by Leanne Davis
“No.”
“I was thinking about visiting my sister. Would you take me there?”
“Your sister who is staying at your parents’ house?”
“No.”
“Which sister do you want to see?”
“The one who lives in San Francisco. She’s less likely to fold and report to my dad.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he isn’t her biological father,” I say as I sip the water while my stomach churns. Natalie is the only person I can think of who could keep a level head and help me out of my dilemma. Plus, she’s not as intimidated by my father as my other two sisters are.
“Sure. Okay.” He sips his coffee and holds out a muffin. I shake my head. My stomach isn’t ready. Nerves. I am starting to feel sick today over my actions of yesterday.
“Now?” he asks.
“I’d like to try and catch her before she goes home. They were leaving today no matter what because she had to get back to work.”
I pick up my wadded-up, mammoth dress. Ramiro leads me to another pick-up, parked beside the landscaping truck. This one is smaller and more run-down. After several chugs and squeaks, it starts, and instantly begins idling too fast. I set my dress behind the seat, where I find tools neatly stacked in the back. It’s as neat as a pin, without a single wayward wrapper or coffee cup. I glance at him as I click my seatbelt. He looks over his shoulder and backs out. He is wearing black work pants today and a gray hoodie. “Which way?”
“Downtown.”
He nods and drives the few miles. I’m quiet, tapping my fingertips together and wringing them out. I’m so nervous. I am still wearing Ramiro’s clothes and my white high heels. Quite an outfit. My hair is ratty and scraggily, hanging down my back in uneven strands. My day-old makeup still clings to my eyes. It was so thick yesterday that even lots of water and paper towels couldn’t get it all off.
“So why doesn’t Natalie have the same dad as you? First marriage?”
“No. My mom was raped. Natalie, my oldest sister, was the result.”
Ramiro’s hand slips off the steering wheel and he jerks towards me. I shrug. I don’t usually admit that, or try to explain Natalie’s biological origin to others. But after what Ramiro witnessed already, why lie? He certainly knows more than most people do about me. I tend to reveal only my best side to the outer world, even with friends and most especially, with family. Most people don’t notice my faults and insecurities because I am desperately concealing them. I rarely share things about my life that aren’t happy or rosy or good. Even with Harrison, we kept our issues on the light and easy. Consequently, we so rarely argued and any controversial discussions were invariably put on hold until later. Later eventually came, but by then, I was ready to let it go and move on just to avoid confrontation. I simply tried to get along with everyone at all times, but especially with Harrison.
And then… there I was. All dressed up to marry him without ever once voicing my doubts that continued to haunt me, keeping me up at night. I never let my doubts interfere with picking out the wedding colors, the caterers, or even my dress. Each decision was calm and serene, and I obediently smiled, voicing my decisions and thanks with exaggerated politeness. I waited until I got home and was safely ensconced in the privacy of my bedroom before I had any panic attacks. I paced the floor and stared out my window. I wrote for hours on end. I still keep a running journal and always have. It contains pages upon pages of my doubts and concerns, as well as my dreams that don’t and never have jived with the life choices I’ve made thus far.
I can’t seem to make the right choices, the ones that reflect what I want, instead of what I think I want. I thought I should go to college. I thought I should get good grades. I thought I should play sports. And most importantly, anything I attempt receives 110% effort. I do everything to the extreme. I don’t do anything halfway, not even for enjoyment. I thought I should have a boyfriend. I thought it should be Harrison. I thought after so long, I should have known I wanted to marry him when he asked. So I said yes because I should have. I should have wanted to. I should have known.
But when the goal suddenly materialized into something more than just an abstract idea in the future, I bolted. The time I spent in college only consumed four years of my life, and all at once, the rest of my life seemed to lie before me in the wedding aisle. I knew I had to stand up and resist when I realized it wasn’t what I want.
“Are you… for real?” Ramiro’s sharp tone pulls me back into the present moment. My half-sister. My mother. Rape.
“Yes. She was kidnapped, taken into Mexico, held captive and gang-raped when she was twenty years old. Can you imagine? She gave the baby up for adoption. Christina is my next oldest sister and I fully believed she was my oldest sister until I was fourteen and this new sister, Natalie, appeared. Christina tracked her down, unbeknownst to Melissa and me. Over a year later, Natalie found us and my mom, when she was twenty-eight years old. She just showed up here one day. I came home from school and discovered I had another older sister. I suspected for a long while she was the result of a one-night stand, but later, years later, my mom told Melissa and me the truth. Christina found out about the same time she decided to look for Natalie.”
“I… I didn’t expect that.”
“Most people don’t. Most people think we are this perfect, all-American family. Most of the residents here don’t know my parents’ history. I could tell you a story that would make you realize I’m not as innocent and naive when it comes to understanding how the world works, as you seem to believe.”
“What about your parents?”
“Dad witnessed the whole thing.” I don’t know why I am telling him all of this. But it just pours off my tongue and strangely feels right to tell him.
“He… he what? How could anyone watch something like that?” Ramiro’s voice rises. Yeah, I totally get that. It’s like a sucker punch to the gut to try and imagine the scene.
