Liv

I looked up Charles Francisco de la Rosa on my eighteenth birthday. There wasn’t a cake or presents. My mom had just fired the part-time caregiver who was helping her with my dad after the stroke. She convinced Leo that the nurse was stealing from them, but I know the truth—insurance only covered a fraction of the cost, and my mom had other things she’d rather spend money on.

She also loved the pity party. How could she throw a birthday party when she needed to bathe my dad? How could I think about presents when she needed to lift and stretch my father’s legs to keep him from getting atrophy? Why would I need a car? Or to borrow the car? Or money to ride the bus? It’s not like I had many friends.

Of course I didn’t. My younger years were spent being pulled out of school early for fights I didn’t really get to see, but could only listen to. I never wanted to invite people over, because I’d have to explain why my dad only came to visit my mom in the bedroom then left before dinner. As I got older, and after they married, the drinking began. So did the drugs. If I had friends, they’d see through my carefully constructed lies. It was easier having people think I was mysterious, and that my dad was just strict. He fit the part of overprotective if people didn’t really know him, and I could get away without talking about my mom at all.

And so I turned eighteen all alone, and for the first time ever, I let it get to me. It hurt. All I wanted was to find someone else who would understand that pain.

Charles was easy to find. He came up, as he still does, with a few clicks on an internet search. He lives in Chicago, and he trains teens who fight on the streets to use those emotions for something better. He turns broken kids into fighters, and then he finds them someone else to turn them into champions. He’s never in it for the money, and when he’s given credit, he brushes off the fame.

I wanted to call him so badly. I didn’t even know him that well, but I just had this feeling that he would understand. I could never bring myself to finish dialing the numbers, though, and even now as I sit here on Memphis’s steps with the phone pressed against my ear, I fight the instinct to hang up and pray he doesn’t call my number back.

“It’s ringing,” I whisper, glancing up at Memphis where he stands in front of me. His hands weight down the pockets of his jean, and his arms are stiff. He’s afraid to give this idea too much hope.

“Sisco here. How can I help you?”

I close my eyes at the sound of his voice. It’s the same as it was the day I listened to him leave. It’s been more than a decade, but he sounds as if he hasn’t aged a day.

“Charles…” I let his name linger, offering a clue. Only a handful of people called him that. We called him that. Everything else he did was as Francisco—his middle name. His fights. His gym in Chicago. He was Charles to only a few.

“Who is this?” The suspicion in his voice is obvious, and warranted.

I swallow hard and look down to the metal step between my knees and the dirt ground beneath that.

“It’s Olivia…Archie’s…ummm, I’m Archie’s daughter?” I was so sure this was going to be the hard part, but the tightness in my chest has only gotten worse. Even more, I can hear it choking him on the other end of the line.

“Liv,” he says softly. “Your dad…is he okay?”

I breathe in quickly and let the tingles roll down my spine. I never even thought he would assume I’d be calling because of dad, but of course.

“He’s fine. He’s…well he had a stroke a few years ago, but other than that.” I lick at my lips and close my mouth tightly, avoiding saying too much. It’s quiet on the other end for a few seconds.

“Oh,” he finally breathes out. I can hear people in the background, the sounds of speed bags and coaches shouting. It’s two hours later there; he’s probably been open for a while.

“Listen, Olivia. I’m not sure why you’re calling, but I have a family. I have a wife now, and kids…what I mean is I moved on. Your dad and I were close during a really crazy time, and I think maybe he needed me more than I needed him. I cared about him, don’t get me wrong. I truly did. But I am not looking for reunions. What he maybe thought was love for me was…I don’t know…finding myself, maybe? Forgiveness for what he did came with time, but I don’t really think he needs to hear me say he’s forgiven. Is he even in a state where…shit…”

Even as Charles talks, as he says the things I fully expected to hear, I still know he’ll help. I know he will, because of the reason my father admired him so much. He’ll help because he does what’s right, but he also believes in karmic justice.

“I’ve met someone, Charles. He’s important to me, and my mom…she’s going to destroy him,” I say. His initial response is more silence, so I wait.

“He’s a fighter?” He knows he is. It’s the only reason this call would need to take place.

“He’s going to be the middleweight world champion,” I say, an automatic smile taking over my mouth. Memphis reflects the same expression and kneels down, running his hands over my knees and leaning forward to kiss the top of my thigh. He holds me here as I continue to listen.

“He’s under Leo.” It isn’t a question. He knows he is.

“He’s gotten him ready,” I say.

I can hear his breath rustle against the phone, and the sounds behind him begin to fade then cut off completely. He’s moved to an office or outside.

“Liv, Jesus. I know why you’re calling. They’ve got him, though. You need to tell him to do his time and when it’s done, he’ll have a name and I’ll help you find the right people. There just isn’t anything I can do, Liv. I don’t even manage fighters.” Even as Charles gives his reasons, I can hear the yearning in his tone. He wants to help. All he needs is that little push.

I’m good at little pushes. Charles left my family because they stole from him, but that’s not what kept him away. I kept him away. I hated my mother so much that I wanted to hurt her the only way I knew how. I told her that my dad didn’t love her the way he loved Charles. I needled her with the idea—with the truth—even when she wrote it off as lies and me just being a hormonal teenager. I planted the seed and nurtured it until she felt discarded. It’s the only way I knew Charles would be free, and the only way I could think to make her suffer.

