by Liz Gavin
Noah stopped to sip his drink. Its strong alcohol component, pinga, burned his throat as it traveled down, but he welcomed the sensation.
“Silly me. I gathered information about her like a sick stalker and decided to surprise her one day during her lunch break. I found out she worked at a bank downtown. I even bribed a receptionist to discover when Brenda made a reservation to eat at a nearby restaurant. I showed up with half-a-dozen red roses and the stupid ring I had bought. What was I thinking, right?”
Tristan patted his back and offered, “You were in love, man. You weren’t thinking.”
“You can say that again. Long story short, as I was on my knee proposing to her, someone grabbed my collar and pulled me up. It so happened that Brenda had a fiancé for most of the time we were together in college. She got engaged during a vacation trip to Brazil, but never mentioned it to me. She never mentioned me to the poor sap either.”
Tristan’s shock rendered him speechless. When he found his voice again, he asked, “Why did she lead you on like that?”
Noah snorted a humorless laughter before replying. “Because I’m an ass, that’s why. I loved her, I thought she was the one. She never felt the same way and I didn’t realize it. She confessed she had hoped that dating me would help her career.”
“What did she expect? That your parents would put in a word for her with a producer or something like that?”
“Something like that. She figured my parents knew tons of important people in Hollywood, being award-winning actors and all. She thought hanging out with me would eventually lead her to meeting these people. When it didn’t happen, she decided to go back home and resume life as before.
“Let me guess. She never thought you’d follow her.”
Noah nodded. “Let alone propose to her. I’ve never felt so humiliated.”
Tristan swirled the drink in the glass a couple of times, staring intently inside it as if looking for his next words. “Izzie did me in too, in multiple senses.”
“Bro, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“Tell you what, we talk about it now and never again. Deal?”
Noah feared the booze was doing the talking for his friend, but maybe Tristan needed to get it out of his system, whatever ‘it’ was. Even though never mentioning the issue again might not be good for his mental health, Tristan had always been great at compartmentalizing. So, Noah accepted the terms. “Deal.”
“That night at Mark King’s party, the one he threw for me when I signed up with the recording company?”
“Yeah, I was there. A week before the party, we went to the jewelry store together and bought the rings for our ladies.”
“Exactly. Only you knew I was going to propose to Izzie at the party. The thing is, when I went looking for her, I found her on her knees with Mark’s cock in her mouth.”
“What the fuck? You never told me that. I mean, you guys split, but I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“You were dealing with your own shit, I just couldn’t add to it.”
Feeling lousy he didn’t support his friend as he should have, Noah threw his arm around Tristan’s neck and pulled him into a tight hug. No words necessary.
Pausing as if to choose his words, Tristan dragged his stare from the glass into Noah’s eyes. He had never seen defeat as deep and it clawed at his guts. To think he once considered Izzie like a sister. What did the little hag do to his friend?
Tristan wrapped up his tale in a matter-of-fact tone that did nothing to hide the hurt in his expression, “She begged forgiveness and I caved. You and I started recruiting for the band and I thought all was well again. Izzie went on tour and you bailed on me to come looking for Brenda.”
“I was going to go back soon,” Noah defended himself, feeling mortified.
“It’s all good. Now I understand why you didn’t. Anyway, a couple of months later, Izzie came home one weekend in the middle of her tour, just to let me know she was leaving me and marrying Mark. It took me a while to make my peace with that. Not even sure I have, honestly. The only thing I’m certain of, at this point, is that I can’t be in L.A. right now. I mean, I wrote most of her songs and they’re all over the charts. I can’t turn on the fucking radio or TV without listening to her singing my words. I just can’t deal with it. Even buying groceries has become a nightmare. I never thought people were paying attention to me. I was always in the background of her success. But leave it to the paparazzi to make a stupid breakup front page news.”
Noah shook his head then tossed it back as he drained the rest of his drink. Signaling for Pedro, the bartender, to hit him with a fresh one, he stared at Tristan, fighting for words to describe his thoughts. He failed. “Dude, I can’t even.”
Nodding, his friend offered the saddest smile. “I’m this close to swearing off women. I don’t want to go through this hell ever again.”
Noah mulled those words over before suggesting, “Let’s not be too radical here, agree? We’re too young to swear all women off. Let’s say we go a different route. New rule: only no-strings-attached dates allowed. We’re open and clear about that upfront, so we enjoy them just as they enjoy us. Afterwards, we part our ways and no harm done. When we’re old and can’t pick up women at bars, we revisit the plan and consider settling down. Sound good?” He inquired, raising his glass.
Clicking his glass against Noah’s, Tristan slurred, “Sounds like a great plan.”
