Paradise Abductions

by Mia Rodriguez

  Chapter 28

  "I love you so much, Monica," the Mister gushes with sentiment. "You don't know how happy I am that we'll be able to get married sooner than I thought. He pauses to let the moment sink in to me.

  The shock on my face must show because then he continues. "Highest Holy Grinder said we could schedule your marriage surgery next week and marry the week after that."

  I look away from him, trying to not let him see the anguished tears bursting out of my eyes.

  "This is emotional for me too," he states, his voice choking up. Unfortunately, he can see the tears from the side of my face.

  "We can finally live our love," he gushes. I turn back to face him to see his own eyes flooding with water. "It'll be one of the greatest love stories that has ever existed."

  The boomerang in my hands feels like a weapon as I toss it with unbridled frustration. When it returns, I immediately send it out again.

  "Are you going to tell me what wrong?" asks Miguel, his voice rife with concern as he stands next to me.

  "Sit down and stay out of my way, please," I tell him, my tone tight.

  "Not until you tell me what's happening."

  "They've moved up my marriage."

  "What?"

  "Grinder said the Great Master had moved up my birthday," I retort sarcastically.

  Miguel stares at me with round eyes and a shocked expression. Then he stumbles backward, trying to ease himself to the ground.

  "I've got to sit down," he says.

  I keep throwing my boomerang as he eyes me from the grass. His penetrating sight unnerves me.

  "Stop looking at me like that," I ask of him.

  "I just can't believe they're doing this," he mumbles.

  "The Elders do anything they want."

  "That's an understatement."

  "There's nothing holy about them."

  "Nothing at all! " he snaps with bitter emotion. I had never heard him this upset.

  I stop throwing my boomerang and eye him with surprise.

  "They're selfish, evil manipulators!" he continues.

  I'm surprised at his intense reaction. He seems almost as upset as I am.

  "Quiet down, Miguel," I urge him. "Someone might hear you."

  "Sit down with me, Frida. Won't you please?"

  "What for?" I ask with curiosity.

  "I need to speak to you."

  I do what he asks of me because I'm concerned for him. His face is bursting with all kinds of emotion I'm not used to seeing from him. Unhappiness, fury, and disgust stare back from the face that's usually calm and positive by nature. I'm touched that our friendship has grown to such an extent that he greatly empathizes with me.

  The past few weeks with him frequently by my side have been difficult for a loner like me but have also been a blessing. His quiet, un-encroaching nature has made me feel less lonely in Paradise Village.

  "Are you okay, Miguel?"

  He doesn't answer me but instead stares at me with intensity. Suddenly, he grabs my face and plops a kiss on my lips. I thrash violently, his mouth on my own, until I manage to push him away.

  "What did you do that for?" I ask furiously as I rub my lips, trying to scrub him off of me.

  "Sorry," he says, his tone completely in misery.

  "Next time you do something like that, I'm going to smack your face until it breaks!" I snap at him with a loud whisper.

  "Sorry," he repeats, his eyes on the ground with shame.

  "Really, Miguel! What if someone had seen you? It could mean both of our lives."

  His face leaves the ground and goes back to mine. "I love you, Frida," he blurts.

  "What?"

  "I love you so much."

  "That's crazy," I state. "The time you've had to spend with me has messed with your head."

  "I loved you way before Barstowe made me look after you."

  I frown. "Miguel, you're confusing a friendship with love. Your loneliness is causing you to feel what you don't."

  "No, it isn't!" he snaps. It's the first time he's ever spoken to me like this. "I've loved you since I first saw you when they brought me here."

  "Miguel," I say gently, "how could you have fallen for me when we were just clueless kids? Just think about it."

  "Don't you believe in love at first sight?"

  "Of course not."

  "Don't you believe in a love so strong that it constantly beats in your heart like thunder on a stormy day?"

  "Of course not."

  "But you felt like that for Smythee, right?" he asks, bitterness in his tone.

  "No, of course not," I semi lie. I hadn't felt a storm inside of me with Smythee, but I guess I had felt a little rain shower. The guy was nice to me after all.

  "Face it, Frida, you had a crush on him."

  "A crush is different from love," I state lightly.

  "But it may be a step in that direction. I'd be thrilled if you just had a crush on me," he asserts wryly.

  "I just can't wrap my mind around romantic love at all."

  "Why?"

  "You really have to ask that?"

  Frida, to love someone is one of the greatest gifts of life. Don't you know that?"

  "I know that the love I have for my mama keeps me going. It keeps me sane and with something other than bitterness in my heart. But I also know that the love Barstowe professes for me is one of the most messed up things I've ever seen."

