Embers of Starlight

by Sonia de Leon

  “Hey, Angela. How are you?”

  “I'm alive, darlin'. Praise be to Jesus.”

  “Well, I'm glad he's helping you out,” I reply bitterly. “Anyway, how's my mom been? I've gotten so tangled up with life lately.”

  “She is having a good day. She asked for you.”

  “Really?” I say, my voice rising in excitement as I hurry down the hallway. In the years since she's been in treatment, I've only had glimpses of the person my mother used to be. The cocktails of medications she's on result in her being either catatonic or delusional. It's rare she even recognizes me.

  After I take the elevator up to the third floor, I walk down the pale yellow carpeted hallway to her room. They've taken great pains to make this place feel like nothing more than an elegant housing complex, but the facility is fully staffed with nurses and psychiatric services.

  “Mom?” I say timidly, as I knock and peek around the open door.

  She's curled up in a wingback chair, reading a book, her glasses perched on her nose. The idyllic scene could have been taken from my childhood memories, and it's so comfortingly familiar that tears well up in my eyes.

  My mom turns to me, an expression of delighted surprise lighting up her face. “Tula-baby!”

  She sets her book down and stands, then walks toward me with her arms outstretched. I sink into her hug, and immediately dissolve into a stream of tears. I've needed this; I've needed my mother’s love. The arms around me are warm, and it's like her energy flows into me.

  “What's going on, sweetie?” Her eyes search mine after she pulls away.

  “I've missed you, mom. That’s all,” I say, as I wipe my cheeks with my sweater sleeve.

  “Stop using your sweater, Tula, there's tissue over there.” She is in mother mode, and gestures to the box of tissue on the coffee table.

  There is no point in burdening her with the travesty of my life, so we talk about everything else. I tell her about Arabella, showing her pictures and video of the baby, and speaking of her as if she's still alive and not decomposing alone and cold in a coffin buried underground. I know this window of full alertness can close at any time, and I want her to know about her granddaughter while she has the chance.

  And then the lucidity starts to dissolve. “Sam asked about you.”

  “Mom, Sam joined the Army. He's in Special Forces now.”

  She continues as if she didn't hear me. “He's so much bigger! I mean he was handsome when he was a teenager, but as a man? Sweet Moses, he's welcome to the eyes. You need to get on that, Tula.”

  “I'm already married, mom,” I remind her.

  “Oh right. Adrian,” she says in a whiny voice. “He's visited me here before, right?”

  I nod.

  “Sorry, but I don't like your husband, Tula.”

  “Me neither,” I mutter under my breath.

  Thankfully, we're interrupted by her doctor. “Good to see you again, Mrs. Valentine.”

  “Hi, Dr. Gordon.” I smile.

  She nods, then directs her attention to my mom. “Time for your medicine, Genevieve, and then a nap.” The doctor turns to me. “Wait for a bit so we can talk.”

  I hug my mom, and kiss her cheek. “I love you so much, mom. See you next week.”

  Several minutes later, Dr. Gordon comes into the hallway, closing the door to my mom’s room behind her. I walk beside her down the hall.

  “She's doing great today.” She smiles warmly at me.

  “I haven't seen her have a day this good in a very long time,” I say in agreement.

  We sit in a little library area that has shelves of books and various sofas and chairs. The doctor proceeds to explain the new regimen of pharmaceuticals they have my mom on. Combining man-made chemicals with unique body chemistries is a tricky path, and there is never any certainty about how a body will react to foreign substances. Even with this initial positive gain, they're unable to predict if the effects will continue to be the same, or if she'll experience adverse side effects.

  Dr. Gordon then pierces me with her all-seeing gaze. “Your husband called.”

  “Oh?” I don't offer any more than that.

  She continues. “He asked if schizoaffective disorder is genetic, and I said yes. He also asked if it can be triggered by extreme trauma, such as the death of a child, and again, I said yes. Have you been feeling normal?”

