by Lex Martin
His glance roams my face, my battered features testifying on my behalf. Telling him I’m right.
I walk toward him, pain marking every step. I death-grip Sarai’s diaper bag with one hand and the sheet with the other. Once I’m standing right in front of him, where he can’t escape what I’m sure is the bruised, cut, and swollen topography of my face, I speak.
“I need your help.”
The doors slam shut on his expression the way they do every time I plead with him.
“I can’t.” He shakes his head and averts his gaze. “You know I can’t.”
“All I need is your cooperation, not your assistance,” I say desperately. “Just don’t stop me. Don’t shout when I run.” I pause, letting my simple request sink in before the biggest ask. “Don’t treat me.”
He looks up sharply, narrow-eyed and curious.
“You have friends who could examine me, right?” I ask.
“No, Iris. I don’t.”
“A doctor who can document this and all the things that have been done to me. I need X-rays, and tests, and . . .” I swallow shame, embarrassment, guilt—all the artificial things that have held me back from asking for help in the past. “A rape kit.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I may know someone,” he finally admits. “But I can’t get you out of here. Ramone is downstairs on guard as usual. I don’t put it past him to shoot you in the back if you try to run.”
“I have a plan.” I pull my cell phone from the diaper bag. “Let me worry about Ramone.”
“You know Caleb monitors that phone,” Andrew says quickly. “He’ll intercept any message you send.”
“I know.” I type one word in and press send. “If he bothers to look, this message won’t make any sense to him.”
I stare at the word in all caps on my screen, hoping it’s enough of a distress signal to bring in my cavalry.
HOPSCOTCH.
Iris
There’s a ruckus downstairs just a few hours later, and it’s the most blessed sound I’ve ever heard. The proverbial music to my ears.
“Get the hell out of my way or I’m calling the cops and every news station I can get here. You want shit at your front door? ’Cause I can bring shit to your front door.”
“This is private property,” Ramone’s deep voice rumbles up to me.
“Yeah, and my cousin lives on this private property,” Lotus fires back. “If I don’t see her in the next thirty seconds, whatever is going on here will be on every major broadcast tonight. Test me.”
I don’t give him a chance to test her. That kind of exposure would work against my plan. I open the bedroom door and step onto the landing. Two pairs of eyes climb the stairs until they reach me with Sarai on my hip.
“Oh, my God, Iris.” Outrage, incredulity, and fury war in Lotus’s voice and on her face.
By now I’ve looked in the mirror and know what she sees. I’m not so much Iris as a black-eyed Susan. My face is the canvas of an abstract painting with eyes distorted and mismatched, one bigger than the other. I’m splashed with wild streaks of black and magenta and scarlet. My lips are split and triple-sized. A many-colored bruise blossoms on my forehead and flowers into my hairline. My other parts haven’t fared much better. My body is a patchwork of violence.
And it’s all the evidence I need.
“Lotus.” Her name releases from me like a held breath. There is still so much ahead, and my plan must be perfectly executed to the last detail for me to truly escape, not just today, but for good.
I look to Ramone standing beside her. Panic widens his eyes, and he immediately starts dialing.
“Call him, please,” I say, starting down the steps, holding Sarai close and carrying a small bag with only our most essential things. “Tell him I’m gone.”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” Ramon snaps, his brows jerked together.
“Try and stop us.” Lotus climbs the last few steps to meet me halfway. She takes Sarai and buries her face in the baby-scented curls for a second before grabbing my hand. Linked at our hands, linked at our hearts again, we rush down the staircase and across the foyer.
When we reach the door, Ramone’s hand snakes out to grab my arm, but I force myself to stand straight.
“Get your hands off me.” I meet his eyes with no hesitation. “Or we call the cops right now, and I tell them everything. Think you’re the only one who can lie to the authorities? I’ll say you’ve been beating and raping me, too. You want to go down with Caleb? Does your loyalty really stretch that far?”