  "He loves you in his own way."

  "Exactly! His love for me is sick and ugly. I've got the bruises to prove it."

  "Frida--"

  "How can you love someone and treat them like they're your property? How can you beat her spirit to the ground? How can you care so little about her needs? If that's what romantic love is then I don't want any part of it."

  He frowns deeply. "Love doesn't have to be like that. It--"

  "I'd rather drop this conversation."

  "Frida--"

  "I'm about to be forced into marrying a man I will never love. I don't want to talk about love anymore, okay?"

  He breathes out a frustrated breath. "Okay."

  It's the day of my marriage surgery. I, however, have to go to the Barstowe household first and do my chores. That house has to be spic and span before I have my operation. As I'm walking with Miguel, he's very quiet. Ever since our conversation about love he's pulled back from me. Maybe it's for the best. After my wedding, I'll probably see very little of him.

  I'll miss my friend.

  I tuck away the kiss in a corner of my brain. It was wet and yucky. I can't understand how people like putting each others' mouths together. Just thinking that I'll one day have to feel the Mister's lips on mine sends my head in a tizzy.

  I shudder violently.

  Miguel bids me a quick goodbye at the door. When I step inside, a strange buzz is in the air. The family-wives are all standing around the Mister who's on his cell phone and dabbing his eyes with a white handkerchief.

  "I'll be right there," he says into it, sniffling.

  There are no other phones in Paradise Village but the ones the Elders and Masters carry. No one else can use them since they have a secret code that only our abusers know, and they have the cells with them at all times. I've often wondered what it would be like to get on one of those things and try to get help from any authorities but like everything else around here, very little is in our hands.

  "I promise I'll leave right now," he says, thick tears rolling down his face. Betsey has one hand on his right shoulder and concern on her face--the most someone as selfish as her can muster.

  My curiosity is peeked. As I'm about to step into the kitchen to start my chores, the Mister shakes his head at me while still talking on the cell phone. He points to the sofa where apparently he wants me to sit.

  "Don't worry," he says, "I'll be there soon. Soon." He finally hangs up and Betsey puts her arms around him. He shoves her away.

/>   "I need to speak to my Little Bird," he states, rubbing his eyes with the handkerchief. "The rest of you get out of here."

  All the wives, except for Betsey, start to leave.

  "Are you sure I can't do anything for you?" insists Betsey. "Maybe I can bring you something to drink or--"

  "What part of scram don't you understand?" he snaps at her. Dejectedly, she saunters away.

  When we're alone, he sits next to me on the sofa. Leaving a small distance between us, he puts his hand in the empty space as if wanting to touch me but knowing he can't disregard regulations. I intertwine my hands in front of me and wait for him to speak. He blows his nose in his handkerchief and turns to me.

  "I've had something really bad happen to me," he tells me.

  "Are you okay, Master Barstowe?" I'm not just asking out of obligation. Seeing how broken up he is opens a compassionate side to me.

  "Someone died," he murmurs.

  "Someone died?"

  "Someone very important to me in my other life. She and I had been together for over fifty years."

  "Fifty years is a long time," I say quietly.

  "Even though we were in separate bedrooms and didn't spend a lot of time with each other, we were still bound together. She was my wife and the mother of my children!" He sobs loudly.

  I had always suspected that most of the men here had other types of lives somewhere else. This confirms it.

  "When I left her, she was as well as she's always been," he continues. "I don't know what happened? I don't know how that blood vessel burst in her head."

  "How sad." I really don't know what to say.

  "She was a wonderful woman even though she would threaten me with a divorce every few months."

  I know what divorce means. Several members of my extended family in my old life had been divorced.

  "Mildred was one of a kind. Just like you, Little Bird. But she's dead now. Gone," he mumbles.

  I don't know what to say, so I stay quiet. He stays solemn for a few minutes as he gets control of his sobbing.

  "Gone," he repeats.

  "I'm sorry for your suffering, Master Barstowe."

  "Little Bird, I'm afraid I have to give you very bad news," he states, placing his hand in the empty space between us again.

  "What is it, Master Barstowe?"

  "Don't let what I'm about to tell you squeeze at your heart."

  "What is it, Master Barstowe?" I repeat.

  "I've got to leave immediately. I don't know how long I'll be gone so . . ." He's unable to finish his sentence.

  "So . . ." He keeps trying to form more words. "So . . ."

  That one word he uttered gives me a glimmer of hope, and I wish he'd finish his sentence.

  "Yes, Master Barstowe," I say, trying to nudge him along.

  "So," he tries again and takes a huge gulp, "We'll have to postpone our wedding. Our great love will have to wait."