***
Unfortunately, though I loved my job, it was tough physically, and my health was starting to fail.
I had been having constant back pain for some time. After my doctor had me take an MRI, he diagnosed me with spinal conditions that explained the horribly painful muscle spasms that would leave me unable to move. He kept asking me whether I had been in any car accidents. Had I had any falls?
I shook my head and kept silent as I remembered the times Moses had thrown me down multiple flights of stairs to the hard concrete floor below. I thought about Gary’s beating and my ruined elbow. What could I say?
“No accidents,” I told the doctor.
I didn’t tell him anything about my former heroin addiction either, even when I found out I had congestive heart failure. I already had explained away the needle marks that lined my wrists and arms. Once a puzzled nurse, who was trying to get a blood sample, broke off the point of the needle as she tried again and again to push it into my calloused veins. I tried my best to cover up, telling the nurse that I’d had frequent blood tests. I got the feeling she didn’t believe me.
I had to close my business and apply for disability. As my heart condition worsened, I began staying at home most of the time, too. At first I didn’t mind; in fact, I felt safe and secure. In my home, no one would be able to hurt me or find out about my past. But as the crushing combination of pain and lies and loneliness took their toll on my body, I became more and more depressed.
Days and nights blurred together. I found myself sleeping either far too much or not enough; I couldn’t find that just-right amount of sleep that I needed to wake up feeling refreshed and alert. I was always exhausted from lack of sleep or puffy eyed and headachy from spending too long in bed.
Clothes piled up in my room, and I had to wade through them to get to my bed. There were times when getting up in the morning and putting one foot in front of the other was too much of an effort. Doing anything else during the day was more than I could bear. Sometimes I felt like I was moving in slow motion through quicksand that was pulling me down deeper and deeper, and I didn’t even want to reach for a hand out.
People asked me, “Why are you mad? What’s wrong?” And I got tired of them asking. The way I coped was to just not let anyone get close to me.
I was prescribed antidepressants one after another, but none seemed to work. Combined with the pain medication for my back, they gave me huge mood swings and roller-coaster days when I was almost certain everything was going to get better one minute and convinced nothing was right the next. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.
One day I was driving down the street and suddenly forgot where I was going. I panicked and had to pull over to the side of the road, taking in deep breaths of air through my open window until I could think again. But later the same day I was full of confidence; I felt as if I could take on the world.
The only thing that got me through each day was my daughter. She was always there at the very center of my heart and mind, and no matter how horrible I felt I knew I had to get up off the couch and make dinner and wash her clothes and help her with her homework. Even in my darkest days, I felt such love for her.
And Samantha grew up so quickly, and she was smart in ways that dumbfounded me. I had struggled through school, but Samantha blossomed. She made friends easily and got good grades. Sometimes I found it hard to believe that I was so lucky.
***
As Samantha grew older, I struggled forward and tried my best to do what I thought I was supposed to do with my life. But it was an anxious, sleepless existence, jumping at any unexpected noise. I was ashamed to even think about it, but I had nights when I walked into my bedroom and had to run and jump into the bed because I was terrified someone was hiding under it. I knew it was irrational and that there really was no one under the bed, but that didn’t calm my fears. I couldn’t even let my feet hang off the edge of the bed because I knew with complete clarity that a heavy hand would reach out, grab my leg, and pull me down under the bed.
Any reference to New York or the life, however slight, would trigger memories of things I hadn’t thought of for years. A television movie about pimps and prostitutes would give me horrible, realistic nightmares and fill my days with dismal thoughts.
One day Samantha, now in middle school, rushed into the house and slammed her books on the kitchen table in excitement. “Mom, guess what? We’re having a pimp and ho party after school next week!”
I felt cold chills run up my spine. I’d noticed that lately it seemed cool and hip to classify things as “pimped out.” I couldn’t understand why anyone would feel that a leech and a parasite who made a living off the misery of others could ever be a good thing. Did no one understand what type of criminals and victims this party was celebrating?
But my daughter was excited and wanted to go and be with her friends. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to disappoint her; my style of mothering fluctuated between giving in to all of her demands, and blowing up and getting overly angry when she disobeyed me. I suppose no one really knows how to be a parent, but this time I really felt lost. I wanted to scream, “No! This is a horrible idea! Do you know what pimps really are? Do you know that young girls are suffering right now because of them? And I used to be one of those girls.”
But I said nothing.
“Okay,” I sighed finally. “We can make you a costume.” Once again I took those memories that were clawing their way up and pushed them right back where they belonged.
We found a blond wig I’d used for a past Halloween costume, added some tight clothes, and my daughter went to her party dressed like a prostitute, just like all the other girls in her middle school class.
