Disowned

The police station looms large outside the rear passenger window of my father's Impala. Thank God I am out of there, out of that room with the mirrored walls, away from that officer who wrote everything I said in his pad. Thank God they released me to my parents' custody. Of course, it was a stupid, stupid mistake. I should have been in school. But instead, I let a couple of friends coax me into playing hooky. Bored, or bold, or trying to prove something to ourselves, we stalked out, then broke into an apartment. Next thing we knew we were being chased down the street by two armed officers. A big mistake. That's what it was.

The instant my father turns the key and heads toward the parking lot exit, my mother whips her head around to glare at me from between the two front seats.

"Criminal," she cries out. "My son the criminal." She calls across to my father, saying, "Have you ever seen anyone so stupid?"

I continue to gaze at the police building, now framed completely by the window. Turned toward and addressing me again, my mother demands to know if I have a mind of my own, or if I plan on being the type of person who will always be easily influenced -- right or wrong -- by suggestions made by so-called friends.

Or maybe, she adds, it was all my idea. What kind of idiot climbs through an unlocked bathroom window in the middle of the day when people are everywhere. It wasn't my idea. It was David's. After he boosted me up I hoisted myself inside and unlocked the front door. Yes, my mother continues on, that was it, right? My stupid idea. Oh, and by the way, the one gold bracelet and two jade rings . . . they were worth it, right?

"I didn't want to do it," I say, turning my head now to meet my mother's glare.

Her swatting hand shoots out toward me from above the center console, but my father takes a hand off the steering wheel to grab her arm.

Sternly, but using the usual endearment meaning Love, he says to my mother, "Mahal, we'll deal with him when we get home." Then, eyeing me in the rearview mirror, my father says. "You don't know how lucky you are that you're just fifteen."

My mother, now facing the front windshield and sinking back in her seat, mutters, "I should disown you."

Again, I don't offer a reply. Outside the window the shrubs of the center divide glide past.

In a more controlled tone, my mother asks, "Do you know what it feels like to be disowned?"

I remain with my face to the window. On the opposite side of the highway, the summer scorched fields stretch out to the dry hills. Beyond those hills lies Lake Berryessa. What I wouldn't give to be there now.

I shut my eyes. I am in no mood to hear another of my mother's stories of great sacrifice.

***

The car turns into the driveway of our house and jolts to a stop. My mother has stopped talking. I look up from my hands, which are pale from wringing.

Her voice breaking now, my mother says again, "I really should disown you. But now you know why I cannot, Anak ko. I cannot."