by Ina Zajac
The door was so close, just an arm’s length away.
“Keep your head down, your face is all fucked up,” he said.
She reached for the door, her hand streaked with blood.
“So sad,” he added. “You used to be so pretty.”
CHAPTER 35
VIA
SHE BLINKED HER EYES, again and again. Had she fallen asleep in her car, right there in the Hotties back parking lot? It was light outside; at least her blurred field of vision seemed lighter. Her face felt like a screaming block of cement, her neck and chest felt engulfed in flames.
“Here’s some ice.” The voice she heard was familiar. Beautiful strands of blonde hair hung like a soft curtain. Mama, Via realized. She used to bring ice for her mother’s face, but now Mama was bringing her the ice.
“It’s going to be okay,” her mother said. “God, this is so fucked up.”
No, wait, Via realized. Mama would never say that. Who was this angel?
“What, are you stupid?” It was Kaytlyn’s voice. “Do you think Carlos is fucking around?”
Something cold, maybe a rag, came down on her face. It changed the pain, made it dull.
“Shit, you’re bleeding all over the place.”
“Carlos,” she heard herself say.
Kaytlyn’s husky laugh surprised her. “No doubt who did this,” she said. Her voice dropped and became little more than a whisper. “The bouncers would never let a client do this to a girl—only Carlos.”
She tried to open her left eye and look toward Kaytlyn, but couldn’t see much, just a talking blur. “This is bad,” the blur said, while it weaved back and forth. “You need to see a doctor. Why didn’t you just fuck him? It’s not that bad.”
“No,” Via managed. “No.”
Kaytlyn’s face wouldn’t stay in one place. As she spoke, her mouth spun—one long rotating pink strip.
“Your mouth looks like a dog chasing its tail,” Via told the face.
“Why are you blinking so much?” it asked. “Stop doing that, it’s freaky. Put the ice pack back on.”
Then Kaytlyn was talking, maybe on the phone. “I don’t know how to help her. You’re the wannabe nurse,” she said. “Just bring Bella in her pajamas. Hurry. If he finds out I helped, he’ll go off.”
Via felt herself trembling, and she couldn’t stop.
“Going to my car. I’ll be right back,” Kaytlyn said, and was gone, but not for long.
“What’s another jacket, right?” Kaytlyn was asking. Her voice was like warm velvet. Then Via felt something soft being draped over her. It felt loving and safe. She wanted to say thank you, but she was so tired. She was probably dying. That would be cool. She didn’t deserve to be breathing in air anymore.
Everything around her turned golden and she just wanted to sleep. The side of her head collapsed against the window. Maybe if she kept her eyes closed and prayed hard enough, she would just die. She didn’t want to hurt anybody anymore. She didn’t want to hurt herself anymore.
Kaytlyn began talking to somebody else. She was moving away. It was foggy. Was she ever coming back? Via hadn’t thanked her.
Somebody was there, shining a light in her good eye, then prying open the other.
“Oww!” Via pulled away from the agony.
“Good lord, baby girl,” the voice said. It was Mama Whitney. “Can you manage to slide over?” she asked. Via did as she was told, then wiped drool off of her own chin. It felt like drool, but maybe it was blood. Her neck hurt, her chest, her arms, her thighs, her head, her everything. The cloth wasn’t cold anymore.
Whit was yelling to somebody outside of the car. “I’ll leave my car here. Okay, okay. Put Bella’s booster seat in the back, and her backpack, too.” Then she was gone. Then she was back. “Sweetie, just go back to sleep now.”
“Okay,” Via told her. “I will.”
“No, no. I was talking to Bella, not you,” Whit said. “No more falling asleep. Keep your face covered. I can’t take you to my mom’s house like this,” she said. “So, I’m taking you to Nick’s.”
“No, I can’t ever go back there. Take me to Vashon.” The shrill of her own voice hurt her brain.
“Shh,” Whitney said. “You’ll wake up Bella. She’s in the back.”
“Please, Vashon, please.”
