Collateral (Collateral Damage 1)

Back in the bedroom, I open the drawers of the dresser and rummage through, trying not to think about the lacy underthings. I check the labels and they’re all new and all my size. How did he know and when did he order all these things? When he was giving me my five minutes after he spanked my butt?

Embarrassed at the memory, I busy myself with opening the next drawer. There, I find multiple bikinis. I close that one. I won’t be swimming.

I go to the walk-in closet and find about two dozen sundresses hanging in a neat row.

Without another thought, I strip off my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, both too warm for this weather and sticky after the long flights, and put on one of the dresses, a pretty turquoise strappy thing.

I slip my feet into a pair of flip flops and walk out of my bedroom. On my way to the stairs, I count the eleven doors in addition to mine on this floor.

Downstairs on the large round table in the foyer, a huge bouquet of fuchsia Bougainvillea is the only splash of color in the otherwise white and beige house. It’s striking and elegant and fits perfectly.

I’m quiet as I descend and once I’m on the first floor, I see Miss Millie right away. She’s outside by the pool pouring lemonade from a pitcher into a tall glass.

When I step outside, I stand in the sun and stop for a moment to listen to the quiet stillness, to the distant sounds of the sea. Once again, I take in the beauty of it, the unending blue.

“There you are,” Miss Millie says. She looks me over. “Did you find everything you needed?”

“Yes, thank you.” I look at the table, at the food, enough to feed half a dozen people.

“Come and sit down,” she says.

I take my seat, grateful for the umbrella shielding me from the bright sun. I place the napkin on my lap. She describes everything then leaves me to eat alone.

The panelle is delicious. It’s a fried chickpea patty that shouldn’t taste nearly as good as it does. I devour two sandwiches and eat a generous portion of tomato salad before finally getting up and walking to the edge of the pool to dip my toe in. The water is cool and inviting and I’d give anything to swim. To feel weightless in water again.

But it’s been almost ten years since I last went swimming, so I pull my foot out, remembering the stairs leading down to the sea. I walk toward them, picking my way around the bushes and potted flowers and plants until I get to them. This is clearly not a path often used.

Opposite the house, they’re not maintained, and I wonder how many years ago they were carved into the sheer face of the rock as I carefully make my way down.

It’s farther than I realize, and much steeper. I get the feeling these stairs aren’t meant to be used at all.

At the bottom, I can walk directly into the sea or veer right to where there’s a secluded, sandy beach. It’s not big and I guess it’s part of the property because it’s completely private with access only from the sea.

I slip out of my flip flops and walk to the water where soft waves bubble at my ankles. I take a few more steps. The water is so clear, I can see straight to the sea floor, even as I lift my dress and walk until the water is past my knees.

I stay there for a long time, just looking out at the stretch of blue water, at Palermo in the distance, although I have to crane my neck to see it from down here. A school of curious small, white fish circle my legs, and I watch them. A larger wave comes, probably the wake of a far-off boat, and they swim away. I walk back to the sandy beach to sit, letting the water just tickle my toes.

There, I think.

Because I have to process.

Just a few days ago, I had attempted—once again—to run away from home. Hearing myself think those words now makes it sound so childish, but my father was going to marry me off to McKinney and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go from my father’s house to that man’s. I couldn’t.

Then I think about last night. Was it only last night? When I watched my friend beaten for helping me. Watched as his legs were broken. Watched his face contort in pain when all the while, he refused to scream.

God.

Alex.

How can men do that? What kind of men do that?

Men like my father.

Like Stefan Sabbioni?

I shake the thought away. I don’t know him. Not at all. Maybe he’ll be different.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I say out loud.