by Rosa Sophia
My mother sobs, punching her fists into the pillow. “I just want to die, I just want to kill myself.”
“Please stop talking like that.”
I sit on the edge of her bed rubbing her back. She quiets down for a while, but then starts sobbing again.
“Why did he do that to me?”
“Who, Mom?”
“My father. The way he touched me...why?”
“I don’t know.”
She is up before I realize what she’s doing. Sinking to the floor, she throws herself against the wall, slamming her head into the drywall. I jump into action, rushing toward her. She’s stronger than she looks. I can’t pull her away, and she tries to fight back, pushing me—
“Get away from me, let me go!”
“Mom, stop, you can’t...you’ll hurt yourself!”
Her face stained with tears, she slams her head forward again, harder this time, and without much recourse I force myself in front of her, getting between her and the wall.
Let her hit me, I can handle it.
She throws herself against me, but then falls back on her heels and digs her fingers into her scalp, her hair sticking out in all directions. I know she’ll wear herself out eventually, she always does. I put my arms around her and hold her for a long time, letting her sob on my shoulder. Soon she quiets down, and I help her into bed, tucking her in as though she were a small child. She curls up, her head on the pillow, her eyes shut.
“Nina.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“You know.” Mom nuzzles the pillow, fluffing it beneath her with one hand before tugging the blanket up to her chin. “I would have killed myself long ago if it weren’t for you.”
“I know, Mom.” A sharp pain passes through me. It hurts me every time I hear it, but I can’t explain why.
Late at night, once she’s tucked away in her bed, sleeping soundly, I creep out of the apartment and walk downstairs. Outside, a full moon reflects on the water of the intracoastal. I step through the dewy grass in my bare feet, heedless of the fire ants and lizards skittering ahead of me.
Sitting by the water, I enjoy a brief moment of privacy, in which no one knows I am there, in the dark, picturing a better life. A life in which my mother is sober, I am happy, and my father is alive. It’s not often I allow the tears to come. But tonight, with only the moon to keep me company, I weep, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
I don’t know what it’s like to enjoy coming home, to look forward to being in my bedroom. I have no privacy there, where I lock the door and she picks it with a coat hanger, no matter how many times I ask her not to. When I want to be alone, really alone, I take a shower. I stand there in the stall, letting the water hit me, just leaning against the wall and thinking. Sometimes I cry there. The shower doesn’t always afford the privacy I need; she picks that lock, too. But most of the time I can hide there.
Now I cry by the water, giving my tears to the brackish liquid below me. After a while, I go upstairs, my face red, my skin puffy. The apartment is dark. A gentle breeze blows through the open windows. I step into my mother’s room, and see her curled up on the bed.
Walking closer, I look at her face under the glow of the streetlights that permeate the dirty windows. She’s not moving. Her chest is motionless beneath her nightshirt. I place my hand under her nose to make sure she’s alive, as I have many times in the past.
She stirs in her sleep, breathes deep. I relax. She’s okay.
Wringing my hands, I step back, and go quietly to my bedroom to climb under the blankets where I toss and turn, frightened she’ll die in her sleep.
Chapter 7
One week ago, Jupiter, Florida
“Are you going to just sit there and stare at your coffee, or are you going to drink it?”
I glance up at Jenny, who is eyeing me with an expression of intense consternation. She’s always been very perceptive.
“You’d be a great detective, you know that? The question is, would you be the good cop or the bad cop?”
“Nina, I have never seen you just sit there and stare at your coffee. You love coffee. You chug the stuff. And here you are, staring at it. Why?”
We’re sitting in a café in Juno Beach, tucked into a corner at a little table, scooting to the side whenever a patron squeezes between us and the counter while on the way to the bathroom. We are in close enough proximity that we can hear toilet lids slamming down, and I consider using that as an excuse for not indulging in my caffeinated beverage, but I know Jenny will never fall for it. She knows nothing could stop me from enjoying my java.