CHAPTER 36
VIA
VIA’S GROGGINESS was fading back into her miserable reality. She squinted as she tried to make out the time on the microwave, twelve forty-four a.m. I’m such a busted-up Cinderella, she thought—home past midnight, a gory disgrace. The ice cubes Whitney had gotten from the soda dispenser on the ferry had melted into the washcloth, creating a bloody mess. Via couldn’t wait to throw it in the kitchen sink. It felt as though her cheek had swollen up into the side of her forehead.
Whitney seemed ready and able to bust out her nursing-school skills and had brought along her first aid kit. “Bella, get in here please.” She turned to face Via and gasped. “It’s swelling up even more. I still think you need to go to the emergency room.”
“No, too many sick people.”
Whitney didn’t look amused. “You can’t use Matt’s hospital phobia to get out of going yourself.”
“You know they’ll ask questions,” she said. “Questions we can’t answer.”
Bella came in, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing pink flannel pajamas with rain boots and had on a little pink princess backpack.
“Via,” she said with a cringe. “Did you fall down?”
“Yes, I fell down outside and a rock hit my face. I’m okay though. Hey, want to see your room?”
She took them down the hall and opened the first door on the right. Whitney peeked in and did a double take. Dan’s clothes were scattered all over the floor. He was a messy packer. He had forgotten his shaving kit. It sat on the dresser.
“Is this—?” Whitney asked, her eyes darting back to Via. “You two have separate bedrooms?”
Bella came in, jumped on the bed, and started digging through her backpack.
“I can’t think about Dan right now,” she said. “I really can’t.” But it was too late. His memory had been summoned. Just when she thought it was impossible to feel any worse, her chest was weighted down with the densest darkness. “He and I have,” she began, but then stopped, and looked at Bella. “Been together,” she said. “But sometimes he got weird about it after.”
“Like, guilty?” Whitney asked. A snort escaped her. She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s been gone since June anyway.”
“Mommy, Mommy. Are you going to read to me?” Bella had found a storybook.
“One minute, sweetie.” Looking back at Via, she was seemingly at a loss for words. “Via, you’re not going to marry him, are you?”
“I can’t talk about this now.” She was sick with herself and just wanted her bathtub. Her body craved cocaine something awful. It was insane how much she needed it. Her body would shut down without it, what was left of her body. Her head and heart were fried. Her arms and legs had been tenderized.
“This isn’t about Matt. This is about you,” Whitney said as she came closer. “You need some time to get yourself together, figure out who you are. You’re barely twenty-one, for Christ’s sake.”
“Please, just read to Bella, make yourselves at home,” she said. “I really need a drink, a hot bath.”
She took a step for the door, but Whitney stopped her. “Okay, but you can’t try to do this on your own.” She gave Via an extra gentle hug. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Closing her eyes, Via wished with all of her heart that she was in her mother’s arms. But the fingers that stroked the back of her head were not her mother’s.
“I’ll come check on you in a few minutes.” There was warmth in that voice, but it was not her mother’s.
“Just get me a vodka tonic?” Via pulled away. “Please.” She could barely get the words out. Talking hurt her mutilated fac
e. “In the cabinet above the toaster.”
“Okay, but you’ll have to take a break from the booze, too. Maybe forever. We’ll talk about detox stuff tomorrow.”
Gingerly making her way down the hallway, she couldn’t get her father out of her head, like he was trying to tell her something. Maybe Carlos’s punch had shaken something loose in her head. She paused and leaned back against the wall, careful not to leave any bloody prints.
A new memory popped into her awareness. She remembered the day her father had bought her a purple balloon from a booth at Central Park. She had been little, five or six years old.
He wanted to tie it around her wrist, but she resisted. She stood her ground. “Fine, Violetta, but hold on tight,” he cautioned. Within a minute, it slipped from her hand. It just slipped away. He wasn’t even angry. He just shook his head at her. “See?” he said as they watched it break for the high blue sky. “Now, be a good girl.” He bought her ice cream, but in a kiddie-cup. He didn’t trust her to have a big-kid cone. She didn’t even want a cone because she didn’t trust herself either.