His hand drops, and his throat bobs with a gulp.
Lotus and I open the door and walk swiftly through. A green Volkswagen Beetle sits out front, parked haphazardly in the circular driveway.
“You got a new car?” I ask. This banal question is all I can manage. Let’s talk about the easy things we’ve missed, not about the purgatory I’ve been trapped in.
“No, I don’t even own a car. I borrowed a friend’s as soon as I got your message.” Tears flood Lotus’s eyes and she sniffs, swiping under her running nose, even as she climbs in. “What the hell, Bo? How did this even . . . happen? What’s going on?”
I ignore her questions, my heart battering my chest cavity with the promise of escape so close. I climb in the back, because I don’t even have a car seat for Sarai. I’m leaving it behind with all the other things Caleb bought. A small portion of our possessions is in the duffle bag, along with a little fistful of cash Andrew gave me and the little I’ve been able to hide and hoard over time. I pull the seat belt across us both and spend a few seconds hating myself for not trusting Lo sooner—for letting my shame and resentment and our petty disagreement come between us. I hate myself for not taking the risk and reaching out. Letting that minutiae stand between her and me, and between me and freedom, for too long.
I’ll make up for it now. I’ll pull back the curtain and show her my scars. “Just drive, Lo, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Iris
“What will it take to make this go away?” Caleb’s father asks, closing the folder on the conference room table in front of him.
Caleb shifts in his seat, the muscle in his jaw ticking and barely checked rage rolling off the tightly held muscles of his body. I look at him until he looks up and returns my stare unblinkingly, unflinchingly and without an ounce of remorse.
“This doesn’t go away,” I answer, my eyes never leaving Caleb’s face. “Ever.”
“Then what are we doing here?” Caleb stands abruptly, the chair scraping across the hardwood floor. I chose neutral ground for the meeting I called with Caleb, his father, and his agent at the hotel where my credit card was denied that first night when I tried to escape. I hope Caleb appreciates the irony.
“Sit down, Caleb,” Mr. Bradley says, his voice flinty. “And shut your fucking mouth. You’re lucky she’s even offering us terms.”
Mr. Bradley’s cold eyes turn to me again, the same shade of blue arrogance as Caleb’s.
“I assume there are terms?” he asks me, one brow lifted and his hand already drawing a check book from his pocket.
Ah, he came prepared.
“You can put that away.” I nod to the check book. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything from you or your son, except my freedom and my daughter.”
“No,” Caleb snarls. “You’re not leaving, and you won’t take my daughter from me.”
“You sadistic bastard, I’ve already left.” I lean forward, fixing my eyes on the piece of shit who fathered my child. “She’s my daughter, and we’ll go wherever I say.” I hold up my copy of the folder they have. “Unless you want the NBA, all your fans, sponsors, and the entire world to know their golden boy is an abusive monster.”
Maury, Caleb’s agent, closes the folder containing photo after photo, from every angle, of the bruises and swollen places aching under my clothes even now, two days later. The pictures, the rape kit, documentation
of previous injuries – all of it tells the story I’ve hidden for months until I had as much damning evidence on Caleb as he fabricated about me. Maury pushes the folder away on the table like a plate of rotten meat.
“Shit, Caleb,” he mutters. “How could you do this?”
Maury looks at me for the first time, wincing when he encounters the evidence of Caleb’s brutality stamped into my face. The only sympathy I’ll find in this room lies in his eyes.
“I’m sorry this happened to you, Iris,” he says softly, swallowing deeply. “What do you want? How’s this gonna go?”
I draw in a fortifying breath, ignoring the heat of Caleb’s glare. “As you see, the injuries I suffered only two days ago have been documented by a physician.” I steady my voice even though the humiliation of exposing what happened nearly chokes me. “X-rays and a complete examination also show evidence of past injuries never properly attended.” With one look, I fire a shot across the table at Caleb. “Tests also found evidence of rape.” I use the word deliberately, lest Caleb or anyone else think there was anything consensual about what happened to me.