I finally sip it and lean back in my chair, holding the cup in both hands. “I don’t know. I’m worried about this move.”
“I thought you were excited about North Carolina. You’ve always wanted to live there.”
“Yeah, I was excited. I still want to go. But what if I’m making the wrong decision?”
“No decision is wrong, Nina. You can’t be everywhere at once. What are you going to miss out on here that you can’t have in North Carolina?” She frowns, coming to the conclusion on her own. “It’s a guy, isn’t it?”
I feel my cheeks burn. “Yes.”
“Who?”
“His name is Wes. I met him at the race last week. We hit it off immediately. Only he lives in Cocoa Beach, and here I am moving—”
Jenny reaches across the table and takes my hand, gently squeezing my fingers. “Honey, you’ve got to follow your heart. But be careful. You haven’t known this guy very long.”
“I know, but I dreamt about him a year ago.”
“Really?”
Jenny knows my dreams, and she believes me. I nod.
“Well, tell me. What happened?” Jenny asks, leaning forward, her eyes wide.
I describe the dream in detail, telling her what I’d left out when I told Wes. I couldn’t tell him we’d made love, and that it was so passionate the dream lasted all night, and in the morning I awoke wet between my legs until I realized he was dead, and then I sobbed, grief-stricken, my heart broken, my chest aflame with aches and pains that didn’t go away for hours. He wouldn’t have understood. Would he?
“Wow.” Jenny releases my hand and is leaning on her palms, her elbows against the table. “That’s amazing.”
“That’s not all. He dreamt about me too.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. He saw me in a dream right before we met. In his dream, we kissed.”
Jenny smirks. “You think he left out some dirty stuff, like you did?”
“Oh, come on. It’s not dirty. I just...I can’t talk to him about that stuff.”
She flashes her white teeth, full lips shiny and pink. “Oh, you will.”
“No, I won’t. I’m moving, remember?”
“How do you know? Maybe it’s fate.” Jenny sips her coffee, and I say nothing.
We exchange a glance, and I know what she’s thinking.
Make up your mind, Nina. Make up your mind.
***
We’re meeting on the beach again. But this time I’m surprising him with a picnic lunch, and I’m frantic, worried he won’t like the sandwiches I made, or the drinks I brought, or the snacks I grabbed at the last minute.
I consider the fact I never asked him if he was allergic to anything, and I don’t know his favorite foods. A little voice in my head screams, you don’t even know him very well, but I try to ignore it as I clutch the picnic basket tightly, and walk across the parking lot at Jupiter Beach Park, my flip flops slapping the bottoms of my feet.
I bite my bottom lip as I pass by a group of young guys who are laughing and smoking cigarettes. I avert my eyes. Ever since the rape, men make me uncomfortable, and I’d almost always rather stay home than come across them in a bar or a social setting. There’s a terrified part of me that says they’ll just use me and toss me away like a piece of trash. And I can’t have that. I can’t let it
happen to me again.
So I avoid them.
Which is why it’s strange I’ve met Wes.
I walk along the path that leads to the beach, and I see him waiting there, standing in the sand, leaning against the railing. He hasn’t spotted me yet, so I slow down. He’s not wearing a shirt, just his swimming shorts and sandals, and he’s looking out over the beach, his eyes covered by his sunglasses.
He has a runner’s body, lean and muscular, and the breeze is tossing back his dark curls. I bite my lip again, and force myself to continue. He turns and catches my eye, and I smile, still shy, still nervous.
“Hey, what do you have there?” he asks, walking toward me. When he’s close enough, he touches my elbows, the basket between us, and leans forward to place a gentle kiss on my cheek. I shiver in response. “You can’t be cold in this weather?” he jokes.
“No.” I glance down toward the ground. “Just nervous.”
“You don’t have to be nervous around me. Haven’t I told you that before?”
“I’m not sure.”