“He was a soldier at the time. On a mission to find my mom who was kidnapped, and he found her, but he had to witness her… her abuse before he could devise a way to get her out.”
“Regular American hero, huh?” Ramiro mumbles. Oddly, he almost makes it sound like a slur. But who would insult my father for rescuing a woman who was being held captive in chains, especially after getting gang-raped?
“Yes. He is. My God… she was in chains. She was naked. He saved her.” I turn in my seat to stare at Ramiro, and my jaw drops open. He glances towards me.
“I’m sorry. Really. That’s pretty horrific.”
“May I see your phone?”
He glances at me again before grabbing it from the dashboard where it was tucked against the windshield. He hands it to me. “Sure.”
Taking it, I quickly launch the browser and type in the keywords. I hand the phone to him. On it are links to numerous old newspaper stories and pictures, all of my parents. “Yes. And it isn’t just some abstract news story. It’s about my mother.”
He glances down and then back up at the road. “I’m sorry, Emily.” He speaks with a quieter, deeper tone to his voice.
I nod. “I just wanted you to realize it happened, and what I told you are not just words. They describe abominable actions that no human being should have to endure. No one. Since she is a woman, they call it rape, but it’s also cruel torture. Equal to what any warrior who gets interrogated under the ruthless tactics of extreme torture would experience. My mother barely survived.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
Well, no, of course not. How could he? Who could visualize gang-rape and violence? It’s not a topic for polite discussion. It isn’t pretty or considered small talk, so it doesn’t exactly get spotlighted in proper society. I shift my gaze out the window. My eyes fill with tears before everything turns blurry. I cannot discuss what happened to my mom without feeling a fresh jab in my throat. A sharp bubble of resistance lodges there, a big knot of grief, and I struggle to swallow before tears
fill my eyes.
Unbeknownst to anyone in my family, including my parents, my sisters, or even Natalie, I have spent countless hours researching what happened to my mom. I have scoured every single link, newspaper article, magazine speculation, or mention of Jessie Bains. That was my mother’s maiden name, and I researched everyone and anything connected to her. I even researched my own father, Will Hendricks, and his ties to the military, as well as her father, General Travis Bains, who later hung himself after he was arrested for his role in my mother’s kidnapping. I learned about it when I was seventeen, the same day that Melissa did. I have examined everything, even the stuff they begged me not to, including parts of the sex tape my mother made when she was a teenager. I watched and read all the coverage on it, along with the reports about her when she was trashing her family’s name and rebelling as a teenager. I read it all. Every word. Every picture. I know the whole story.
Most people might be surprised to hear that. I keep my conversation light and airy and I appear as naive as my baby face suggests I am. It’s merely a mask I wear that makes me more comfortable when facing the outside world. I’m not sure why. I don’t always want to but I do it anyway. I hide behind it. I milk it. And then, secretly, I read everything about sex, rape, human trafficking, and other forms of violence against women from around the world. It’s something I constantly monitor. I read everything I can find.
But I do nothing else about it. I’m well educated and have read hundreds of women’s accounts of rape and domestic violence. I have my mother’s experience for further reference. I don’t know why I feel the urge to follow it. Or what I intend to do about it. Or even how it affects my life.
I keep imagining her rape. Why? Because the unfairness of it sits heavy in my gut. There are countless stories of women being raped, molested, or assaulted and it seems like no one cares.
And I want people to care. I want them to be shocked, appalled, and outraged that this sexual violence still happens. It should fuel a deeper interest and anger in the general public than other issues such as taxes or sports team wins and losses. Sure, no one likes higher taxes or their favorite team to lose, but no one is physically hurt. It isn’t violence. But on a personal level, most people don’t get that upset in their everyday lives about rape or domestic violence. Yet it happens every single day.
And apathy is what I want to combat. Somehow, some way. And perhaps my mother’s and my aunt’s stories will help me do that.
My aunt had the living shit beat out of her off and on for five years.
People ask Why didn’t she leave? when someone hears about my Aunt Lindsey’s history of long-term domestic violence. She was regularly assaulted by her then husband, a powerful man running for governor of the state of Virginia. Indeed, that’s always the question, Why didn’t she leave? Every time I hear it, I want to kick the wall or scream in fury at the heavens. Why don’t they ask Why does he hit her? Because that’s not important, or even part of the debate.
Watch what you drink when you go to a party. Never go anywhere alone, especially at night. That is what we tell girls.
We could try telling boys don’t put date rape pills in women’s drinks. Don’t rape women. Or corner them. Or bully them. Or threaten them. If they prefer to be alone, leave them alone. How about teaching potential predators what not to do instead of warning their potential victims how to protect themselves?
Don’t wear slutty clothes, or you’re asking for it. Our school dress codes even reinforce this attitude.
Boys? How about we tell the boys, even if she’s standing there naked or lying down passed out, do not touch her or take advantage of her just because you can.
That is what I’d like to see changed, how we phrase the questions. What about him? Why don’t we punish the abuser, the rapist, the pedophile, for what he did? For what he does. What he wore. What he drank. What drugs he took. What other partners he had sex with. How many times has he had sex? How many women has he slept with? How many women accused him of rape? What other partners did he hit or rape or hurt? He. Him. His aggressive actions. They should be under scrutiny. They should be picked apart in courts and thoroughly vetted by all sides and avenues of law enforcement. Him. Not her.
