“Caleb, please.” I glance up to the mirror, searching his eyes for any sign of leniency. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t answer but stares down at my ass, his look a mix of hunger, possessiveness, and malice. He digs his fingers into my hip, and I hear the pajama bottoms slide down his legs; feel the first press of his invasion.
I’m not religious. I’m not a high priestess. I’m not a believer in much of anything anymore. I can’t buy into Lotus’s superstitions or wrap my mind around MiMi’s mysticism, but every time Caleb touches me, the same words come to my lips, an un-whispered prayer that echoes in the cavernous chamber of my heart.
God, deliver me from this.
Save me.
25
Iris
“I’ll be fine here by myself, Ramone.”
He’s in the driver’s seat of the SUV I used to drive before Caleb took my l
icense, and I’m in the back seat. The community center, sweet freedom—at least for two hours—is across the street.
“I’m coming with you.” He undoes his seatbelt.
“No.” Our eyes lock in the rearview mirror while I unsnap Sarai’s car seat. “It’s a community center for kids. It will look ridiculous for you to come in there with us. I’ll meet you here when I’m done.”
He eyes me with suspicion.
“Don’t worry. I know I can’t leave without being arrested for kidnapping,” I say bitterly. “Or having social services show up at my door. Thanks for that, by the way.”
Ramone doesn’t look concerned that I know he lied to social services. Anyone who’ll stand by complicit while Caleb does the things he does to me can’t have any shame.
“Two hours.” He bounces a glance from the community center to his watch. “I’ll be right here.”
I make a run for it before he changes his mind. I set Sarai up in her stroller, grab her diaper bag, and barely close the door before I’m pushing her down the sidewalk. I’m determined to have some time without Ramone breathing down my neck. It’s been even worse this week with Caleb in China. The watch dog is on high alert, and I’m sure he’s under strict instructions to report any unusual behavior. Like the emergence of a backbone or will.
My life has been relatively tranquil with Caleb gone. I only have a few bruises in places no one will see. I’m relieved, for once, not to have injuries to cover up, besides the ones under my skin, around my heart. Those are the worst of all.
I reach the community center entrance. We’re not quite in the hood, not quite in the suburbs. I know hood—I negotiated it the first twelve years of my life, and this ain’t it. There’s not a crackhead or prostitute in sight. The building has seen better days, but it’s clean and in decent repair.
The young woman at the front desk looks up from her romance novel to offer me a pleasant smile.
“Hi.” I give her a smile back. “I’m here for the basketball camp.”
She inspects all my details. I dressed as unassumingly as possible, but after my pregnancy, Caleb “surprised” me with a whole new wardrobe. At the time I chided myself for not feeling more grateful, but now I recognize it as one more puppet string he pulled to exercise his control. My dark jeans are simple, but expensive. I only brought Sarai’s diaper bag, but it’s designer. Not to mention the albatross of a ring on my finger. With Caleb making such a big deal of it at the dinner, I dare not show up to volunteer without it. The ring and Sarai are his accessories, further presenting him as the ideal family man instead of the monster I know and hate.
“You a baller’s wife, huh?” she asks, glancing at Sarai in the stroller.
“Um, girlfriend.”
I know what people think when they see me: that I’ve got it made and Sarai is the meal ticket that sets me up for life, or at least until she’s eighteen. They have no idea that under this silk blouse tucked into my designer jeans, bruises, black and blue and yellow, often splatter my ribs like ink blots—that on the regular, I taste my own blood. I’d trade with the poorest, with the homeless, with this young lady right here, just to be free of the tailless devil I sleep with every night.
“I heard I might be able to put my baby in daycare while I’m volunteering.” I look around the small lobby curiously. “Could I see it?”
I definitely need to know what it’s like before I leave Sarai there.
When we round the corner, an older woman, probably somebody’s grandmother, makes her way over to the half-door, the bottom secured and the top open.
“Who’s this little darling?” she asks, leaning out and smiling widely at Sarai. My daughter never meets a stranger and immediately begins blowing bubbles and waving her little starfish hands.
“Her name’s Sarai.” I pull her out of the stroller. “You have room for her?”