We walk out on the beach, and I hand him the blanket. He spreads it out on the sand, and I place the basket on top.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“Did you make me lunch?” He sits down, and I follow suit.
“Yes, is that okay?”
“Is it okay—it’s fantastic. I can’t believe you did that for me.”
I blush. “It’s just sandwiches, that’s all.”
“Even so. It was very sweet of you.”
We sit and eat, and I keep thinking how uncomfortable I am eating in front of him, as if I’m worried a glob of mustard is going to fall on my shirt, or I’m going to make a mess, or maybe I sound funny when I chew, or—
My mind runs in circles, and I can’t keep up. I think of Jenny and what we talked about in the café, and then I think about North Carolina. I’m moving next month. Wes would go back to Cocoa Beach in a couple of days, and whatever was between us would be gone, fallen to dust that would mix with the sand, to be blown away on the next strong wind.
Halfway through my sandwich, I sit cross-legged and stare at the ocean. “I can’t believe I’m moving next month.” I turn and look at him, trying to seem casual when I ask, “Will I see you again?”
“I don’t know if I’ll be back in the area before then, Nina.”
“Oh.”
I watch some kids throw a ball back and forth, and for a moment I wonder if they’ll accidentally hit it in the wrong direction and it’ll come sailing toward me and smack me in the head. Just as I’m thinking this, Wes clears his throat.
“You know, you don’t have to move to North Carolina. You could come with me. I’m going to Sweden this summer to research a book I’m writing.”
“Are you asking me to go with you?”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “Run away with me, Nina.”
I gulp. “Run away? I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“Which is precisely why you should.”
I turn and look out at the water again, then take another bite of my sandwich. When I finish chewing, I say, “Let me think about it,” and that’s the last he mentions it for the rest of the day.
Chapter 8
Deep in slumber, I see his face. I dream we’re driving somewhere, but I don’t know where we are, and we’re speeding around turns, winding around other vehicles, and he’s driving. I reach out as if to slow us down, but I have no control.
“Wes, please be careful, this is too fast!” I shout, but he doesn’t seem to hear me; he just presses on the pedal and flies around a turn, and I see palm trees around us, and tall buildings. Are we in Miami, Daytona? I can’t tell. “Wes, slow down, slow down!”
We narrowly miss an eighteen-wheeler, and I shriek, sweating, my heart palpitating.
He turns and looks at me, and somehow we stay on the road, we’re moving, but he’s not paying attention to where we’re going, and he says, “It doesn’t matter, Nina. It’s fate. You can’t stop it.”
“No, no!” There’s a cement wall ahead. “Wes, watch out!”
“Don’t worry. With impact comes change.”
We slam into the wall and—
I jolt in my bed, my whole body shuddering, my eyes fluttering open. I hear a noise and for a moment I wonder what it is. Then I realize it’s my phone vibrating on the end table, and I roll over, reaching out, fumbling to pick it up.
“H-hello?”
“Nina, I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Who...w-who’s this?”
The woman on the other line laughs. “Don’t you recognize my voice? It’s your boss, silly. We’ve only been working together for six years.”
“Oh. Hi, Lynn.” I stretch out on my back, still under the covers. “I was sleeping.”
“I’m so sorry I woke you.”
“It’s okay, not a big deal. What’s up?”
“I had to call early. Yesterday was slow, and I don’t anticipate today will very busy, so I thought I’d let you know you don’t have to come in today.”
“Oh. Wow, thanks.”
“I’ll let you go back to sleep.”
“No, I can’t now,” I say, chuckling.
“Aww,” Lynn says, sounding apologetic. A beautiful blonde with twinkling blue eyes, Lynn is older than me by ten years, and one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. Even when I make mistakes at work, she admonishes me with such kindness it’s difficult to be disappointed with her. She pauses for a moment, then adds, “Well, I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
“Okay, sounds good.” I remember I have time off, and it’s New Year’s Eve.