If only I’d let it play out on its own. Maybe they’d all be different people.

“His dad was Robert Delaney. Dad ever mention him?” He must have. I’m sure he did to Charles.

There’s light laughter on the end of the line.

“Sure I did. He wasn’t a very good fighter, but damn did that boy have spirit. He’d come and go, odd jobs and all. Never really could stay settled in the same place for long. We’d always go out drinking when he was in town, and damn did he get your dad shitfaced. He was training there, at the gym, when I left. I didn’t know he had a son, though.”

This won’t shock Charles. It will be that little push, though.

“That’s because my mom had him sent away. He never got to meet him,” I say, waiting for him to process.

“Shit,” he finally mutters.

“Dad killed him with a blow to the head. It was in the ring, but I’m pretty sure dad was drunk and it wasn’t a sanctioned fight.” I stop and chew at my lip, realizing Memphis is hearing every word of this for a second time. His thumbs run over my kneecaps, but his head hangs low. He’s fighting through feeling, and it’s not healthy. He just doesn’t have the mental space to handle this right now, though. If he lets it all in, he’ll become toxic to himself.

“When’s his fight?” Charles asks. It isn’t a promise, but I feel it coming. I just need to clear this hurdle now.

“Saturday,” I say. Memphis lifts his head and our eyes meet, both of our lips ticking up at the absurdity of this enormous favor we’re asking of a man that’s by most stretches a stranger to us both.

“Aww hell. Liv…Saturday?” He laughs on the other end, the rumble filling my ears. It’s such an impossible challenge, he’s considering taking it for the mere level of difficulty.

“I know, but he’s really ready, Charles. I meant it—Leo’s gotten him ready. And awful as he is, you know there’s nobody better.”

Charles is quiet again, a breath of laughter vibrating against the phone and in my ear.

“Nobody better, huh?” My smile begins to curve more. You can take a boxer out of the ring, but you can’t take the ego out of a boxer.

“You know how much this means. You know you’re the only guy for the job. And you know they’ll have to let you take over because if they don’t, Charles, my guy…he’s gonna walk,” I say.

“Who’s he fighting?” I’ve been waiting for this.

“Omar Morales.” There’s another chuckle on his end of the line.

“Morales. Saturday.” I’ve got him. He’s there; he’s invested. The next step is to get him in so deep he won’t want to give Memphis up.

“Saturday,” I repeat.

My eyes remain wide open, my stare locked on Memphis’s, both of our breaths held. He’s hearing bits and pieces, whenever Charles speaks loud enough, but mostly he’s reading my expression and filling in the gaps with what he hopes is being said.

“Put your man on the phone.” I smile at his request, and hand my phone over.

“Yes, sir,” Memphis says, showing respect from the very start. It’s a well-honed move, and I’m sure it did wonders on Leo, but Charles won’t care about that. He’ll care about what’s in Memphis’s heart. I know he’ll see it when he meets him, but I just hope he can sense his passion for this sport over the phone.

“Memphis, sir. I mean Charles. Sorry.” His eyes flit to me briefly, and I laugh. He’s already being coached.

“I’m going to ask that you get fifty percent,” Memphis says, standing and pacing a few steps away from me.

“I’ll make weight…no, never….not in the least.” I wait through the pauses and glean what I can from his short answers. Charles wants him clean. While my dad was great, sometimes his fights came with questions. The gambling on the side never helped, but there were so many knockouts that felt impossible yet came easily, even as he aged. I think my dad’s only true vice was himself—booze, drugs, careless sex—it was all about short-term happiness and a high. He was nothing unless he could make himself happy, and he didn’t care how fleeting that sensation was. But I don’t think he ever cheated. He liked to win outright, so he had something to hold over someone else.

For Memphis, it’s about something else. It’s about a name.

It’s about a ghost.

About a man.

“Yes, sir…Charles,” Memphis stumbles into a laugh. “I will. Thank you. I’ll make you proud.”

He hands the phone to me, and I hold it to my ear, not sure if he’s still on the line or if he’s gone.

“Liv.” Nerves run with electricity when he says my name. I’m not sure what else I have to say—what else he has to ask.

“Yeah,” I respond.

“No money. They can keep it all. You tell them they get their full cut, and I get their fighter. And you make sure Angela knows where he’s coming,” he says.

“Okay.” My answer is fast, and just as quickly he’s off the line.

My eyes blink a few times at how quickly that happened. There are some things that will need to be worked out—a commercial later this month, a few local endorsement deals. He never signed Fuel, and that’s good. He’ll find more in Chicago.

He’s going to need to go to Chicago.

“It’s done.” I decide to tell him that Charles is giving up the money later tonight. I want him to enjoy this without the little revenge string that’s attached. He should get to. And when I explain more, he’ll understand what’s in it for Charles. And eventually, they’ll form a real bond, Charles becoming the coach he’s meant to be, and Memphis getting the attention he deserves.

And he’ll need to go to Chicago. I’ll be here. Unless I leave…and follow some guy across country, just like I did before.

I leave my doubts in my head, too. Those are other things that Memphis doesn’t need to hear. These are all things that can be worked out after Saturday. After his hand is held in the air by a referee, and Morales’s title is his.

I’m going to miss it all. Because of the first boy I followed somewhere.

Fucking hell.