The Five Wounds Read online

  Just as Amadeo is getting restless, a man rises and clears his throat. He introduces himself as Eric Maxwell, the Family Foundations president. He’s short and exceedingly handsome. His athletic build is tucked neatly into his khakis. He’s left his mandarin collar unbuttoned. “On the first anniversary of our beautiful new building, I’d like to thank everyone who has made this possible, including the Gerald Family Foundation and United Way.” He turns to the teacher. “And mostly, mostly, I’d like to thank Brianna Gruver, who has brought her considerable knowledge and talent to the Smart Starts! program.”

  Brianna Gruver stands before a bookshelf in her loose dress, blushing and waving away the attention. Brianna’s only authority with these girls must come from the fact that they are so young that any adult seems old. Also, judging from the ages of the adult women standing around, many of the students’ own mothers had them when they were teenagers, so these girls’ perceptions of age have naturally undergone a kind of inflation.

  “Brianna has done great things with our unfortunately limited funding. We are lucky to have her.” Amadeo wonders idly if they are sleeping together. This is an interesting thought, and he looks at her more closely. There is something appealing about her, something wholesome and kind. Her hair is cut in a pallid little bob, her forehead high and square and shiny. His daughter beams at her teacher, and in the light of Angel’s admiration, Brianna is almost pretty.

  “Mostly”—here Eric Maxwell sweeps his hand across the gathered girls, in their short dresses and shiny black slacks, their makeup, all of them trying to look professional, but succeeding only in looking a little slutty—“I’d like to thank these industrious ladies, who have worked hard on their presentations. And now, I turn the stage over to them.”

  “Wait, what?” Amadeo says to his mother. “There’s presentations?”

  Lizette and a blonde take their places before the whiteboard. The girls in the audience whoop their support. “Yeah Lizette! Yeah Corinna!”

  Lizette pulls at her skirt, which has worked its way around her waist. He’s surprised to see her looking so uncertain, after her swagger earlier. Angel is holding Mercedes; she waves one of the baby’s hands. “This is a talk about nurturing discipline,” Lizette murmurs. The paper trembles in her grip.

  The blond one—Corinna—nudges her. “You gotta project.”

  Lizette raises her voice for a few words before sinking back into inaudibility, so the blond one grabs the paper and takes over. “Discipline is a problem issue every mom from age thirteen to sixty has to face at some certain point in her lifetime.”

  Brianna has a pleasant, attentive look plastered on her face, but Amadeo notices when she pulls a book from the bookcase and reshelves it. The blond girl drones on about time-outs and consistency. The information seems to have been copied directly off the internet.

  “Because think about it,” says Lizette belligerently, reclaiming the stage. She’s found her voice, she’s going off-script. Brianna Gruver bites her lip, poised to intervene. “Say your kid is screaming her head off. You think she’s going to stop screaming if you spank her?” She jerks her chin at her child. “As an example, Mercedes doesn’t know what a spanking means. She’s too little to know what anything means.”

  The event is catered by Food King. As the girls talk, Amadeo munches from the veggie tray, using carrots to scoop quivering quantities of ranch dressing. Some splats onto the carpet. He looks around and scuffs the spot with his shoe.

  “In conclusion,” Lizette says loudly, “discipline isn’t about hurting. It’s about loving correction.” She and Corinna grin, count three nods, then give deep, campy bows.

  After, Amadeo brings Angel a plate of veggies. She thanks him but sets it on a desk, her attention entirely absorbed by her friends.

  “That was awesome,” Angel tells Lizette as she hands Mercedes back. “Thanks to you, I’m going to quit throwing Connor. Maybe just a gentle toss now and then.”

  Lizette ducks her head, pleased. “It was stupid.”

  “I did most of the research,” says Corinna. “Actually.”

  Angel hugs Corinna. “You did so awesome. And you projected really clearly.” Corinna lights up, and Amadeo’s eyes prickle with pride.

  After, there’s a tour of the baby room (rocking chairs and mobiles and rows of clean white cribs, colored floor mats to cushion tiny bodies during Tummy Time) and everyone mills about.

