Please stop!
But at some point things changed. He was doing something different. Even something as simple as a backrub left gave her a queasy feeling. Please stop! As she got older, she was becoming more sensitive to her body. Please stop! She wanted him to stop, because he was hurting her—not in the way a skinned knee would hurt, but somewhere deeper inside her. Please stop! Daddy, don’t do that.
But he didn’t stop, and he acted like he didn’t believe a word she said. He laughed at her protests, and he continued laughing even over her tears, making light of whatever she said. At some point he no longer bothered to laugh or even acknowledge what she was saying. Each new thing he was doing seemed to justify in his mind the next new thing, until finally they ended up with the biggest thing of all.
She stared at the door to her bedroom, bringing herself back into the present moment. It always started with a slow turn of the handle, letting her know that he was on the other side ready to ease the door open and tiptoe his way into her room. She always thought that her mother must be in their bedroom asleep, somehow unaware that her husband wasn’t lying at her side. But she didn’t know that for sure. Her mother’s name was never mentioned.
She waited now for that door handle to turn, as she knew it would. After the couch—her nightly refuge—had disappeared from the living room, it was inevitable that he would be making the walk down the hallway toward her room and turning that door handle. She once tried locking that door when she went to bed, but when she came home from school the next day she found that the locking mechanism had been dismantled. There was no way to keep him out. Once he was inside, he had something that he managed to stick between the door and the frame that apparently kept the door from being opened by anyone else from the other side. He’d figured it all out. There was no way to stop him from coming into the room, and once he was inside no one could follow him.
She was in bed with the lights off except for one small lamp on the nightstand between her bed and the wall. She needed to keep that light on at a soft, subdued level no matter what he said. At the base of the lamp sat her cell phone, propped up on its side, facing in a direction she had worked out earlier. She checked it again to make sure it was in the right position, feeling around the back once again for the little red button. That button gave a telltale ping whenever you pushed it, so she knew she’d have to do it the minute she saw the door handle moving and before he was inside the room. Then she would have to lie down and wait, but she wouldn’t have to wait long.
The door handle turned, and he quickly moved inside the room, shutting the door behind him. He walked over and sat down on the bed, reaching through the covers to massage her back. She heard him muttering something to himself.
“Baby, I’ve looked forward to this all day, do you know that? Do you know how much I need you? You must know that.”
He was talking fast, speaking in a breathy, anxious whisper. She tried to get away from the hand that was massaging her, but he leaned over even farther. “Don’t try to hold back.”
Suddenly, he was back on his feet, unbuttoning his shirt and ripping off his clothes. Within seconds he was in her bed, pushing himself up against her, urging her to turn over.
“Daddy, don’t do that!”
Calling him “Daddy” just added to the misery of the moment. But she had to do it. She had to say it no matter how sick it made her feel. Anyone seeing the video would have to know.
“Please get out of my bed.”
“Just be quiet.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
She refused to turn over, as he kept forcing himself against her. She kept looking at the wall, toward the lamp, and toward the little white spot on the cell phone.
“Please don’t.”
Part Three
Gina
It was the same trip I’d taken a few days earlier, but my mood was much darker.
The idea that Alexi might be suffering abuse at that moment made every small delay intolerable. I fumed at the security lines, the baggage checks, the departure delays, and everything else until I finally convinced myself that I wasn’t going to make things go any faster. I just had to get there the best way I could. That video had torn me apart—I couldn’t even imagine how miserable Alexi felt.
When I got her message, I was online immediately buying a ticket to fly back to the Midwest. I didn’t think twice about it—I’m not sure I even thought once. My fingers propelled themselves across the keyboard, while my brain was still trying to catch up and develop a plan. The flight left at 5:00 a.m. That was fine—the earlier the better. I wasn’t sure what I would do when I got there. I just knew I had to see her. What happened then would be decided when we had a chance to talk face-to-face.
We connected by email as I was getting ready to go and then later at the airport, but I knew she felt uneasy communicating that way. I had burst in upon her life out of nowhere. But though she didn’t know me at all, she was at a point where she needed to trust me with her darkest secrets. It was the kind of pressure situation that would generate enormous tension for anyone—particularly a teenager. I could sense the conflict going on inside her with every sentence she wrote.
I was almost as uncomfortable as she was. I had no idea how secure her email was, and I was worried that others might have access to it. If our communications had gotten into the hands of others, it could have been disastrous. I worried about phone calls and text messages as well. I found an anonymous cell phone that I had purchased months earlier, but even with that device I felt skittish. I knew I would have to phone her or text her as I got to close to confirming when and where we would meet, but I didn’t know what kind of privacy she had on her end. I was leery about trying to talk to her for any length of time. But I decided I had to phone her at least once. Everything seemed better after I heard her voice, and I was able to reassure her that it was going to be okay. I think she felt relieved talking to me.