Her chest felt so constricted it literally hurt. Maybe cocaine had weakened her heart, or maybe heartache was real and not just some sappy expression. She wanted Matt—so obviously, so thoroughly, like she’d wanted that balloon.
She closed her bedroom door and made her way past her bed and toward the bathroom. She began peeling off her sweater, then her bra. She stepped out of her skirt and panties, leaving a trail of blood-speckled clothing as she went. She knew her striptease was unattractive, possibly the worst in the history of the world. Going straight for the bathtub, she flicked on the light switch and groaned as she leaned over to turn on the water. Carlos may have cracked a rib or two, but she wouldn’t mention that to Whitney. She poured in her favorite bubble bath—vanilla orange blossom. She imagined resting against Matt’s chest so his energy could envelope her, like the pretty lights. Being in his arms reminded her of the pretty lights. Why had she never realized that before?
As she turned around, she finally saw herself in the mirror. Gone was that sexy girl who had stood in the wings that first night at Hotties. Skinny brown bruises shaped like Carlos’s fingers wrapped around her upper arms. Her wrists were laced with blue and violet. The side of her face had swollen purple. As she leaned in and turned her head to the side, she got a closer look at her ruptured cheek. The bleeding had stopped, but the whites of her eye were bloodshot. How could that be? Had he hit her more than once? She just couldn’t remember.
Her face was just the cherry on top of her mutilated body. Collarbones and ribs jutted out from her pasty skin. She had never noticed her hipbones sticking out like that before. “Oh God, you are a blow whore,” she told the unlovable girl in the mirror. All she could think about was running back to Matt, but he wouldn’t want her. She was ugly and empty and had nothing to tempt him with. She felt her bottom lip quiver.
“Via?” Whitney was calling from the bedroom. “Via?”
She eased herself into the water, wincing all the way.
After a minute, she felt Whitney standing over her, and gasp. “Oh—my—God.”
“Please,” Via said without making eye contact. “Just don’t. Don’t say anything.”
Whitney set a blue plastic picnic cup on the edge of the tub.
Via closed her eyes. “I can’t talk about Carlos. I can’t talk about Dan. Not Matt, not my father.” And she punctuated her declaration by raising her cup with a flourish and guzzling down her vodka. It numbed. It was everything she needed in that moment.
“Just close your eyes and enjoy your bath,” Whitney told her. “I’m not leaving you, though.”
Via sighed as she watched Whitney pull out her phone and lean against the makeup vanity. It was built into the wall, not like the freestanding antique vanity Mama used to have. Via had forgotten about that old vanity. Another memory swept in, caught her up, and crystallized her back into the past.
She was stretched out on her parents’ bed, watching her mother as she sat in front of that old makeup mirror. Snow was falling outside. Her mother looked like a movie star in her dressing room. They liked to talk while her mother got ready to go out. Her parents seemed like they were happy when they were out, or maybe they went out when he was happy.
“Are you going to an art show?” She lay on her tummy, the dark red bedspread silky-stiff beneath her arms, her face propped up against her hands. She marveled at her mother’s cleavage. When was she ever going to look like that?
“No, the opera,” her mother said as she dusted powder over her nose. Then she turned toward the open bedroom door. “Joseph, turn up the music, won’t you?”
Oh, the opera, Via thought, no longer sad about having to stay home. Operas were boring.
Via stretched as Verdi filled the whole apartment. “Is it the opera about me?” she asked. “The one where Violetta coughs up blood into a hanky? She’s stupid.”
“Shh,” her mother said into the mirror. “Don’t let your father hear you say that.”
“I wish you didn’t name me after her. I like the one with the Viking girl with the flying horse.” She sat up and imagined what it would feel like to fly, to be brave. “She jumps into fire at the end, but Violetta just coughs.”
“Sweetheart,” her mother said, fluffing out her collarbone-length blonde waves. “When you’re older, you’ll realize Violetta is a beautiful name.”