  There’s something irritatingly democratic and condescending about Eric Maxwell, the way he hobnobs with his target population, engaging with the scattered siblings and parents of the teen mothers. You can almost see him gathering anecdotes of improved lives for the annual report. He shines his sympathetic attention first on one woman, then on another. And then, having discharged his duty, he gives Brianna a little salute and slips out, presumably to get in his Volvo and hightail it back to Santa Fe.

  Amadeo’s mother slumps at the desk, her cup of lemonade forgotten beside her.

  “Hey, you tired, Mom?” He touches her shoulder.

  She gives him a blank look, then nods like a sleepy child.

  “Go home, then. We’ll meet you there.”

  As she bends to gather her purse, her arm slow and jerky, he has the uncomfortable sense that something’s wrong, but then across the room in the knot of girls Lizette laughs wildly.

  After his mother leaves, Amadeo also slips out, ostensibly to find a restroom, but really because the shrieking of babies and teenagers is getting to him. In the hallway, he peers into offices, where the other earnest work of Family Foundations gets done—food stamp outreach, free tax prep for qualifying families, therapy. Under a sign that reads Resource Library is a single jammed sagging bookshelf. Amadeo reads the spines. The Sexual Male. Now that’s one he wouldn’t mind taking a look at. Next to it, The Male Conundrum. Men Vanquishing Darkness. Who knew there were so many books devoted to the difficulties of being a man? He wonders if they have a copy of Mastering Ares. Another shelf is packed with books with titles like Family Violence and Black and Blue and Baby, Too. Amadeo straightens and moves quickly away.

  All over the walls are signs for school supply drives and helpful posters in English and Spanish explaining how to prevent fetal alcohol syndrome and shaken baby syndrome and SIDS, syndrome after horrible syndrome.

  Amadeo inspects one on early-childhood dental hygiene. Caries, apparently, is another word for cavities. Another poster details ways you can ensure your child’s success, and he is stunned to discover that his daughter is considered an at-risk child. Divorced parents, born to a teenage mother, unemployment of one or more parents, minority status, family discord. On the plus side, neither of her parents is incarcerated, currently.

  Marissa and Angel appear beside him. Angel’s holding Connor, who’s gripping Marissa’s index finger and trying to focus on her face.

  “So, do you like it, Dad? What do you think? Isn’t Brianna great? And my friends?” Her grin is expectant.

  Amadeo touches the back of her hair. “It’s real nice. I see why you like it here.”

  “Is your mom okay?” Marissa asks him. “She seems kind of out of it.”

  “What? Yeah. She’s good.” His daughter looks so adult and poised, her shoulders straight.

  “How old is that Brianna, anyway?” Marissa asks. From the classroom, a baby squalls.

  “I don’t know. She went to UNM. She was even on the dean’s list.”

  “The dean’s list of what?”

  “Ugh, it’s like the honor roll.”

  “She told you that?” Marissa says, just as Amadeo says, “Nerd.”

  Angel looks from one to the other, her face screwed up in a particularly teenage expression of annoyed disbelief. “No, I looked her up. And some people might think it’s a good thing to succeed in school. Some people might respect that and not go around calling other people nerds.”

  “I was kidding.” Amadeo smiles, fatherly and indulgent. “You can be on the dean’s list, too.”


  “Shit,” Marissa says, tapping the poster over Amadeo’s shoulder, “who knew? I used to let Angel fall asleep with a bottle all the time.” She gives Connor’s hand a waggle.

  Angel’s mouth twitches and she detaches Connor from her mother. “That’s why I got so many cavities.”

  “You lost those baby teeth anyway. There were things we didn’t know back then. Like, you drank formula. I even smoked when I was pregnant.” Marissa laughs, then, catching sight of Angel’s face, says more soberly, “Like, a couple times.”

  But Angel’s lips tremble. “It’s not funny. It was 1995, Mom. They knew that smoking during pregnancy was bad.” In her arms, Connor starts up a fuss, as if also registering his indignation. “Why can’t you just act like a grandmother?”

  Marissa extends her palms, helpless, beseeching, the very image of innocence attacked. “How is a grandmother supposed to act? I don’t know what you want from me, Angel.”