There were all kinds of things we needed to say to each other—a lifetime of them, in fact. But most would have to wait. There were things I couldn’t tell her until we were face-to-face. But despite the fact that she knew almost nothing about me, she seemed willing to trust me. At that point, it seemed clear that she didn’t want to talk about what had happened with the reverend. She just wanted to get away from him.
Rather than fly directly to Indianapolis, I decided to fly again to O’Hare Airport in Chicago and follow the route I’d taken earlier. Although that meant I had to drive from Chicago to Indianapolis, I thought it might take less time overall because I wouldn’t have to wait around to change planes. But there was another reason. I wanted to be as invisible as I could. Until I was sure of my plan and what I was going to do, I didn’t want to wave any red flags. I didn’t know what would happen. But if someone started searching for a mysterious out-of-town stranger who was there to help Alexi, the first place they would look was for someone who’d flown in and out of the Indianapolis Airport.
Despite all the back and forth in my mind, there was still a possibility that I might not do much of anything at all. Certainly, Sylvia would be happier if it worked out that way. She’d been following me with text messages, trying to talk some sense into me ever since I left home. Maybe I would get to Indianapolis, find Alexi some help, and then head back to San Francisco. But it didn’t feel that way. When I said to Alexi that I might be able to work out something with her mother that would get the reverend out of her life, she didn’t respond. When I repeated it, she answered with an anguished “no.” It was the first sign of anger I’d seen from her. That made me realize I was probably kidding myself about the extent of what I had offered to do. I had promised to help, and she was clinging to that promise like a life raft.
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The future was going to be painful for Alexi no matter what happened. Getting her away from the reverend and his sexual abuse was the overwhelming priority, but
what happens after that? Would her family split up? Would she go live somewhere else? Would it be handled quietly, or would the reverend be prosecuted? And what would happen to Alexi if the scandal became a TV spectacle? It could go viral and careen around the Internet. Alexi’s psychological health might teeter on the edge, but would anyone pay attention to that? Would she just be trampled in the rush of an ongoing news story? The thought made me shudder. No matter what—Alexi’s life was about to change drastically.
And it wasn’t just her life. As the miles rolled by, the life I’d been living was rolling away with them. I’d offered to help Alexi, and she’d grabbed it. I couldn’t go back now even if I wanted to. But the life I’d led as a bookseller for the past decade was about to be altered—maybe radically. I could feel myself changing as I began sensing what it was like to have someone else in your life that you needed to think about. She was a part of my past, and I was beginning to realize she was also a big part of my future.
My memories wandered back to the time when she was still baby Jelena. The family was in hiding, and I was hiding with them. It was a tense time for everyone. My being there put the others at even greater risk, but still they welcomed me. The only one who wasn’t living in fear at that moment was the precious infant in our midst. It was her unbounded joy that kept all of us going. For me, it was like a budding love affair. Each afternoon I’d tiptoe quietly into the room in the tiny back building where she slept. I’d wait until I could hear her stirring and see her movements through the sides of the crib. Then, it became a game. I would sneak over to the tiny bed and stop just at the point where she could see me. Then, I’d wait for her to recognize me. She’d begin to smile and wiggle, getting more and more excited as I made silly faces. She’d be lying on her back with all four limbs moving in different directions, looking wildly into the air as she waited for me to pick her up. Once she was in my arms, she would make some baby noises, sometimes a small burp, and then nestle her head against my shoulder.
Those were memories to be cherished, but would they survive any of this? I wondered what my relationship with Alexi would be. Would it be anything like the love there was in that tiny house in Bosnia fifteen years earlier? There was so much to tell her. There were years of overlapping stories that branched in every direction, and each facet of that history demanded to be told first. They were the kinds of stories that should be unfolded gradually over a friendly meal, with the patience and care that come after a long period of trust. But we didn’t have time for any of that. I would have to unload the whole story on her in one surprising, confusing, and—probably—shocking narrative.
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I got to the mall at Keystone Crossing several minutes before Alexi and I were scheduled to meet. It was the only place I could think of to tell her, since I’d stayed there less than a week earlier. I told her to stand in front of the Cheesecake Factory, thinking she’d blend in like any teenager who’d been shopping at the mall and waiting for a parent to come by and pick her up. But I didn’t want her standing at the curb very long. I had no idea how many security guards or cameras there were in the shopping center or what they might be looking for. It was better that I circle the parking lot a few times instead of her standing there drawing attention. But after I did that a few times, I decided maybe my constant circling of the parking area might also be drawing attention. I decided to pull into an empty parking place and just wait.
As soon as I turned off the engine, my cell phone rang. I thought it might be Alexi. If not her, it was probably Sylvia with one more warning. But I was wrong. It was Paolo.
He must have heard how flustered I was when I heard his voice on the phone. He started to protest that it had been my idea that he should call me if he found out any more news. If I wanted to hang up and call him back later, he said that was all right with him.
“I’m sorry, Paolo. I didn’t mean to bite at you. We can talk now.”