  Normal? I want to laugh, but I fear I would look crazy. Is it normal to be raped and tortured every night by your own husband? Is it normal to be told how disgusting and useless you are? And is it normal to be able to do nothing to defend yourself?

  I nod my head stiffly. “I'm sad. Definitely sad, but overall I don't feel there is anything mentally abnormal about how I'm processing and handling my grief.”

  She purses her lips, her eyes carefully studying my face. “Your husband, does he treat you well?”

  I think about the ways he uses my body as his own personal debauched playground. He has done so many unnatural things to me, that afterward, I fear doing something as simple as using the bathroom. But I nod my head carefully again.

  She sees. I know she does.

  Dr. Gordon is silent for a few moments. “Have you ever heard the term psychopath or sociopath?”

  “Yeah, but I don't know anything about it.”

  “It's impossible to form lasting, meaningful relationships with a sociopath. Some sociopaths are fairly harmless, and they'll only ruin you financially or emotionally. But there are others who are darker and more dangerous. If you ever find yourself in something as innocent as a phone conversation with a malevolent sociopath, your smartest course of action is to end the conversation, and block all further contact. Do you understand me?”

  “What if someone lives under the same roof?”

  “Get out. You will never be able to better a sociopath because they are incapable of empathy—the one trait that moves typical human beings to make the right choices. Cover your tracks. Don't look back. And don't ask anyone for help, because they will be left as fodder if it is ever discovered that they helped you.”

  She has given me all the help she can with her succinct way of summarizing things.

  “Thank you.”

  I stand and walk away, feeling more hopeless than ever before.

  * * *

  THAT EVENING, AFTER I'VE served my husband his chamomile tea, he pulls me to sit next to him on the sofa across from the fireplace. The fire is cozy and warm, and this moment could be romantic if I wasn't tensed with fear, thinking about what sadistic torture he has in mind. His thumb idly caresses my neck as he sips his tea.

  I stare at the rising, dancing flames of the fire, resigning myself to whatever's in store. There is no point in begging, bargaining, or resisting. What drives him is power. I understand that now. The gifts, the money, even his effusive words of love and romance, were all used as a means to control me. Now it's just taken a different form.

  “What did you do today?” he asks.

  “I had my annual Pap smear. I got some chai. I saw my mom.” I'm hoping I'm not forgetting anything. He gets upset if he thinks I'm hiding things from him.

  “That's all?”

  Crap! What did I forget? I quickly retrace all my steps during the day. He can't know about the birth control implant, right? No way would my doctor give that information out.

  “Um, yeah. I can't remember anything else.”

  “Why then, did a friend see you on First Avenue, leaning against a building and smiling like you had just gotten the happiest news of your life?”

  What? He must be referring to the moment I found myself thinking of Sam. How random that someone he knows saw me at that exact moment. Random . . . but not impossible, especially if he's having me followed.

  I choose my words carefully. “Oh, I remember. My doctor said that I should have no problems getting pregnant if I stop taking my pill.” I turn to him. “I want to have another baby, Adrian.”

  “I think it best if we hold off
on that for a while, don't you? There's no harm in practicing though.” He grins.

  Bile rises in my throat at what I'm about to suggest. “Would you let me make love to you tonight, Adrian?”

  And at least that night, he doesn't force himself on me. Yet I'm not sure if it's worse pretending to enjoy being touched by him.

  13

  TWO WEEKS AFTER MY appointment, I get a call from my doctor informing me that I have chlamydia. Adrian is cheating on me. No big surprise, but I need solid proof now.

  When the order containing the matching phone case arrives, I slip it on my phone so I can swap it with his. He'll be asleep, but I want all my bases covered, just in case he does wake up for some reason. I add sleeping medication to his nightly tea, which I serve, like the dutiful wife I am. As I stir in his requested tablespoon of clover honey, I fantasize about slipping cyanide in the drink. I'm not certain a Google search for “how to kill someone with cyanide” would be in my favor.