That afternoon I lay on the living room couch in the darkened room and waited for her to come home. The curtains were pulled so I couldn’t see the autumn trees or weather outside the window, and I didn’t care what kind of day it was anyway. I felt worse than I’d felt during those days at my sister’s house in Philadelphia. Preparation for the horrible pimp and ho party had brought me back to places I didn’t want to go and turned my already-dark thoughts even bleaker. I obsessed over what her classmates might have worn, and which ones had decided to portray pimps. All I could think about were the miniskirts and platform shoes I was made to wear on the streets of New York, and the expensive custom-made suits Moses had worn.
The front door opened, and I heard Samantha enter the house. I was crying, but I made myself call out to her from my nest on the couch, “Are you hungry?”
“No,” she mumbled as she ran upstairs to her room.
No wonder she had wanted to go to the party so badly. We lived an isolated existence. I couldn’t remember the last time I had talked to anyone besides her—if you could call what we did talking. Samantha was the center of my world, but sometimes I wondered if being that center was too much to put on any child.
The next afternoon she said to me, “I never know who you will be from minute to minute.”
And that broke my heart.
I was failing her, the one person in the world I really loved. The trouble was that I wasn’t always sure what love actually was. I had no idea. How could I truly love anyone when I didn’t even like myself?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
One night after I had been out to a rare movie, I walked into the house and knew immediately that something was wrong. At first glance I could see nothing out of place. Then I realized that the money on the coffee table was gone, and so was my ATM card. The house was silent.
I felt a familiar sinking feeling, one I had grown to listen to and to fear. Something horrible was about to happen. “Samantha?” I called out, my voice echoing through the empty house.
Now a teenager, my daughter had been pulling away from me more and more each day—if I said it was light outside, she would probably have insisted it was dark—but I had never thought she would leave me or steal from me. We’d argued the day before about her spending the n
ight out with friends, and she was furious with me. Didn’t all teenagers fight with their parents? I ran upstairs and swung open the doors to her closet, my heart breaking. Most of her clothes were gone.
What was she thinking? Where was she? I walked faster and faster around the house, screaming, “She’s gone! She’s gone! Oh my God.”
And then I found the note. It was on her bed, a handwritten note in her girlish script: “Don’t worry, Mom. I love you, and I will always be safe.”
What did she know about keeping herself safe? Samantha was a smart girl, but I’d thought I knew it all when I was her age, and I’d fallen for the worst sort of evil and lies. What she didn’t know yet was that there were monsters out there waiting to prey upon her, people who knew how to figure out the weak spot in a girl and use it to manipulate her. It had been my job to prepare my daughter for this world. Apparently I had failed, because she was gone.
The irony of the situation was not lost on me. I had run away from home dozens of times and had never given my mother’s feelings any thought. I’d never felt like my mother gave mine much thought either, but I’d always believed things were so much better between my daughter and me. I was there for her. I listened to her. Or did I? In that moment, thousands of doubts were coursing through my mind. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was sure I was the worst mother in the world.
Turning the note over in my hands, I ran upstairs to my bedroom phone and checked the caller ID, dialing all the numbers that I thought belonged to Samantha’s friends. I didn’t sleep. I even called my own mother, looking for some support or help. She told me not to worry, and that I would find Samantha. “Call me back as soon as you hear anything,” she said.
Her words didn’t offer much relief. How could I not worry?
The sun was starting to rise when I dialed the last number in the phone. It belonged to my daughter’s friend, and her mother answered, confused. “Sure, they’re asleep now.”
I jumped out of my chair and started yelling, “Don’t let her leave! I’m on my way. Call the police.”
“Police? I don’t want any trouble. I have a little boy at home.”
I started to ask her why she hadn’t called me to find out if my daughter had permission to sleep over, but changed my mind and hung up the phone. I didn’t want to waste any more time.
I drove across Arlington like a madwoman, the bright sunlight burning my eyes. I almost smashed into another car. I cried. I prayed. I promised God or the universe or whomever or whatever was up there that I would be a better mother, a better person, if they would just not let my daughter leave before I got there. I promised God I would go to church every Sunday. I promised a lot of things.
Finally I pulled up in front of the high-rise building and double-parked my car. The front-desk receptionist left her desk and came toward me, clearly angry about my haphazard parking. I ignored her as I ran across the lobby to the elevators and stabbed the button for the tenth floor. A man in the elevator glanced at my wrinkled pajama bottoms and wild eyes and turned his face.
***
I stood over the sleeping figure of my daughter and watched her breathe. She looked so young and peaceful. The bedroom was dark and quiet except for the muffled sounds of cartoons coming from the living room. The air conditioning unit along the wall hummed softly. I felt sad, hurt, and relieved all at the same time.
And in that moment, my love for her overcame my shame. I decided it was time to tell her the truth.
Lately she had been asking me questions about my past, questions I had refused to answer; I never wanted her to know what kind of person her mother really was. She was so innocent, and for all her grown-up airs she didn’t have a clue what it took to survive. I’d been younger than my daughter when my own innocence had been stolen away and my rosy view of the world and everyone in it had been colored a dark black. I didn’t want that for Samantha.
I leaned over and tapped her gently on the shoulder. She turned and wiped her long brown hair out of her face, looking up at me from the mattress where she and Loren had been sleeping. Her eyes widened as she realized it was me standing over her.
