Somehow she ended up at the back of the room, listening to the water dispenser glug in a way that was oddly reminiscent of how his words churned out—slow and solid and one rounded syllable at a time. His hand held a paper cup to her mouth, and water trickled into her parched throat. He was the third person to shove liquids at her that evening. She must have looked thirsty.
She was sitting on the floor beside him, his hand a cool, reassuring weight on the back of her neck, the innocuous view of the mat between her bent legs. There was a worn spot, where threads peeped through. Uma worried at it with numb fingers, pulling at the threads until one broke off, and it occurred to her that she was thoughtlessly destroying property.
He released her neck, and a waft of air reached her, fresh from his body. She smelled something woodsy mixed with sweat. Man soap, she thought. She hated herself for how weak she’d become. This was all wrong—not at all how her new life was supposed to be. She was supposed to be fearless and strong.
“I’m sorry.”
He grunted.
“I can’t believe I did that. It’s just…” Uma cleared the tightness out of her throat and grasped at the paper cup shoved into her hand. After a sip, she mumbled, “Embarrassing. Sorry.”
“Quit that,” he rumbled softly.
“Sorry.”
He sighed, sounded like he’d say something else, then settled for a second grunt.
“I guess I’ll go.” She set the cup aside and pushed up to standing, then stopped when his hand landed lightly on her calf. She looked down, met his eyes, and the room tilted. His hand tightened, but he didn’t stand.
“Stay.”
“Oh, no, I—”
“I’ll help you. Come on.” He got up and moved a few feet farther onto the mat, and she followed, like a sleepwalker.
Ivan led her through it again, attacking without touching or any hint of aggression. The movements were purely mechanical—a lean in, a counter. She swept her wrists in, up, and out, and he stepped away. It couldn’t possibly be that easy in real life, but it was progress.
She didn’t dare look at the rest of the class, didn’t want to see the pity on their faces.
Jessie’s voice rang out, telling the other ladies to move on to the second move. She and Steve were acting as attackers. Uma looked up to meet the curious gaze of one woman, Binx, whose eyes flicked between her and Ivan.
“Ignore ’em.”
The second round involved a different kind of move altogether—what Jessie called an arm bar. A hand to the shoulder, countered by the brutal twisting back of the attacker’s arm. There would be more invasion of personal space this time, inevitably, their closeness underlining what a sweaty mess she’d become in her long-sleeved shirt and jeans.
“Ready?” he asked. She nodded once and waited for him to step straight in, less than an arm’s length away.
His hand landed gently on Uma’s shoulder, but it might as well have been on her breast for the effect it had. Electrified by the contact, she grabbed and twisted.
“Follow through, Uma,” Jessie called out, bringing her back into the class, back to reality. “He’s a lot bigger than you.”
No shit.
“Remember, ladies, you need all the momentum you can get with an attacker this much larger than you. Try it again, and put your body into it this time.”
His hand was too low, too real. Uma wanted to shrug it off. Instead, she grabbed and twisted, followed through with her other hand and then her body, pressed into his. She ended with her face along his side, under one arm, in a place too intimate and warm for a room this bright, an audience this big—including his wife.
She could smell him again, that man-smelling soap, augmented by a light hint of sweat and a smoky metallic twang. Uma stumbled and leaned further into his body, grazing her chest against his elbow.
He stood her upright and muttered, “Good,” but his eyes weren’t on her face. She followed them to her arm, where a cuff had slid back to reveal the dark lines of a tattoo. Uma moved it behind her back and yanked the sleeve down.
She couldn’t even look at him then, didn’t want to see the disgust or the horror on his face. On everyone’s faces. The pressure of tears prickled behind her eyes.
Great. My body decides to break its crying strike in front of a room full of people. She shoved the emotion down and stepped away.
“You good?” he finally asked.
“Yeah. I’ll just…be right back.” She escaped to the restroom.
After five minutes of internal debate, Uma managed to convince herself that it didn’t matter what he or anyone else may have seen. They were tattoos. Just tattoos. There were tattoos all over the place. These people wouldn’t have any idea how they’d gotten there or what they signified.
When Uma returned, no one paid attention to her. Except for Ivan, whose eyes followed her to the mat.
Again, she was hyperaware of him. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, she could feel him. After a while, Jessie finally let the guys go and finished things up with a series of stretches. As soon as class was over, Uma grabbed her shoes and slid into them without untying them, ready to go.
Around her, the women chattered about class, then other things, like children and husbands, work, and plans for a quick drink at a local bar. Uma shook her head at their invitation, ignored the curious looks, ducked her head, and made a beeline for the exit.
They seemed nice. Jessie in particular. Her humor, her strength, the way she clearly didn’t take crap from anyone, especially not her beast of a husband. That thought brought with it an odd little pang, which Uma promptly shoved aside.
Maybe I’ll take the class again, she thought, more to fool herself than because she really believed it. And then maybe I’ll join the other women for a drink.
Yeah, right.
As she approached the door, Jessie caught up with her.
“Uma, you got a sec?”