“I can’t wait to get married and get a new name. I hate being called Rabbit. The boys always call me Rabbit. I hate my name.”
Her mother came and sat on the edge of the bed. Hungry for a hug, Via slid over and nestled into her mother’s waiting arms. “I know the life I’ve chosen for you hasn’t been easy—being the daughter of Joseph Antonio Rabbotino.”
Her mother’s blue eyes were bright as she pulled back and looked down. Via was distracted by what she saw peeking out through her mother’s blush: a bruise along her left cheekbone. Her mother caught her looking and returned to her vanity. She peered into the mirror, critical.
She sighed. “You are also the daughter of Ingrid Sorenson, so there’s some Viking in you too.” She found her blush brush and applied another coat. “I used to be strong, I think,” she said. “I want to be again, but I have forgotten how.” She made eye contact with Via through the mirror and held it. “That can never happen to you—remember who you are.”
“It’s time to go,” her father yelled.
“No,” Via said as she realized what was happening. “Stay with me, I need you.”
Her mother looked through the mirror, almost amused. “You know this all turns out okay, right?” she asked. “Don’t worry, this is just a life you’re having.”
“No.”
“Then this must be a dream. That’s nice. I like when you dream about me.”
Via turned her attention to her father’s shadow in the doorway. “No,” she begged. “Please, she’s not ready—I’m not ready for you to take her.”
But then the shadow was gone, and so was her mother. She heard the wall clock chime, though it need not have bothered. She knew it must be four o’clock. Via looked for the wall clock so she could turn its hands back to three fifty-nine and then smash it. But it was gone, too. The wall itself was gone. Everything was gone.
CHAPTER 37
VIA
NOT YET, don’t wake up yet, she begged herself. She had to find that fucking clock. She could still sense her mother. Her presence was still an arm’s length away. Via tried to reach out and catch it, and hold it forever. But a whisper of sweet spun air pulled them apart.
“Via, Via. Do you see the pretty lights?”
She tried to open her eyes, but then the pain seized her. It must have been waiting. It consumed her. Overtook everything but that angel’s voice. Who was that, Bella?
“I used to see them when I was little,” Bella said. “They’re fairies. When my daddy went to heaven, he sent them to play with me.”
Via turned h
er head. So much pain. She winced.
“Is she waking up, sweetie?“ It was Whitney. “Go back to the dining room and color some more, okay?”
“But, Mommy—”
“Sweetie, go.”
Via wanted to tell Bella to stay, but her voice caught in her dry throat. She felt the sting of a straw pressing against her lips. She sucked in the most amazing apple juice she had ever tasted. The price she paid, however, was more pain. “Ow, it hurts.” Her cry came out as little more than a whisper.
“I Steri-Striped your face.”
“What?” Blinking her eyes a few times, the room came into focus. Whitney was putting a tray of food down on the desk. It smelled amazing, like soup and bread.
“It’s surgical tape.” Whitney came over, leaned in, and examined the wound critically. Then she sat back and sighed.
“Am I hideous?”
“It looks better today—stopped oozing—and it’s crusting over nicely. Must be all the beauty sleep. You’ve been pretty out of it since Tuesday morning. It was a royal bitch getting you out of the tub.”
“What day is it?”
“Thursday.” Whitney cocked her head to the side, concerned. “December 4th. Why? God, I knew I should have taken you to the emergency room. Let me get a look at your pupils again.” She leaned in again.
Via held up her hands. “No, it’s okay.” She felt alive. December 4th. Four would be her lucky number now. She still had 17 days to go, but it would be okay. The calendar had somehow lost its power over her.
Dreaming of her mother in front of that old mirror had opened the door to other memories. They began tumbling into her awareness like happy toddlers. There had been other days, hopeful days.
She spied a bright crayon picture on the side table. It looked like a house with a tree and two dogs.
“Bella drew it,” Whitney said. “Several actually, but that’s her favorite because of the deer. She’s never seen deer before coming to visit you. She’s been out on your back deck this morning, all bundled up, waiting for the deer to come back so she can draw them some more.”