Thoughts like those often keep me awake at night, wondering how to change an entire society by attributing blame where it’s due. What if we refocused the questions, debates, investigations, and opinions to center on interrogation of the man first and the woman second, in the case of man-on-woman violence? Or maybe I should refer to it as the perpetrator and the victim. It could be woman-on-woman, man-on-man, woman-on-man, or man-on-woman. I think the questions must start with the perpetrator, whoever it is. Maybe then we might learn why it happens so often, if we first address the perpetrator and not the victim.
It’s a beautiful dream world that I create whenever I begin thinking about that.
I just have no clue how to begin to change anything.
And for this reason, I secretly dream of writing a book about my mother and her experiences. Where it happened. How it happened. What she felt and suffered and ultimately overcame. But it isn’t the happiest story of prevailing against all odds, nor is it all tied up in a pretty bow, as many readers prefer. It took years for my mother to accept her experience. She still isn’t grateful for the life lesson either. She often says there is nothing to be gained from being the victim of rape, rather sarcastically. Surviving rape doesn’t make any of it tolerable.
Her emotional troubles soon manifested into behavioral problems that affected her and my dad in the early years of their marriage, as well as many years of Christina’s life. My sister remembers more things about Mom than I do. I had no idea, none at all, of the history between my parents. I had no idea that anything existed beyond the typical suburban lifestyle they appeared to live. I believed my parents were boring until the day they told me differently.
I don’t know what to make of my mother’s story. It’s easy to let go of a news article. A magazine. A book. A TV story. You might feel bad temporarily. Or brood with anger or empathy. You might nurture a strong, burning desire to change the world. But you go on. You have to let it go. It’s not personal. But this is so personal to me, although it isn’t mine. I grieve for my mother, but it hits me so much deeper, like I need to mourn just because it’s my mother we’re discussing. I almost can’t stand it.
I shake my head. Why the hell does it matter right now? I’m lost in my morose thoughts of events that happened thirty years ago. Right now, I’m a runaway bride who’s hanging with a stranger after destroying my entire reputation and life. I have no idea how to start over or what to do next. Right now, I need to worry about what I did and what I’m going to do about it. Because I’ve failed everything and everyone with what I did.
The hotel comes into view and Ramiro parks the vehicle. I guess he should drop me off and leave now. I glance his way. He turns off his truck and stares out his passenger window, making no attempt to get out, nor is he acting like he’s anxious to leave. Technically, he should. We have no connection. Why would he stay? But… I don’t know. For some reason, I don’t want him to go.
“I appreciate your help.”
His gaze lands on me. “Yeah. It’s been a trip, snowflake.”
“You want to meet my sister? You might be surprised.”
He shrugs. “Why is that?”
“She’s not a snowflake. I assume you mean white when you call me that.”
He winces. “Because her father was one of the Mexicans who raped your mother?”
“I never thought of it as ‘Mexicans’ as if the entire country were involved. And neither did my mother. She was also raped by super rich, powerful, government-employed white men, who were close friends of her father.”
His eyes grow wide. “Are you for real?”
“Yes. It was all orchestrated by her own father. The man who raised her. She didn’t find out until much later that he wasn’t her real father. The things he did to her, an
d arranged to have done to her, were rape, pure and simple.”
“I can’t imagine…”
“Neither can I,” I agree, and my tone softens in deference to the subject matter. “My other sister is married to Max Salazar. That name should give it away. She’s also pregnant with their first child.”
“So you’re telling me I should not call you snowflake anymore?”
“Just saying, I have no fear of you or care about your skin color or nationality. Max is part of my family, and I’m part of his.”
He eyes me skeptically. “Okay, maybe I made some incorrect assumptions. But most people do.”
“I didn’t. Just trying to point that out so you’re aware of it.”
“Right. So your family is all kinds of brown, huh?”
“Yes. And Natalie’s boys are both African-American. Adopted.”
“Natalie, the half-sister?”
“Yes. I should get your clothes back to you. I’ll borrow some from Natalie but why don’t you come in?”
He nods. “Good point. Sure.”
No, it was a weak point. There is no reason I can’t run his clothes out to him after I change. It just feels better, almost imperative somehow, that he not leave or disappear. I don’t even know why. Ramiro and I slip out of the cab. We enter the lobby of the hotel. The circular foyer features a large chandelier, highlighting the crimson floor and large aquariums appointed throughout. I walk towards Natalie’s room number. She mentioned it when I asked her at the rehearsal dinner how their hotel accommodation was. That was only three nights ago and it seems more like three years ago. The hallway is empty and hushed. I glance at Ramiro, who’s also quiet as he stands behind me while I knock.
Chapter Four
~Emily~
The door flies open and Sam Ford is standing there. My sister’s husband is a handsome, well-dressed, seriously hot guy in his thirties. He still surprises me with how hot he is. Model-hot, which is kind of funny because Natalie doesn’t give a crap about anything like appearances or makeup or vanity.
