Where were we supposed to begin? How was I going to explain everything to him? In fact, he didn’t even seem curious. He had barely asked me any questions. It was as though his top priority had been to get me to safety.
When Jesus returned, he was carrying bandages, ointments, cotton balls and some band aids. He arranged everything on the coffee table in front of me, and then walked over to the kitchen cabinet and brought back a small bottle of vodka.
“This might sting, but we need to disinfect that gash on your jaw,” he said, and I stared at him as he knelt down in front of me.
This up close to him, I couldn’t drag my eyes away from him. I used to know this face so well, every inch of his body…and now, he was nothing more than a stranger to me. Just a ghost from my past.
I watched as he dabbed some of the vodka on a cotton ball and brought it close to my face.
“Ready?” he asked, in a softer gentle voice and I bit down on my lip. When the cotton ball touched my bruise, I felt a sudden sting, and I winced. Jesus’ free hand reached for my knee, and he squeezed it. His touch was warm and comforting, the kind of comfort I had missed all these years. I didn’t even know I needed it, but I did.
“Ju
st a few seconds more,” he said and dabbed the cotton ball on some other scratches and bruises around my neck and shoulders. I stared at him as he did this, with rapt concentration, like I could have been anyone. Then he started cutting out pieces of the bandage and sticking it to the wounds.
“You might not like the way it looks, but just keep it on for a few days, just until the skin starts healing,” he told me, and I peered into his eyes.
“Can we talk about what’s happening?” I blurted out, unable to stop myself before the words came out. He snapped his head up to look at me; his dark eyes were stormy and intense. I watched as he clenched his jaw and then straightened up.
“You told me you were kidnapped,” he said and turned away from me, closing the cap of the vodka bottle.
“And you, believe me, right?” I asked him, and Jesus took a few seconds before he nodded his head.
“Of course, I do, Valentina, you’ve been hit, you have bruises,” he said and turned to me again. He was standing over me, over the couch, and our gazes were locked.
“Then why aren’t we talking about it?” I said, in a quiet embarrassed voice. He took in a deep breath.
“Why are you back here? I didn’t think you would ever come back,” he said, and I licked my lips. His voice had risen now, and he sounded angry about something.
“That was the Muerte Viviente who had you, weren’t they? Why would they hold captive the daughter of their own leader? Are they punishing you for running away? For being with me?” Jesus had stepped away from me, running his hands over his face in frustration. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was rage dripping from his voice.
I stood up from the couch to reach for him, but he took a step away from me.
“You shouldn’t have come back here, Valentina…it isn’t safe for you. Why have you come back here?” he growled, and I could feel my nostrils flaring. I couldn’t believe he was mad at me for coming back, while my soul was melting because I had seen him again.
Jesus glared at me with his jaws clenched.
“What do you want, Valentina? Why are you here?” he repeated the same questions as we glared at each other. He was blaming me for being kidnapped!
“Papi is sick. He’s going to die soon. I wanted to see him before he did!” I screeched, losing control of myself. How could he blame me for this? “I didn’t come back for you, Jesus!” I added for good measure, and I watched as that grimace on his face drooped, and his eyes became wider.
xxx
“What’s happened to him?” Jesus asked, taking a step towards me again. I was surprised that he even wanted to know after everything Papi had done to him. Then I realized that it was me he was concerned for, not my father.
“I’m not sure. He wrote me a letter a few weeks ago. Something about his heart,” I replied, and Jesus took in a deep breath.
“So, he found you,” he said gruffly, and I didn’t respond.
“Was it a ploy to trick you into coming back? So that he could hold you prisoner?” he asked, gritting his teeth again.
“No, this wasn’t him, Jesus…Papi would never do that to me, no matter what I’ve done. He isn’t the leader of Muerte Viviente any longer since he fell sick. He owes them money,” I said, rushing towards him, but stopping in the nick of time, just inches away from his body. I wanted to be in his arms again; I wanted the warmth of our bodies to mingle, I wanted to feel his breath on my face. He was so strong and powerful and safe, but Jesus was angry. He still couldn’t wrap his head around what had happened to me. He still blamed Papi.
“So, they kidnapped you as vengeance?” he asked, in a quieter voice now and I nodded my head.
“Papi doesn’t even know I’m back; he doesn’t know that I was kidnapped. Please, Jesus, believe me, he might have been cruel and ruthless towards you, and the other boys when you were younger, but he would never do something like this to me,” I cried, and our eyes met. I was holding his gaze forcefully, hoping that he would believe me.
Jesus glared at me for a few moments longer, and then his eyes grew softer.