“I’d better go.” What a complete lie. She had absolutely nowhere to be.
“Hey, so Ive said you just got into town.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m glad you made it here tonight.” Jessie smiled and waved at the last two women as they walked by on their way out, their glances lingering on Uma. “Did you enjoy class?”
Uma forced a smile. “I did.”
“Is there anything—” Jessie must have seen something prickly on her face. She quickly changed tacks. “You think you’ll come back next week?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Just come back, okay? Please? If money’s the issue, we’ll waive the fees. No problem.”
First the clinic and now here. People giving things away for free. What was with this place? No way would this have happened back in Northern Virginia.
Uma gulped back emotion again, nodding as nonchalantly as she could. “Thanks.”
“I know you’re over at Ms. Lloyd’s place. She’s a little…strange. But I get it, you know? She’s had it rough.”
Uma’s curiosity piqued at that. “She has?”
Jessie grabbed her hand and squeezed it, ignoring the question. Suddenly, Uma couldn’t find the energy to pull away.
“Let us know if you need help. Me or Ive. All right? Just ask.”
“Look, I’m not a—” She took a deep breath and forced a tight smile. Charity case, she’d almost said. But saying it would have been confirmation. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
The air had changed outside, was significantly colder than when she’d arrived.
Bad timing.
Back in the car, Uma rubbed her hands together in front of the vent and watched Jessie tidy up and turn off lights through the fogged-up front window of the gym. She seemed nice. A potential friend. That thought made her feel guilty, because there was something truly messed up about the w
ay Uma looked at the woman’s husband—that weird attraction she couldn’t seem to control.
7
Rather than sleep parked in the road, Uma pulled the car up the drive that divided Ms. Lloyd’s property from Ivan and Jessie’s. Set between the houses, the driveway disappeared into a forest, which seemed a tiny bit safer than sleeping out where anybody driving by could see. Luckily, she had a scraggly wool plaid in the backseat, but she hadn’t a thing left to eat or a red cent to her name.
The gas gauge was almost on empty, which didn’t bode well, but Uma would make do. She had to.
She left the car off, wrapped up in her threadbare blanket, and closed her eyes against the inky nothingness beyond. Of all nights to sleep out here, tonight took the cake—the unseasonal heat wave had come to an abrupt end, and not even a sliver of moon was left to keep her company.
She should go up to the house and knock again, bang on the door hard enough to force Ms. Lloyd to open up. Who in their right mind left a person to spend the night out in the cold like this? Someone who’s deathly afraid of the outside, that’s who.
After the initial heat of anger wore off, Uma felt a little bit sorry for herself—which was dangerous. Self-pity hadn’t brought her a darn thing thus far. Whenever she let it overtake her, things took a swing for the worse.
Like the time, shortly after she’d left Joey, when she’d turned on her phone to call her mom. She’d been living in a women’s shelter, the first of many, and all she’d wanted was to hear a familiar voice, maybe tell her that she missed her, maybe let out a whiny little “mommy” in the hopes that she’d drop whatever chant she was doing and fly home to take care of her daughter, give her a hug.
It had taken nearly ten minutes for them to find her mother, no doubt at the other end of the ashram, and when she’d finally gotten on the line, Uma had instantly regretted the impulse that had led her to slide the battery back in the phone and call.
“Oh my God, Uma, there you are. Where on earth have you been? How could you let us worry like this?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I had to get someplace safe.”
“Safe? What do you mean, safe? You left home. You took off with no indication of where you’d gone! He said you hurt him! He’s had the police out looking for you, Uma Crane!”
“I’m sorry you worried. I’m fine, though, so please ask him to call off the cops.”
“I’m not the one you should apologize to, am I?” Her mom’s voice got higher as she carried on. “You need to hang up right now and call Joey. Call that boy right away. Are you crazy, leaving him like that?”
“No, I’m not going to call Joey.” Uma took a deep breath. “He hurt me, Mom. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s him.”
“Oh, honey, he’s sorry for the fighting. He wants to make it up to you!”
Uma’s mild irritation curdled into something harsher. Why wouldn’t her mother listen? She never listened.
“You should really take a step back and think about this.” The voice crackled through the line. “You’re messing up the best thing you’ve got going on.”
It was all so familiar, she couldn’t even respond, couldn’t tell her own mother what Joey had done to her and then have her minimize her pain. Mom, the peace-loving hippy, was also Mom, the lover of men—except for her father, that is, at the end. No matter what happened between Uma and Joey, it would always be Uma’s fault.
Her mom’s voice softened. “Do you need anything?” She did care, after all, in her own fashion.
“No. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“Where are you, honey?”
“I can’t tell you that. He’ll come and—”
“Joey’s a good man, Uma. You should give him a call. You can’t leave the poor boy hanging, waiting for you like this. It’s cruel.”
“I’m not calling him, Mom. He hurt me. Badly. I need help.”
