The Wall

I took off my bag, peeled myself from the wall of the house like old tape, and willed myself to look. Inside, my mother was holding the baby, patting its back gently, and humming. From all the pink, I figured it was a girl. I had a little sister. A crown of shiny, black hair capped the baby’s head. Mother lulled it to sleep, stroking its hair and smiling as she lay the child down in her crib. I felt a pang of jealousy, like a hand had reached out and slapped me. Mother looked content. She was happy. Without me.

This was a mistake, I knew now. I don’t know what I was expecting. If she’d treated the baby with the same mollified disinterest she did me—that would not be any better than this. Maybe this was for the best. At least now I knew she was safe and the baby was safe. I should have just turned around and left, but this little ball of anger was spi

I tapped lightly on the window with the back of my finger, trying hard not to smash it through. She looked up and registered immediately. Her eyes horrified. Her mouth wide open in shock. Thankfully, she didn’t scream. She shut her eyes for what seemed like forever. Trying to calm herself or maybe hoping she’d imagined me. When she opened them again and I was still there, she motioned for me to go to the back door with a sharp flick of her hand. Then she backed quietly out of the baby’s room.

I was excited and fearful as I tiptoed quickly to the back and hid in the shadows of the corner of the house, waiting for her to come out. Hope still clawed at my ankles.

Paulo must have been inside sleeping. I certainly didn’t want to see him.

I heard the latch, and saw one foot step out onto the mat, bare, thin, and pointed just like my own. The anger melted and I felt the overwhelming urge to run to her. To hug her. I wanted to tell her about all the horrible things that had happened to me and all the wonderful things I’d seen. I wanted to sit in her lap and have her comfort me like that night so long ago, when Paulo’s brother and wife had been captured. I wanted the mother I’d never had.

She stuck her head out carefully, looking from side to side like she was testing the air to see if it was breathable. I moved into the light slightly and motioned for her to come to me. She moved like a mouse, timid and scurrily.

“Rosa, what are you doing here?” she whispered in a tone that could only be explained as absolute horror. Her head bobbed around, looking back and forth nervously. She reached out and put her hands on my elbows, pinching them, the barest of contact. She was cold. Shaky.

“I have a sister,” I blurted out, shell-shocked. “Look, Mother, there’s no time to explain everything but I’ve come from the outside, from beyond the Woodlands. I want you to come with me. You and the baby. It’s better there. It’s so much better than living in Pau with him.” I angled my head towards the house.

She faced me silently. Her eyes looked off to the distance, tracking an invisible object just over my shoulder. She put her hand to my face, tucked a strand of loose hair behind my ear, and cupped my cheek. Even now, after all that had happened, she still couldn’t look me in the eye.

We stood at even height; it was like gazing in an ageing mirror. I waited for her to say something but she just took a step back and shook her head. No. My heart started to tear open and blood poured around it, drowning me. Straightening her nightdress and looking at her feet, she put distance between us. There was always distance between us.

“I can’t,” was all she said, and then she turned around and went back inside, locking the door behind her.

The rejection sounded and felt like fabric ripping, tearing at me, jagged and messy, the ripping sound deafening only in my ears. I was such an idiot. I stood there for a long time slack and drained, the moon highlighting the lack of color in my face. I was stripped down. Bare. She didn’t want me. I stood there, hands at my side, willing myself not to cry.

I stood there for too long.

Strong hands clamped down on my shoulders and jolted me back to awareness. Memories of blood-stained lips, hearts cut out, slick, black hair, and cruelty pummeled my already beaten-up brain.

“Rosa.” His voice was laced with that familiar, controlled anger. “You should not have come here.”

I turned around slowly. Smiling defiantly. “Nice to see you too, Paulo.”

Paulo swung me around so his arm was about my neck. He had me in a headlock and dragged me inside. I struggled, but in a muted way because I didn’t want to make any noise. If Paulo or a neighbor called the police, that would be it. I would be dead.

He threw me into a chair, the old, wooden legs teetering until all four were back on the ground. “Don’t move,” he hissed, his voice aching to yell at me.

I could have run, but fear the authorities would be right behind me had me trapped. His eyes bore down on me—they were furious, hateful, and perhaps—could it be?—frightened. He rubbed his chin and went to the sink, spitting. Mother walked in. Her face fell and she burst into tears.

The kitchen looked identical to our old one, everything scrubbed clean. The only difference was a stack of sterilized bottles leaning against each other on the dish rack.

“What are you doing here?” Paulo asked and then he paused, swiping the air angrily like he could knock my presence out of the air. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Whatever idiocy you are caught up in, I will not be party to it.”

I thought about it. The less I said, the better. Even though it was tempting to drag him into it, Paulo would report everything, and I had to think about Careen and Pietre.

Falling back into bad habits, I laughed and said i

He slammed his fist down on the table and I jumped. Take this seriously, I told myself. You have to get out.

“I thought I was finally free of you. Pleased? No, I am not pleased.” Every word was tainted black, lashing around his face like the lick of a whip.

“Well, I’ll leave then. I can see I’m not welcome.” I started to stand, but he was too quick. Before I could move, he had his hands on my shoulders, holding me down. I squirmed under his touch, his fingers pressing hard into my collarbones.

“Paulo, no,” my mother pleaded quietly. “We should let her go. She’s done no harm.”

He considered it for a second, his head cocked to the side, counseling himself. There was a tiny ray of hope. But then his eyes changed, they hardened. Hope was squashed like a bug.

“No, we need to call the police. She shouldn’t be here.”

Releasing me, he walked straight to the phone hanging on the wall over the kitchen counter, picking up the handset. It was an old phone, ceramic and heavy, with a reel dial. He put his finger in the first hole and pulled the number. I watched as it revolved its way back into place.

He forgot. I was not afraid of him.

I sprung from my chair and wrenched the handset from his fingers, pulling it as hard as I could. It stretched and strained and then the phone flung from the wall, taking plaster and paint with it. It took him a second to respond, his face suspended in disbelief, but when he did, it was like all our fights were wound up into this one action. He pulled his arm back and slammed me hard with the back of his hand. I flew through the air like a scrap, clipping my temple on the corner of the kitchen table and crumpling to the floor. But I pulled myself back up, bracing myself. The world was spi