I have a SPAM musubi?” she asked, pointing at the Hawaiian barbecue place that had recently sprung up, along with a Starbucks and a CVS, in what had once been a stretch of dilapidated houses and trash-filled empty lots.
“No, mija. Not today. Grandma’s probably made you dinner. We can get some when I pick you up on Monday, okay? I promise.”
“Oh-kay,” Lily answered, with an exaggerated shrug. Oscar smiled. She was damned cute, his daughter. His mother doted on her too, and he was grateful to her for watching Lily while he went on his backpacking trip, especially since his ex, Tammy—no surprise—had refused to take her for more than her required time. He just wouldn’t tell his mother that Lily liked SPAM—and red curry from the local Thai place, and of course her mother’s phở—as much as she did her grandmother’s enchiladas.
He inched forward, past the sunglasses store and the graphics shop run out of small converted houses, the check-cashing place, the liquor stores, the hole-in-the-wall taquerías. He couldn’t believe the traffic. When had it gotten to be like this? Five years ago, York had been a drive-through street, a barrio artery, that no one but locals ever stopped on. It was gritty, rough, dirty, all