“Rape?” Maury asks, his indignation emerging again. “What the hell? Damn you, Caleb. I’ll turn you in myself.”
“Oh, no.” I shake my head decisively. “Other athletes outed as abusers are fined and miss a few games, only to be back on the court, back on the field in a few weeks. I’m not trusting my life, my daughter’s life to a system that favors men just like Caleb. I’ve seen the so-called consequences we have for domestic abuse, and I need more than that.”
Cracks in the system are tailor-made and just the right size for men like Caleb to slip through. Caleb’s fame and money only tip the already-tilted scales even more in his favor. I’ve seen it too often to leave this to chance.
“No,” I continue. “You’ll comply with everything I ask or all the gory details come out. Endorsements gone, NBA career over, and at least a few years of your life behind bars.”
“Just get to the point,” Mr. Bradley says. “What do you want?”
My daughter. My innocence back. My tattered illusions repaired. My dreams restored.
My second chance with August.
All of it feels improbable, so I ask for the things I know I can get using the evidence splayed on the conference room table.
“I want my freedom.” I shift steady eyes to Caleb. “You don’t follow us. You don’t try to find us. You waive paternal rights, and you leave us alone.”
A disbelieving laugh sputters from Caleb’s lips. “You stupid bitch,” he spits. “You think I’ll give my daughter to you?”
“Did you bring the journal and my ring like I asked?” I ignore his insults and his arrogance. “Because I want those, too.”
He sobers fast, thinning his lips and icing his eyes over in the way that used to strike terror in me, but no longer can.
“Caleb,” Maury says sharply. “Give them to her.”
For a second it looks like he won’t, but his father snaps his fingers, and I know I’ve won at least this battle. Caleb pulls out the journal and slides it across the table so hard it skids off the edge and falls to the floor. Before I can squat to get it, Maury is there, picking it up and offering it to me with an apologetic look.
“My client’s an asshole,” he murmurs.
“Obviously, you don’t have to tell me that,” I say, accepting the journal. “And my great-grandmother’s ring?”
“I have no idea where your backwoods jewelry is,” Caleb drawls, contempt frosting his smile. “What use do I have for that cheap shit?”
I know he’s lying, but the ring is a small casualty in this war, considering all I’m gaining today. Considering all I’ve lost.
“Fine. My journal and my freedom will do,” I say, locking eyes with him.
“That’s it?” Caleb slouches in his seat. “And I don’t ever get to see my daughter again?”
Everything in me screams hell no, but having stripped him of his parental rights, I make the only concession I can. “When she’s older, and if you’ve completed anger management therapy to my satisfaction, then I’ll consider supervised visits.”
“To your satisfaction?” He rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth. “We’ll see about that.”
“Caleb, shut your fucking mouth,” his father snaps. “Iris, I understand. I’ll have paperwork drawn up reflecting your . . . demands.”
The hesitation on his face seems out of place. He’s always sure, but uncertainty is as clear as the pride he pushes aside to ask his next question.
“Maybe you could . . .” He clears his throat, an uncharacteristic pause from a man who always sounds sure. “. . . consider allowing my wife and me to see Sarai when the time is right? She is our only granddaughter, after all.”
I toughen the soft parcels of my heart, giving no ground. Anyone I have contact with is someone Caleb can use to find me before I’m ready to be found. Phone calls, letters, messages—they’re all bread crumbs Caleb would sniff out and follow if his obsession overpowered his sense of self-preservation.
“I’ll consider that later,” I reply. “But right now, I need to put distance between me and everything to do with your son, including you.”
“This is ridiculous,” Caleb says under his breath.
“That’s fair . . .” Mr. Bradley’s expression hardens into granite, his negotiating face. “Now for our terms.”