3
Ana
11 Years Later
Excruciating pain overwhelmed her mind when Ana tried to move her head to the right to check the time on the nightstand. Still, she did so to find out it was almost time. The night shift would finish in less than a half-hour. Anxiety threatened to make her hyperventilate, so she focused on positive thoughts. Her go-to place for peace of mind, the little fishing village on the coast of Santa Catarina where she would spend her best vacations as a child, popped up in her head in its splendor. The wooden houses lining the narrow strip of white sand and the boats coloring the ocean. An image that soothed her frantic emotions, but did nothing for the physical pain. For that, the nurses had been adding some strong shit to her IV for the last couple of days.
If only the meds could change the bad choices she had made in the past, she wouldn’t be in that conundrum. Committing a crime to escape a criminal situation wouldn’t sound like the best solution to most people. It certainly didn’t appeal to Ana up until a couple of weeks ago. Paulo left her without a choice. If she stayed, he would end up killing her, she had no doubt about it.
Out of instinct, her right hand splayed on her belly and she caressed it. Her brain gradually registered the faint old bruises under her skin as her eyes followed the slow movement of her hand, where a needle collected the dripping IV and injected it in her vein. Paulo had put her there. Even though she was carrying the child he said he desperately needed, he had beat her to a pulp. Once again. What would he do to her now that the baby was gone?
Marriage hadn’t protected her innocence from his abuse and violence. Her parents turned a blind eye to the real situation, saying she needed to grow up and deal with her marital issues, as if she were to blame for Paulo’s behavior. What did an eighteen-year-old, overprotected girl know about the real world? So, she bought into their view of how things should be and tried. She did her best, but it was never enough. Paulo had married her for the shares of her father’s company and made that quite plain. He called her names and made her feel as if she wasn’t good enough or pretty enough. When his mistresses didn’t satisfy his sexual drive, he would go home to impose it on his wife, regardless of her own disposition in the matter. Marital rape was difficult to prove when one’s husband had a powerful and wealthy family to support his devious behavior. It would have been impossible for Ana to get anywhere with a sexual assault charge against Paulo. His buddies from the Brazilian Society for the Defense of Tradition, Family and Property, commonly known as TFP, littered the upper echelons of bot
h the police force and the judicial system.
If her father hadn’t belonged to that same society, he might have seen things in a different way. The way it was, he believed the sole duty of a wife was taking care of her husband’s needs, which meant making sure he enjoyed his creature comforts and bearing his children. Besides, he cared about the family name and business more than anything or anyone else. Alvarengas had helped build the nation, so they had a traditional reputation to protect. And Fonsecas were the perfect business partners, upon whom her father had set his eyes years earlier.
Given the circumstances, she couldn’t count on her mom and dad to back her up, if she filed for divorce. Her trust fund meant peanuts against Paulo’s fortune, if his judge friends decided to stall the process. She wouldn’t put it past him to destroy her family either. Despite any resentment she might have felt towards her parents, it wasn’t in her nature to willingly inflict pain on another human being. Besides, she had siblings she loved. It wasn’t their fault they were dealt such a lousy hand as far as parents were concerned.
Things had improved for Ana when Paulo met a young woman he liked. He had set her up in a high-end condo in the best neighborhood in São Paulo, where he spent most of his free time. The permanent mistress meant Ana was free from his abusive presence. The few times they interacted, Paulo was even civil to her.
A couple of years later, when Paulo was forced by his father to produce an heir, she found herself on the receiving end of a beating, sexual assault or both, on a nightly basis. Hoping it would stop once she got pregnant, she was shocked to learn it did not. Paulo’s mistress abandoned him when he didn’t choose her over Ana to have his precious heir. He blamed his wife for that and the cocaine he consumed didn’t help him think clearly.
Hitting a dead end, Ana had contemplated drastic measures to gain freedom. She didn’t have it in her to kill her husband. Or hire someone to do it. Despite her shitty life so far, she loved being alive too much to choose suicide. She decided for the next best thing.
When her reminiscences brought her back to the private hospital room, the best money could afford in a country where the health system had collapsed a long time ago, Ana’s nurse came in, as if on cue. Her partner-in-crime handed her a brown manila envelope. Pulling out the sheet of paper, her ticket to freedom, Ana eyed the municipal coat of arms on the top and skimmed over the text. The death certificate looked legit and the information matched what she had told the nurse she needed. According to it, Ana Alvarenga Fonseca had died a horrible death as the result of multiple fractures and internal bleeding. The attending physician would recommend a closed casket for the funeral proceedings to spare the sensitivities of immediate family and friends. The mortician would fill up the coffin with the correct amount of stones, or whatever other object of his choice, in order to reach her weight, so nobody would suspect the lack of a corpse.