  When Adrian is snoring deeply, I quietly creep to his side of the bed. The tick-tock of his wristwatch is deafeningly loud in the silence and stillness. I gently bring the phone to his thumb, and press it on the scan button. Once it is unlocked, I walk downstairs while I look through his phone records, email history, and call log. There is no incoming or outgoing call history, and all text messages have been deleted.

  I back-up the phone on my personal computer, so I can retrieve deleted text messages the next time I plug it in. After I slip the phone back onto his bedside table, I fall asleep, feeling one step closer to freedom.

  Continued patience is not easy, especially when Adrian's abuse is turning more vicious. The following night, I end up passing out while he chokes me. There is nothing but raw fear in that moment, and I feel certain he is going to kill me.

  When I come to, he switches to the loving husband role, saying he found me on the floor when he got home from work late. I docilely apologize for scaring him, then go to the kitchen to make his tea. My hands shake as I carry the teacup and saucer to him, hoping he has nothing else planned for me.

  Over the next few weeks, his violence increases. He begins to desire the sight of my blood, and he makes me cut myself. At least I can control the depth, I reason, as I drag the blade across my thigh. When he doesn't command the cutting, he's using his fists on me, landing blows in spots that won't be visible when I'm wearing clothes. My stomach, back, and ribs are constantly bruised. I'm not sure what form of torture to hope for, and I find myself wishing he'd just stick to rape. Submitting in silence was easier than this.

  I don't have much time, that much is clear, and tonight, I'll sync his phone to my computer so I can access all deleted text messages. I'm nervous about what I'll see, but I'm hopeful it'll be my way out.

  Today I'm going to visit my mom. I don my usual uniform to hide the evidence of the abuse. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I didn't bother covering up and displayed my shame for all to see. Would the vision of my skin, mottled with green and purple hues, move anyone to help me? Would a kind stranger take me by the hand and lead me to safety? Or would I receive judgmental stares, or even worse, apathy? I'm not brave enough to test the compassion of the world, so even though the weather is perfect for a spring-colored dress, I pull on dark-washed jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. Concealer is my friend, so I cover up the marks on my neck, and wear my light auburn hair down to hide everything else in shadows.

  After I pick up some necessary items from the store, I head to my mom's living facility. She's gone backward since I last visited her, so I'm not able to visit for long. As I'm walking out, I keep my head down, and accidentally walk into a person who is built like a wall. I bounce off him like pinball, trip over my own feet, and nearly fall, but he catches me around the waist. My breath sucks in sharply since his hands press into the bruises on my ribs. Without looking up, I mumble a mixture of an apology and thanks, then continue on my way.

  As I reach my car, I hear my name being called. I freeze, recognizing the voice, then turn slowly, something like dread and elation rising in my chest. How is it, after all these years, I still respond so strongly to the sight of him? There is an unconscious process that takes place in all of our bodies which is the result of a familiar movement being repeated over time. Our muscles memorize the neural paths created with these activities. The heart muscle in my chest clenches as I recognize him, remember him, and involuntarily fall back in love with him. I experience a sensation of tripping, then stumbling—and I fall so hard—but I am left still standing on solid ground.

  They say time heals all wounds, but not when it comes to love. In my case, time became a multiplier, causing my love for him to grow stronger. That emotion is impossible to stifle or bury, and it rises up so fast that I become breathless.

  He jogs up to me, then stops a couple feet away, wary, most likely due to my slack-jawed expression.

  “Tula,” he repeats my name, spoken as if it were a prayer.

  I shake my head and flutter my eyes in disbelief. “Samson!”

  The boy I knew is now a full grown man. He is well over six feet, and when he encloses me in his arms, nothing but solid muscle is against me and all around me. I close my eyes, breathe him in, and allow myself one moment to enjoy feeling him again. And then I push away, not lingering for one second longer. Unwelcome eyes may be spying on this interchange.