“Oh, Uma, there you go again, exaggerating things. Don’t you see that you won’t get what you want this way? Listen, darling, Joey and I talked yesterday. You’re lucky, because he says he’ll still take you back. He’s not angry about how you just up and left like that.” Her voice had lowered into the best friends register she’d always tried to use. “He’s hurting, sweetie. He’s really hurting.” Uma could imagine her expression: eyebrows up, tight little smile. Her empathetic face. People loved it. She could draw you in with that, make you feel like she’d do just about anything for you. “Tell me where you are, and he can come get you.”
That was the thing about her mom. She’d help anyone in need, and she’d reach out, lend them her last five bucks or invite them over for dinner. She’d barbecued tofu for more strangers than Uma could count growing up. She was good that way.
Why the hell wouldn’t she take the time to pay attention to her own daughter?
Uma had taken air in and let out a shaky, nearly crying breath. Easier, in the end, to let it go. “I just wanted you to know that I’m okay, Mom. I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, Uma. You’ve…” Her mom paused, maybe searching out the right words for an apology. Maybe she’d offer to fly her daughter to India, have her join her there for healing meditation and yoga. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. “You’ve had us in quite a state” was all her mother said.
Every part of Uma had sunk with disappointment. She shouldn’t have let her hopes get up, but she had. She always did. “Yep. Well, I’d better go,” she finally bit out between stiff lips.
“Tranquility, Uma, my sweet child.” She said it fondly, but Uma was still resentful.
“Yes. Right. Hari Om, Mom.”
“Blessings.”
After hanging up, Uma had sat there in the shelter bedroom, waiting for the knot in her chest to unravel. The single bed beneath her had been threadbare but neatly made, like the others. She’d shared the room with two other women, all victims of domestic abuse.
No, not victims: survivors. I’m a survivor, she remembered thinking, although she hadn’t felt like one. Because this was what life had come to. This.
Her mom and Joey teamed up against her. They made quite the pair, the two of them. Master manipulators, both, doling out enough guilt to last a lifetime. Uma’s breath had started coming faster, and she’d gotten that tunnel vision, squeezy-eye thing that told her a panic attack was not far behind.
At some point, one of her roommates—Carla—had come in and found her rolled into a ball on the floor, clutching her phone in one hand, her other hand a bloody mass of tooth marks. She’d called one of the shelter volunteers, and they’d calmed Uma down.
When the police car pulled up in front of the shelter that evening, it hadn’t even occurred to Uma to be scared. At the time, she’d had no idea to what lengths Joey would go to get her back—or to get back at her. She’d been sitting in the den with a few of the women, staring blindly at the TV, when Carla had come in, grabbed her arm, and drawn her quickly through the kitchen to the back door.
“Cops are here,” Carla had whispered, out on the stoop. “You gotta go.”
“What?”
“You said your ex works with the law?”
Uma had nodded.
“Well, girl, you gotta go. He knows where you at.” Uma still hadn’t budged when the woman hung her purse over her arm, then nudged her toward the back gate with a final, hissed “Go!”
Uma had gone without thinking, following the orders of someone who’d been running from abuse for a lot longer than she had. Finally, at the gate, she’d looked back at the house, seen the blue lights of the police car reflected off the neighbor’s siding, and realized that there really was no choice: she had to get in her car and run faster, harder, farther.
Curled up in that same car, the closest thing Uma had to an actual home, the oppressive weight of Joey’s presence was everywhere. At one point, she’d considered stealing a new license plate, but she’d never
been much of a rebel, and the idea of getting caught had been too scary. In New York, she’d been lucky to meet a fellow survivor who’d given her a place to hide.
God, she wished she were back there, warm in Benny’s tiny bunk instead of freezing in her car.
I can’t do this, she thought before taking a deep breath to quiet the screaming in her brain. She reached for something else, some other emotion than fear and anxiety and hopelessness to brighten her outlook.
And then, as if by magic, the sound started—that nocturnal, metallic clanging. In the perfectly dark car, it echoed like some kind of prayer bell chased by the smell of smoke on the chill air. Something about the sound, the smell, the rhythm, within the perfect, moonless vacuum, brought an aura of peace.
It cleared her head of those fuzzy, messy emotions, until something new emerged—a sensation so unfamiliar that it took Uma a while to identify it.
When it finally coalesced, she recognized it for what it was: anger.
Good, clean anger, sublimating weak and wretched into strong and firm. Without clear intention or thought, she wrenched up her sleeve and ran cold fingers over the lines scrawled there. She couldn’t see them in the dark, but the words were there. A part of her now.
“Fuck you,” she whispered. She’d never said that aloud. Not to her mother or to Joey or to the woman she worked for, who wouldn’t even provide shelter for the night. It felt so good that Uma had to say it again before turning the key and revving the engine. “Fuck you all.”
* * *
The sound of an engine idling in his driveway set Ive off. He didn’t mind hunters on his land—there were a few guys who asked him for permission every year. Poor guys living in trailers who needed the meat to survive, to keep their families alive. That was something he understood firsthand. He’d started shooting squirrels for dinner before he hit puberty. That was what you did around here when you were dirt poor and had no other choice. The guys who hunted on his land bagged enough venison to last them all year. Ive was glad to help.
In His Hands Page 39
