Ramon Canto, 2006

 

     I would die for my family, I really would. Ask me to trade my life for theirs, and I’d offer it up without hesitation.  

     My Sunday afternoon? That’s a different story. 

     The thing is, I knew before I showed up at my parents’ place today that it was going to be miserable. If forced to wager, I’d have laid my bets on things ending in disaster. 

     So why am I sitting here again, listening to my father’s snide remarks about Daniel’s job as an artist or his dancer wife, as though Hannah weren’t too good for everyone in this family, my brother included? 

     It doesn’t matter how far I get from the house on Apollo Road, however; somehow my father’s will stretches across the land and drags me back to this place. 

     Despite Mamá’s best efforts, this place is a funeral home. Dark wood shrinks the massive rooms into suffocating coffins, and the cold tile floors hold a chill even in the heat of summer. Frederico Canto, my dictator of a father, has allowed one—just one—of Daniel’s paintings in the formal dining room, and it hasn’t escaped my notice that he picked the one depicting a waterfall: powerful, unrelenting, and impossible to ignore. 

     All of us are here today: Daniel and Hannah, both far too bright and kind for a family like this; Maya and Maria, whispering to each other at the end of the table; pregnant Claudia reigning over poor Barry like an ice queen; my mother, trying so hard to keep the peace between me and Dad it almost makes me want to; and, of course, my father, eyeing us all with disappointment and disdain. 

     “I just want to make sure I’m here to see my grandchildren grow,” Alexa is saying to Hannah. “I’m not getting any younger.”

     “You’re not getting any older, either,” Maya mutters, loud enough for us all to hear.  

     Maria snickers, but I feel the familiar fire burning in my chest. 

     They’re joking about it. 

     The life they take, the time they steal—how could they be so cavalier? My mother isn’t getting older because she’s siphoning the life out of innocent strangers. Claudia’s started stealing from sick people too, elderly folks who are suffering from dementia. 

     They’re not using the time, she told me last week. They’re losing those memories anyway. 

     Disgusting. I can’t believe I used to think it was okay. 

     “Of course she isn’t,” I say, my eyes on my mother. “That’s what happens when you prey on innocent invalids.”

     I see the pang of hurt cross my mother’s face, and for a second I feel guilty. I know if I could just talk to her one-on-one, remind her of the damage humming causes without my father’s stern reprimands in the way, she would realize just because you can take people’s memories doesn’t mean you should. 

     But as usual, it isn’t my mother who responds. “Ramon,” my father says, “just drop it already. We’ve accepted that you and Daniel are choosing to live an alternative lifestyle, but your constant pot-stirring is tiring.”

     “Alternative lifestyle?” I repeat, somehow still surprised at his defiant apathy. “You’re sucking the life out of people.”

     “We’re not taking their lives,” Claudia says. “Just their memories. And they’re Alzheimer’s patients. They’re losing them anyway.”

     Barry looks down at his plate, wisely choosing not to join in. 

     “That doesn’t make it okay!” I yell, my anger pushing me from my chair onto my feet. I bump the table as I rise, and the candlesticks sway dangerously. 

     “Ramon,” Daniel says in a low voice. 

     Keep the peace. I can practically read it on his face. My brother might have led the way in leaving humming, thanks to Hannah’s gentle morality, but he’s never been able to stand up to my father. He always, always, chooses cowardice over conviction.

     “You think it’s wrong, too!” I remind him. “You said we might as well be vampires. That you were ashamed to be a Canto.”

     I see my father’s face turn to stone at that one. Let Daniel try to bow and tiptoe around him now. 

     “Can’t we just have one nice family dinner?” my mom says, as though it’s my fault things are going downhill. 

     “I can’t sit here and eat with you people knowing what you’ve done!” I say, dropping my napkin down on top of my spaghetti. “I’m not going to let it go on. I’m going to the police and telling them everything.”

     It’s not like I haven’t thought about it before, but I’ve never gotten that far. Each time I hear their careless dismissal of their crimes, however, I gain a new conviction to stop their savagery.  

     “They’re not going to believe you,” Maria says. “They’ll think you’re crazy.”

     “I’ll make them believe,” I promise. “I’m going to stop you all.”

     With that threat, I storm out. 

     I knew. I knew I couldn’t have dinner with these people without losing it. I should have pretended to have the flu. 

     I expect Hannah to follow me out. Hannah the dancer, who spins magic with her conciliatory words just as she does with her long, arching arms and legs on the stage. Hannah who always makes things seem so simple. 

     It isn’t Hannah. 

     What my mother thought, sending my father after me, I have no idea. 

     “Your mother doesn’t want you to leave,” he says, his dark eyes hard as onyx. 

     Your mother doesn’t. I do, they say. 

     I scoff as I yank my coat on. “She’ll have to settle for immortality.”

     “Oh, stop being so histrionic,” he says. Dad uses big words to make the people hearing them feel small in comparison. It wouldn’t make me so mad if it didn’t work. “You always overreact. Quitting med school…” 

     “I can’t be here with you people. I don’t know how Daniel and Hannah can stand it.”

     “They appreciate the importance of family. Something you seem more than happy to take for granted.”

     I would die for my family, I think. But I won’t live forever for them. 

     “Family? I refuse to be a part of this family. I hate this family.”

     “Come now, you’re just looking for attention at this point.”

     The words make me stop and turn around to face him. This next part I need to say to his face. “No, I mean every single word,” I seethe. “I hate you all, but especially you, Dad. I hate you because you’re a swollen, pompous hypocrite. I hate you because you think you live above the rules. I hate you because you’re a monster and you tried to make me one.”

     The monster has the gall to roll his eyes at me. 

     “Call tomorrow when you’re feeling less dramatic,” he says, “and I’ll consider accepting your apology for your mother’s sake.”

     “You’ll be waiting for that phone call forever,” I say, grabbing the door handle and yanking it open. “Goodbye, Dad.”

     “Bye, Ramon.”

     As soon as I get home, I’m calling the police and telling them what’s going on. My family are criminals, and they should be punished for their crimes. Even Mamá.

     I would die for my family. 

     But that doesn’t mean their victims should have to.