  “You know exactly how a grandmother acts. If you don’t, then you’ve never seen one or had one or turned on the TV. I’m not an idiot. I’m not one of your boyfriends who can be manipulated. You forget that I know you.”

  “Yeah, they definitely knew smoking was bad,” says Amadeo, trying to pull the conversation onto more solid ground. “Remember all those commercials when we were kids? If you smoke, I smoke.”

  “Ugh!” Angel storms off down the hall, her body tipped to the side to counterbalance Connor’s weight. Connor’s shrieks rise.

  “You turned out fine!” Marissa calls after her daughter. “So I’m shit! I admit it! I ruined your entire life!” But Angel veers into the baby room, Connor’s cries cut by the slamming door. Marissa turns on Amadeo. “Oh, fuck you.”

  Amadeo puts up his hands. “I didn’t say nothing.”

  “Don’t you dare preach to me about how to parent.” She flaps her arms once and storms off the other way.

  The festivities are still going strong when Brianna ducks out. In the bathroom, she plucks at the wet spots in her armpits and peers at her face. She is gratified to see that her eyes are bright and clear, her skin even, and her hair has some fluff to it. Authority becomes her, she thinks.

  She’s enjoyed meeting her students’ families, though she admits to herself that at least some of her enjoyment is voyeuristic. Ysenia’s mother has a vacant quality about her. When Brianna told her that it was a delight having Ysenia in class, Ysenia’s mother responded warily, “Okay . . .” It made Brianna sad to think of spirited Ysenia growing up with this woman. All night Jen’s parents have sought Brianna out to repeat how grateful they are that Jen has this opportunity. “It’s not a situation we expected she’d ever end up in, but we’re so appreciative of this resource,” her dad said, pumping Brianna’s hand. Lizette has not brought anyone with her. Brianna gives herself a shake, but cannot shake away the disagreeable guilty pang.

  As she makes her way back to the classroom, she sees Angel’s father inspecting a poster in the hallway. The sleeves of his polo shirt are tight around his biceps, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. He rocks on his feet as he reads.

  She noticed him earlier, during the presentations. He’s not exactly handsome, and he’s just a couple inches taller than Brianna herself. But his eyes are warm and brown and thick-lashed, and he seems easy in his body. Her nerves vibrate, alert.

  Emboldened by her professional role, she smiles and sticks out her hand. “So. Angel’s dad, right? I’m Brianna.”

  He turns slowly. “Angel’s an at-risk child?”

  “Well, her baby is,” she says. “Angel is technically an at-risk youth.”

  “At risk for what?” He bites his lip.

  “Pregnancy, for one.” Brianna gives a quick rueful laugh. “Drug and alcohol use, dropping out, being a perpetrator or victim of crime. Ditto child abuse. Teenagers who have babies are at risk of reduced future earnings, less educational attainment, having children who are underweight or have serious health problems.” She catches his stricken expression and tries to right the ship. “I mean, not always, of course, but those are the statistical outcomes we’re trying to prevent.”

  “Not Angel. Angel’s going to college. She may even get her master’s. Her aunt’s got hers. And Connor was seven pounds three ounces. Just right. He’s healthy as anything.”

  Brianna smiles gently. “Angel’s great. She shines. If she keeps on like she is, she’ll achieve whatever she wants.”

  “You mean it?”

  She feels a wave of tenderness for this father who is looking to Brianna for assurance. “Sure, I mean it. Some of these girls I worry for, but not Angel.”

  “I just bought Angel and the baby a new car seat. A Graco.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Is he trying to impress her?

  “Rear-facing?”

  “Of course. It was the third most expensive one in the whole Babies ‘R’ Us.”

  “What really matters is that it’s rear-facing and secured. I’m sure it’s great. Reputable outlets only sell AAP-approved models.”

  “Yeah, I know, that’s why I went there.” He nods, grinning. “I’m Amadeo.”

  “So, Angel gave you the tour?” Brianna gestures nervously. “Right here is our conference room. Where we hold mock interviews. All the girls do it, you know, for jobs.”

