I turned around slowly. Smiling defiantly. “Nice to see you too, Paulo.”
Paulo swung me around so his arm was about my neck. He had me in a headlock and dragged me inside. I struggled, but in a muted way because I didn’t want to make any noise. If Paulo or a neighbor called the police, that would be it. I would be dead.
He threw me into a chair, the old, wooden legs teetering until all four were back on the ground. “Don’t move,” he hissed, his voice aching to yell at me.
I could have run, but fear the authorities would be right behind me had me trapped. His eyes bore down on me—they were furious, hateful, and perhaps—could it be?—frightened. He rubbed his chin and went to the sink, spitting. Mother walked in. Her face fell and she burst into tears.
The kitchen looked identical to our old one, everything scrubbed clean. The only difference was a stack of sterilized bottles leaning against each other on the dish rack.
“What are you doing here?” Paulo asked and then he paused, swiping the air angrily like he could knock my presence out of the air. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Whatever idiocy you are caught up in, I will not be party to it.”
I thought about it. The less I said, the better. Even though it was tempting to drag him into it, Paulo would report everything, and I had to think about Careen and Pietre.
Falling back into bad habits, I laughed and said innocently, batting my eyes, “Why? Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
He slammed his fist down on the table and I jumped. Take this seriously, I told myself. You have to get out.
“I thought I was finally free of you. Pleased? No, I am not pleased.” Every word was tainted black, lashing around his face like the lick of a whip.
“Well, I’ll leave then. I can see I’m not welcome.” I started to stand, but he was too quick. Before I could move, he had his hands on my shoulders, holding me down. I squirmed under his touch, his fingers pressing hard into my collarbones.
“Paulo, no,” my mother pleaded quietly. “We should let her go. She’s done no harm.”
He considered it for a second, his head cocked to the side, counseling himself. There was a tiny ray of hope. But then his eyes changed, they hardened. Hope was squashed like a bug.
“No, we need to call the police. She shouldn’t be here.”
Releasing me, he walked straight to the phone hanging on the wall over the kitchen counter, picking up the handset. It was an old phone, ceramic and heavy, with a reel dial. He put his finger in the first hole and pulled the number. I watched as it revolved its way back into place.
He forgot. I was not afraid of him.
I sprung from my chair and wrenched the handset from his fingers, pulling it as hard as I could. It stretched and strained and then the phone flung from the wall, taking plaster and paint with it. It took him a second to respond, his face suspended in disbelief, but when he did, it was like all our fights were wound up into this one action. He pulled his arm back and slammed me hard with the back of his hand. I flew through the air like a scrap, clipping my temple on the corner of the kitchen table and crumpling to the floor. But I pulled myself back up, bracing myself. The world was spinning, but I wasn’t going to go down so easy.
My mother was wringing her hands, standing by, watching him hurt me. Help me, I thought. For once! Don’t be afraid of him. Help ME!
Paulo gripped the phone. The numbers spun in front of my eyes even though they were still. All the control, all the stifling stiffness, was gone. He shrugged it off like a shroud, revealing the cruel twist of a man beneath. He was going to kill me. I could see it in his eyes—they were a swirl of empty black, ominous, terrifying.
He kicked me in the stomach hard and I fell backwards to the floor again, my head half-hidden under the chair. He clapped the chair out of the way. Telephone raised, ready to strike. He had me pinned.
I had the ridiculous thought that this was a very bizarre way to go, beaten to death with a telephone. My mind conjured up the vision of my death plaque. Here lies Rosa Bianca. Killed by a telephone. If only they hadn’t put her on hold for so long... A laughed slipped out between my lips. Of all the stupid things to do. His eyes were dancing. He licked the corner of his mouth. He would relish this. The humor was instantly eroded and all I could feel was a numb, stepped-on panic.
I couldn’t scream—they would hear me. And I would never let him see me cry. I closed my eyes, flashes of Joseph circling me with his big, strong arms, our son laughing and watching light dance against the timber walls, green hills and trees. Trees everywhere. I’m so sorry.
The dull bang of metal hitting flesh, and mostly bone, disturbed us both. We looked up to see my mother’s small, brown face, her eyes tired but defiant. Just there in the corner of those eyes, I could see me. I gasped as a small trickle of blood worked its way from her eyebrow down her cheek.
She raised the kitchen pan in her hand and struck herself in the face, hard. It would be comical if it weren’t so frightening. She looked at Paulo, her eyes stony. Then she ran for the front door, unlocking it shakily, her hands struggling to grip the key.
She turned to me, and said, “Run, Rosa,” and then she walked out the door screaming, “Help! Help! He’s beaten me. He’s going to hurt my baby!”
Lights were going on. People were stirring. Soon there would be sirens.
Paulo let go like my skin was on fire. The situation was turning on him and he cowered away from me, eyebrows knotted. A chunk of slick, black hair snaked down his forehead. I saw him for what he was, a small, petty man who had no heart and therefore should have no place in mine. I felt a small amount of pity for him. Very small. His life was over.
“You know, it didn’t have to be this way, Paulo,” I said as I stood unsteadily. I carefully took two steps backwards, holding his gaze, and then I bolted out the back door. The flimsy screen slammed several times. Creak, bang, creak, bang.
I heard him mutter, low and desperate, “I know.”
I ran down the side, picked up my bag without breaking stride, and turned away from my old life for good. Goodbye, Mother.
Why do we go around in circles? Wasn ’t I just here? Nothing changes. Nothing ever changes.
I ran. Tears streamed down my face. I failed. I couldn’t save either of them. I hadn’t even asked my sister’s name. I ran through the list of things I’d wanted to say. You’re a grandmother. I’m safe. I’m working hard. I love you. I miss you. I need you. All of it sitting in my stomach, scrawled on a crumpled-up piece of paper, the ink seeping into my veins.
Could I let it go? She didn’t want me. So maybe I could stop worrying about her now. I shook my head, answering my own question. No. It wouldn’t be that easy.
The night air was piercing, like it was part acid cloud. My puffy eyes made it hard to focus, hard to see the dark shapes I needed to follow. I tightened my hair and wiped my nose with my sleeve, a streak of snot pulling across my face and hardening there. I was at the gate to Ring Three now. I crept up to it and carefully wrapped my fingers around the iron, remembering rust stains on my school jacket, a life that didn’t belong to me now, and probably never really did. I breathed a sigh of relief when it opened easily.
Following the curved line of the concrete wall for a while, I then made my way into the street and snuck past several houses. I kept my eye out for my old house but I couldn’t find it without the purple-and-yellow curtains. They all looked exactly the same.