“What are you doing here?” She squinted at me, frowning now.
I was momentarily stunned. My sadness was rapidly becoming more like anger. Maybe it always had been. “What the hell do you think I’m doing here? You knew I had to pay the electric bill. Where’s my money?”
Shit. I was horrified how similar the words were to the things constantly uttered by Moses, who still haunted my dreams with his eerie green eyes. I regretted saying it as soon as it was out of my mouth.
“Yeah, that’s all you care about. Money.”
“No, no, that’s not all I care about. But you know they’re cutting off the electricity today if I don’t pay it. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be here. God, you scared me to death. What were you thinking?” I babbled on, trying to bring her back to me, but it wasn’t working.
She shrugged and turned her head away.
Her friend opened her eyes. I wondered how long she had been awake, and I was furious with her for helping my daughter. I didn’t speak to her. I didn’t even want to look at her.
“Get your stuff. Let’s go.”
Samantha stood, stretched her long legs, and glanced quickly toward the closet on the opposite wall. I followed her gaze, and for the first time, I noticed the multiple green garbage bags that were spilling out of the closet. There must have been ten of them, and each one was stuffed to the top with Samantha’s clothing.
“How did you bring all that stuff here? Does her mother know your clothes are here?”
She sighed. “What difference does it make? Let’s go, then.”
On the way home, I started to cry silently. I cried because I was scared about what had happened and afraid of what I had to do. I had to make her understand. I always thought I’d been protecting my daughter by never telling her about my past and pretending I was someone else. Now I saw that if I truly wanted to keep her safe, she needed to know the truth about me—all of it. I had to make her understand all the lessons I had learned, make her understand that people will lie and break their words. That the world can be a bad place.
I didn’t share everything with Samantha that day, but I did tell her some parts of my story. I just couldn’t bring myself to talk about Moses, and how I’d worked as a prostitute under the control of a pimp. More than anything else I felt stupid, embarrassed that I had been duped and played that way. I wanted Samantha to believe I was smart. How would she ever respect me if I told her the truth?
After we talked about my past and what had happened to me in the streets after I ran away, she seemed to be okay with what I had told her. I was surprised. After all the buildup in my mind—years of holding everything in and never telling anyone even a small part of my past—I suppose I expected some sort of huge reaction. If she was shocked, I couldn’t tell. Samantha was always an expert at hiding her feelings from me.
My daughter was just as good at lying as I was. After we talked that day, she told me that she had been secretly seeing a boy, and lying to me about seeing him. I guess we were both lying to each other. Keeping secrets was something my daughter had learned from me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I had been having my period for what felt like weeks, way longer than it should have lasted, and much heavier as well. The last thing I wanted to do was go to the doctor’s office, but I knew something wasn’t right. I made an appointment with a gynecologist I’d never been to before.
Dr. James was an older man with glasses and white hair. His wife, the office receptionist and nurse, was very nice. She complimented me on my T-shirt when I arrived for my first appointment.
The doctor was a little less friendly. Sitting in his office after the physical examination, I began to feel uncomfortable as he rambled on and on. Hours passed. He talked about his experiences in medical school and told me stupid jokes. Only occasionally would he talk about me and my sympto
ms.
I didn’t want to be rude, so I sat there and waited patiently as I tried to figure out what was happening to me.
I’d told him how depressed I had been, and he said that my depression and hormones could have contributed to my bleeding. He also told me I was near the age where early menopause could be the problem, but we would have to wait for results to come back from the blood work and tissue samples he had taken. Then he started talking about his family and his grandchildren again. When I finally left his office that night, I was more worried than ever and still had no answers. I had to go home and wait.
The day Dr. James called was like any other for me. I was lying on the living room couch, with the television on in the background, and the curtains were drawn.
“Hello, is this Ms. Amaya? Yes? This is Dr. James. I just got the results of your tests back. You have cancer.”
Just like that, time stood still. Any noise I heard from outside—a dog barking, children playing, car horns blowing—all faded away. I felt the air in the room close in tight around me. My heart beat harder and faster at the sound of his words. Cancer?
“What? What did you say? What do you mean? What kind of cancer?”
The questions poured out as I hugged the phone to my face. My hands were trembling.
“Yes, cancer. Severe uterine cancer. We need to arrange surgery as soon as possible. I’ll pass you over to my nurse so she can make those arrangements with you. I’m so sorry. I’ll call something in for you at your pharmacy to help you calm down.”
The words I heard him say were “cancer” and “severe.” How could that be? I wasn’t feeling horribly ill. I was only having a long period. As I was placing the receiver back, I heard Dr. James talking about prescribing a sedative, but I didn’t want to talk to him or his wife or anyone.
I stumbled out of my home in a complete daze, across the street to the pharmacy where he’d called in the sedative. I barely missed being hit by a passing car. The driver yelled out the car window to watch where I was going, but I paid no attention.
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