  It’s a bleak room with a brown laminate folding table, the kind used in Brianna’s childhood cafeteria. The building is new, but the funding ran out by the time they got to this room. Mismatched chairs are arranged haphazardly; three more folding chairs lean against the wall. Affirming stickers have been pasted to the table and peeled off with varying degrees of success. From where she stands, Brianna sees a nearly intact cartoon thumbs-up in an orange star: My Feelings Are Okay!

  At the window, Amadeo surveys the shopping center that shares the parking lot. A Dollarland and a nail salon, a Jack in the Box and a liquor store. “Nice,” said Amadeo, gesturing at the flashing neon sign: LIQU–R.

  “I know,” says Brianna, joining him. “But it’s on the bus route. We had to be on the bus route.”

  “You must see some rough stuff.”

  “Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t believe the family situations some of these girls have to contend with. The worst things you can imagine. I had one student when I did my internship in Albuquerque? Twelve years old, brand-new mom. Guess how old the grandma is. Twenty-four. A year younger than me! Can you imagine?”

  Amadeo whistles low. “Shit.”

  “It pisses me off. It really—” she falters. “It makes me so mad. These girls deserve better.” She laughs, embarrassed. Why is she saying these things to this man? After all, he’s young to have a teenage daughter. She wonders how old he is. “I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but if I did Angel would be one of them. I bet you’re proud of her. She’s smart.” This is all true, but she recognizes that she is saying it to please him.

  Amadeo smiles. “She’s amazing. Best kid I could ask for.”

  “I like your name,” Brianna says thoughtfully. “Amadeo. Like Modigliani. Amadeo Modigliani was an Italian artist. He did a bunch of portraits. Women mostly.”

  “I know that. I’ve googled my own name. How do you know I’m not an art lover? Hell, an art collector.”

  Brianna’s face heats with deep shame. “Oh.” What an idiot, assuming that he didn’t know Modigliani. It’s the worst kind of patronizing, exactly the kind of misstep they’d been warned about in her training and she thought she’d never make.

  “Hey,” he says. “It’s okay.”

  “I apologize,” she says.

  Amadeo nudges her with his elbow. “That Eric Maxwell. Are you two, like . . .”

  Brianna regards him quizzically, then flushes. “No! No.”

  “Sorry. That was—Angel just thinks you’re the best. Like, I feel like I know you from everything she says. She said you made the dean’s list. She’s always telling us about your good advice. She said you’re her personal hero.”

  Brianna dips her head in plea
sure. “She said that?”

  “Hey, let me give you my business card.” Amadeo pulls out his wallet, rifles through it. “If you ever need a repair, let me know. I’d give you a deal. My number’s right there.”

  Has he given her his number? Or is he really just trying to drum up business? Brianna turns the card in her hand.

  “Listen. We should hang out sometime. Get to know each other.”

  Her breath is still in her throat, and before she can even muster her courage, she blurts, “I’d like that.”

  “Okay! Okay.” He looks at his watch. “We need to get Connor to bed. It’s late.” Brianna is grateful to him for taking the initiative in putting a stop to this awkwardness. He pats her on the shoulder, then strides into the hall.

  Angel finds Brianna in the conference room looking out the window onto the dark parking lot. Her affection for Brianna is so intense it’s an ache. Angel would like to hug her teacher, to lean her head against Brianna’s shoulder. Soon, thinks Angel. She pictures the two of them out for dinner, laughing like sisters or friends.

  Earlier, in the baby room, Angel cried. She and Connor had been alone, the festive sounds from the classroom deadened. She doesn’t know where all that emotion came from, because she’d been having a good evening.

  She shouldn’t let her mother destabilize her like that. But her mother’s comment really hurt—and not just because her mother smoked when she was pregnant, but because she treated it like some kind of joke. And worse is how her mother makes Angel out to be so critical and unpleasant: like, if only Angel hadn’t been so humorless they might chuckle together about Marissa’s ineptitude. Angel knows that back then her mother was young and alone and dealing with a tough situation, but knowing this doesn’t make it easier to forgive her—mostly because her mother is so willing to forgive herself. It was a different time, I was alone, your dad never helped at all, I was young. She always has an excuse. And she’s not young now, but she’s still screwing up, still refusing to take care of Angel.