After hanging up the phone and sliding it onto the end table, I lie back and think about my resolutions. I have none. What do I want for the new year? I’m not sure. The clock on the wall tells me it’s six in the morning. I begin thinking about what I will do that day, and I know I have to drive to the grocery store.
Drive.
My dream flashes back to me. I cringe at the thought of slamming into that cement, and I am glad I woke up. I’ve always had nightmares. Being in a situation I have no control over is terrifying to me, just as frightening as the rape, which is always in the back of my mind no matter what I do to try to expel it.
Wes’s words in the dream, so clear—It doesn’t matter, Nina. It’s fate. You can’t stop it.
With impact comes change.
I sink into my pillow, staring up at the white ceiling. The blankets are warm, but I feel cold inside.
“I don’t believe in fate, Wes,” I whisper softly. “I can stop it if I want.”
But I wasn’t so sure that was true.
My eyes flutter shut, and before I know it I’m asleep again. I don’t wake up until eight o’ clock, my neck aching, my head pounding, groggy and in need of coffee.
In the kitchen, I watch it brewing and listen as it bubbles and hisses, the condo filling with a heady aroma. My mother walks in wearing a pair of jean shorts and a t-shirt, a quartz crystal hanging around her neck, her short hair neatly combed.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” She kisses me on the cheek, and her breath smells minty and sweet. She squeezes my shoulders gently and peers at my face before brushing my hair away from my neck and tucking strands behind my ear. “Are you all right?”
“Mmm-hmm. Why, Mom?” I put my arm around her, leaning on her shoulder. I wish she were like this all the time.
“You were talking in your sleep and crying out. I went in your room early this morning. You were on your side, so I rubbed your back. It seemed to calm you down. I just hope you’re not going through anything difficult right now. You work so much, we don’t get time to talk like we used to.”
“I know, Mommy,” I whisper, feeling like a child again. I want to cry as I think of the two personalities my mother harbors, the angry alcoholic and the loving, beautiful woman I see in the morning, who makes pancakes for me on my birthday and drinks tea while reading Nora
Roberts novels. Where does that woman go in the evening? Where does she hide?
“What are you up to today, dear?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Probably just hang out, maybe go to the beach.”
“You’ve been going to the beach a lot lately, more than usual.”
I think of Wes, and smile. “Yeah, I know. I love the beach.”
I pour a cup of coffee, and then go back to my room. Sinking onto my mattress, I pick up my cell phone. I key in a text message and press send.
Hey, Wes. Hope you’re having a nice morning. I know it’s kinda early, but I was wondering what you’re up to today.
I sip my coffee, staring out the window, and my phone buzzes a moment later.
Headed back to Cocoa Beach last night. Had an emergency, a friend’s car broke down and she doesn’t have anybody else in the area to help her.
I slump my shoulders, saddened. But why am I letting it bother me? I have to remind myself I’m moving soon, and I can’t get too involved with him, can’t let myself fall for him. Then I remember my dream.
Fate.
“No,” I tell myself. “There’s no such thing.”
There couldn’t be. I wouldn’t allow it.
***
Control. It frightens me. And if fate exists, that means I have no control.
Trapped under his heaving body while he raped me, laughing when I resisted, I’d lost control. Any similar situation caused a flashback, and I was back there instantly, crushed against that broken spring, begging him to stop.
I remember what my therapist called it—post traumatic stress disorder. In his office, sitting in a cozy armchair, I learned why I was so afraid of men. I wish I could talk to him now, but he’s gone. He did a bad thing, but he was the only one who listened to me. I wonder why he made those mistakes, landed himself in jail, a man who’d helped countless young girls work through their troubled pasts.
I will never know the answer to this.
New Year’s Eve.
Fireworks burst in the sky over the intracoastal. We don’t have to leave the house for the show. In the darkened condo, the walls light up with red, yellow, blue, pink, white, and purple. My mother stands on the balcony wearing a sundress, a cup in her hand. I know it’s not water she’s drinking.