  “When did you get back?” I ask, my eyes frantically darting around to see if anyone is watching.

  “A month ago.” His eyes narrow as he watches my jittery movement. “As good as I was at it, Special Forces is not for me. I just wasn't happy. And you? How are you?”

  “I'm doing good.” I nod firmly with a tight smile.

  “You were in such a rush back there, did I hurt you when I caught you from falling?”

  I avoid eye contact. “Um, no. I just, well, I hurt myself the other day, so I was kinda sore, yeah . . . ” I trail off. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”

  “I've been visiting your mom every now and then since I got back. She's doing good.”

  “She's not doing so great today.” I sigh. “It seems like it's one step forward and three steps back.”

  “Where do you live?” he blurts out. “You're like a ghost, I couldn't find you anywhere. You have no online presence; I don't know what your last name is. They wouldn't give me any information about you inside. I've wanted to see how you are.” He looks at me and gives a nervous laugh. “Not stalker like or anything. Friend like.”

  I can't help but laugh at his expression. He's still the same, but somehow different. My mom wasn't having delusions when she started talking about him that one time. And she was correct. Sweet Moses, he looks good.

  “My last name is Valentine. I live about two hours east of here.”

  “Still married?”

  I nod.

  “Damn.” He grins. “And here I've been hoping that your marriage has gone up in flames, and I could take you out on a date or something.”

  My heart shatters when he says that, but I quickly cover up my pain by laughing. It's one of those laughs that feels like the floodgate of my emotions is about to crack. I can't end up a maniacal crying mess right now.

  “Where do you live?” I counter.

  “Here in the city. I got a job at the police department.”

  “Well, it's been great seeing you again, but I gotta get going.”

  “Is it wrong to meet up for coffee one day?” he asks.

  Under normal conditions, it would be wrong, but my circumstances are anything but.

  “We're old friends, I think it's totally normal to catch up over a cup of coffee.” I smile. “I'll meet you here at noon in one week.”

  “Great.” He sighs in relief, then waves as he backs away.

  I wave, then get into my car. My hands shake as I place sunglasses on my face. I want to jump up and down in excitement. Sam! My best friend, my first love, he's back! And who knows, maybe he will be able to take me out on a date o
ne day.

  * * *

  I STARE IN MUTED shock at what I see on my computer. It's worse than I imagined. There are the expected exchanges with other women, no surprise there, but what horrifies me are the messages that read:

  Caucasian female, 13 years old, brown hair, blue eyes $500

  Hispanic female, 19 years old, brown hair, brown eyes $200

  Caucasian female, 17 years old, blond hair, green eyes, $600

  And the worst one:

  Caucasian female, 14 years old, blond hair, blue eyes, verified pure, bidding starts at $1000

  Bidding? What the hell is this? Why are children being sold, and to whom? I was aware human trafficking existed in other countries, but not in the United States. What I'm seeing astonishes me, and I keep scrolling through. I can't look away. All these girls, these precious girls, what has happened to them in the last few weeks? Their ages range anywhere from eleven years old to twenty-two, and several of them are listed as “pure.” I can't stomach the thought that their first sexual experience will be after they're auctioned off to the highest cell-phone bidder.

  I'm sickened. This information needs to be handed over to the authorities immediately. I print out the pages of incoming and outgoing text messages as proof, unplug Adrian's phone, and go to bed. Tomorrow will be my husband's last day as a free man.

  14

  I WALK INTO THE local police station, and request to speak to someone about suspected human trafficking. I am directed to the detective who is in charge of that area. He's portly, balding, and looks to be in his early forties. We're seated in his private office, where he has drawn the blinds to ensure our privacy and my anonymity.

  “Has anyone else seen this information?” the detective asks.

  “No sir,” I confirm. “I just found this last night.” I swallow hard and try to control my trembling, gathering my courage. “I need to file a report against the man responsible for these exchanges. You see, my husband has also been very abusive to me.”