The truth is I did want to hang up. I didn’t want to think about what he had to say. Alexi’s problem had shoved everything else out of my mind, and I hadn’t even thought about those who might be pursuing me. Paolo’s call was a rude jolt, telling me I had more than one thing to worry about.
“I talked to Luca.”
I didn’t like the sound of his voice. “What did he say?”
Paolo hesitated for a second, probably worried that he was about to make me upset. “The people who contacted him were looking for you. They knew the name you used—‘Gina Bertani.’”
As he said it, I could see the name in bold type on all of the paperwork we filed to get me into the United States. The top document said “Gina Bertani is a resident of…” right under that was another one that read “Gina Bertani was born in…” Those documents and all the others in that stack were false. Paolo knew that as well as I did—he’s the one who made them up. But false or not, they would lead to me.
“What else did they say? Did Luca tell them where I was?”
“No,” Paolo said quickly. “He hasn’t thought about you in years. He didn’t tell them anything—he didn’t even know where you were.”
There was a word there I didn’t like. “He ‘didn’t’ know, but he definitely knows now?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Paolo knew he had to say something.
“The people talking to him acted like they already knew you were in America.”
That news curdled in my stomach and threatened to force its way up my throat. I finally regained my bearings and began hammering him with questions. At the same time, I kept checking my watch to make sure I wasn’t late in picking up Alexi. Her problems and my problems were starting to whirl around in overlapping waves.
Paolo kept trying to reassure me. He swore he didn’t know anything more than what he had just told me. As far as he could tell, my pursuers probably didn’t know anything more than the fact that I’d left Italy over a decade ago. Since I only began using the name “Gina Perini” after I landed in the United States, Paolo was sure they had no hint about that name or anything else. He kept telling me that I had nothing to worry about. As long as I was Gina Perini, living in San Francisco as a bookseller, I would be safe. All of that might be true, I suppose, as long as Paolo could believe Luca, and I could believe Paolo—and I could get over the fear that the ground had just shifted underneath me.
My pursuers had breached an important barrier—I had to face it. They now knew what they were looking for, and it was something different than what they had originally thought. When I made the transition to the life I have now, I did so for my own emotional well-being. When I became Gina, I became myself. I didn’t do it to escape anyone—that kind of reasoning would never have entered into such an important, personal decision. But later on I realized that the change I had gone through might end up being a form of protection. My looks, my mannerisms, my attitudes—everything about me had changed to the point where anyone who knew me earlier would be unlikely to recognize me as I am now. At the time, that included my enemies. But all of that was over. I knew I was Gina, and so did they.
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I finally found Alexi standing at the curb, but I was few minutes late. My call with Paolo had thrown everything off. She had her backpack over her shoulder, looking a little scared, maybe wondering if I was going to show up at all. She was peering at each of the passing cars, probably trying to guess if any of them were mine. I pulled up to the curb and reached over to open the passenger-side door. I’d been rehearsing what to say when I actually met her for the first time—something about our relationship and about all that had happened. But with all of the delays and worries floating around my head, I forgot all of it. I mumbled something clumsy about putting her backpack in the back seat.
I drove out of the parking lot, turning onto North Keystone Avenue. The next entrance put me on Interstate 465, the ring-road around Indianapolis. I wanted to get out of that area as qu
ickly as I could and get to some place where we could talk. I took a quick glance at the rearview mirror, but I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I was hoping that nobody was following Alexi. And after talking to Paolo, I was hoping no one was following me.
As I turned back, I saw Alexi looking up at me.
Suddenly, I felt a pounding in my heart. I was looking at the anguished eyes of a teenage girl, but it was something more than just that. I’d seen a pair of eyes just like those many years before. And at the time, they were looking up at me in a moment of panic for both of us.
Davey
He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. The clock said 4:15 a.m., and he swore to himself as he trudged off to the bathroom to pee. After he’d been back in bed a few minutes, there was a more ominous sign—a feeling of pain in his chest, along with a deep steady pull that had him almost anchored him to the mattress.
He tried to stifle his fright. He had nitroglycerin pills in his night stand that his cardiologist had prescribed in case this happened. He fumbled in the dark for the tiny bottle and finally managed to get one of the pills under his tongue. He was supposed to hold it there for five minutes. If the pain didn’t go away, he was to take a second pill and repeat the process. If the pain continued after that, he’s have to take a third pill and dial 911—he would need help from the EMTs. They’d probably put him on a stretcher for a ride to the emergency room.
As the seconds clicked by on the clock, his worries started to grow. If he had to call the EMTs, he’d somehow have to get downstairs to open the apartment door to let them in. But if there was a heart attack lurking in his chest, that kind of movement would make it worse. It was either that or lie there, listening to them batter their way through the door and the security locks to get to him. Being alone made everything worse. But no one wanted to share that tiny townhouse with him—let alone share a bed. He dreaded the idea of going to the hospital alone, but he couldn’t think of anyone to call.
Through the Bookstore Window Page 10