I knew this was coming, and I’m prepared. I simply nod for him to go on.
“You sign an NDA that you’ll never speak of this and never release the contents of this file, as long as Caleb complies with your requests,” he says. “And I mean speak of it to no one. Ever. Violation of that nullifies everything else and restores Caleb’s parental rights.”
I meet Caleb’s eyes, and for a second, I think he wants me to violate it—to give him an excuse to break the leash I’m imposing and come after me, take Sarai. Hurt me again.
“I can do that,” I agree.
“And I can write a check for a generous amount to get you settled.” Mr. Bradley pulls out his dreaded checkbook again.
“No.” I’m not yielding on this. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want to take anything from your family into our new life. As matter of fact, I have something for you, Caleb.”
I reach into the front pocket of my jeans, remove the engagement ring Caleb forced on me, and slide it across the table with such force it skips across the hard surface and lands on the floor, repaying his earlier disrespect.
Caleb’s cheeks mottle with emotion. The corners of his eyes tighten.
“Yours, I believe.” I rub at my ring finger as if it’s contaminated.
Mr. Bradley slips the checkbook back into the inside pocket of his jacket. “We’ll draw up the papers tomorrow, and—”
“I want the papers today.” I gather my things and the tiny scraps of self-respect I’ve recovered and turn toward the door. “Instructions for delivery are in the folder. I’m leaving town tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?” Caleb demands. “Where are you taking Sarai?”
“You heard the terms, Caleb,” Maury interrupts. “If you don’t want to lose everything and find yourself in a well-earned prison cell, you don’t get to know, and you don’t get to follow. Regardless, you’ll need to find yourself a new agent.”
Maury grimaces, taking in the gruesome images of my pummeled face and body. “Iris, are you sure you don’t want to press charges? He shouldn’t get away scot-free.”
A bitter laugh precedes my answer. “I press charges and what? He gets a slap on the wrist? Probation? A year for what he’s done by the time his lawyers whittle it down? And still can get joint custody of my daughter?”
I glare at Caleb before going on. He blanks his expression, looking deliberately bored, like I’m wasting his time.
“Should I live looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to decide he wants me back?” I continue. “Or wants me dead? Is that the justice you want me to se
ek? No, thank you. I’ll make my own justice. It’s not perfect and it may run out one day, but it’s the best I can do right now for Sarai and me.”
I shake my head. “I’ve taken the things from him that matter most: access to me and my child. Forgive me for being more concerned about our freedom than whether or not he is ‘scot-free.’ The only thing he wants to do more than hurt me is to protect himself.”
“Well then let’s get on with it,” Maury says, standing and extending his arm for me to precede him through the door.
I’m walking out when Caleb snatches me by the arm, his touch setting off an alarm system in my body, red lights flashing, sirens blaring, and sprinklers spitting water. Shackled to him again, protest roars through me.
“Get your hands off me,” I ground out.
Maury pushes against his chest, but Caleb won’t let go, his fingers tightening painfully over my bruises.
“Iris, don’t leave me.” Desperation fills his eyes and some sick kind of sorrow, but no regret. “I . . .” His gaze dips to Maury’s face and then to his father, who stands by, disgust and disappointment marking his expression.
“I need you, baby,” he whispers. And I know it’s true. He needs something to control, to manipulate, to toy with when the pressure is too much, but I’m not his punching bag. I’m not his anything anymore.
“Get your fucking hands off me.” I jerk at my arm, but he refuses to let go. “Or the deal is off and your precious endorsements and your career—they’ll all be over.”
For a moment, just a flash, maybe a trick of the light, I think he’ll refuse. It looks like holding onto me means more to him than all I hoped he held more dear, but then the frigid calculation, the ruthless cannibal who ate my heart and nibbled on my soul, shuts off all emotion. The monster is back.
“You stupid whore.” He laughs, releasing my arm and sliding his fists in the pockets of his pants. “Like you can do better.”