The second sheet of paper was a birth certificate with her real birth information, but under her grandmother’s maiden name. Ana Alvarenga Fonseca had just become Ana Oliveira. It was far from a perfect plan, but Ana was confident it would work. On one hand, she bet Paulo wouldn’t want the police to look deeply into the case. Upon the death of his beloved wife, all her company shares reverted to him, without the additional hassle of having to deal with her. He would be free to pursue whoever he saw fit to have the heir his father wanted him to produce. On the other hand, she doubted her parents would press the officers to investigate a crime that would taint the family’s immaculate name. Better to be perceived as grieving parents of a prematurely departed child than the absent mother and father of an abused daughter.
“Everything fine, Mrs. Fonseca?”
“It will be. I appreciate your help with this. You’ll never know just how much I do. Would you mind handing me that wallet on the armchair? I want to transfer the money to your account. Then, I’ll transfer it to the others as well.”
After helping Ana sit up against the pillows, nurse Cristina Lopes handed her the leather wallet, where a red and green logo by a famous Italian designer stood out. “To be honest, I’ve accepted your money because it’ll help me pay for my kids’ education. Having witnessed your multiple visits to this clinic along the years, I’d have helped you escape that sadist for free.”
* * *
Twenty-one-year-old Ana Oliveira headed south on a regular interstate bus. She figured if anybody tried to track her, they would stalk the airport instead of the bus terminal. People in her world probably didn’t even remember buses existed. The long twelve hours the bus took to arrive at her final destination allowed for her to reflect on her situation.
Even if the three years of hellish marriage had not alienated her from former friends, she would not have involved anybody she cared for in her plans to escape. She had committed a crime by forging her death and the documents to allow her a new identity. Granted, none was for personal gain as the letter of the law described it. Still, there would be consequences. The way her life had turned out, without close friends or relatives she could count on, Ana faced a lonely future.
At least it was a future. Looking out the window at the rolling farmland that flew by the road, she couldn’t control the chill that ran down her spine. She had cast off all that she once knew, her world of privilege and comfort. She wouldn’t be able to touch her trust fund or even her regular bank account. She had saved some money over the last year tutoring a couple of acquaintance’s kids. The tutoring sessions had started as recommendation from her therapist, a way for her to strengthen her self-esteem and develop a sense of self-worth. Paulo’s long-lasting abuse and neglect had convinced Ana she didn’t deserve better in life.
When they got married, his authoritarian presence, combined with the fifteen years of age difference between them, had made quite an impression on young Ana. At eighteen, and with the kind of upbringing she had had, she worshiped the man. At first, he seemed to like the attention and even treated her with warmth. She mistook it for love and believed it would last forever. Her handsome husband would give her beautiful children to fulfill her life.
Until the novelty wore off and she became a nuisance for him. A constant reminder he wasn’t a bachelor anymore. The beating and the cheating followed suit, but by then Ana had lost touch with the few Brazilian friends she had made in the private school she had attended in Switzerland. All the other people she knew outside her family were either Paulo’s relatives, business associates or friends. None she could call a real friend.
For some odd reason, realizing she was completely on her own hadn’t scared her during that trip from São Paulo to Floripa. Encouraged by the positive results of the therapy sessions, she replied to a social media message she had received from an American who went to St. Galen Institute with her. Vanessa Foster was about to graduate with a degree in journalism and had landed a dream job with a big magazine. She was looking for a place to live in São Paulo, where she would be the magazine’s correspondent covering politics. In the couple of months after the two women reconnected, Nessa did more for Ana’s mental health than any meds could have. As if their outings for coffee or shopping were a complement to Ana’s regular therapy, Nessa showed her what the real world had to offer for women. The possibilities were endless; she merely had to find those that best suited her abilities. She loved kids, so she decided to get her credentials to become a teacher.
When the bus slowed to a stop in front of the small colonial church, she stepped out and stretched her stiff back and limbs. Filling her lungs with the salty air, she exhaled slowly. The warmth of the afternoon sun spread over her back and she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sensations. Armação Beach had never felt more like home to her.
The small village of her childhood memories had changed very little. The houses and boats were exactly as she remembered them. Checking the piece of paper she had unintentionally crumpled inside her hand during the trip, she found the name of the place and the instructions to get there.
A bri
ef walk through a narrow dirt pathway took her to Matadeiro beach and the site she was looking for. As she stood in front of the one-story building, no signs on its façade, she wondered if she were in the right place. A glance around confirmed there were no other options, so that had to be it.
She was almost thirty minutes early for her two o’clock appointment, but she figured she should go inside and ask if the owners could interview her. If not, she wouldn’t mind waiting in the cool shade as opposed to standing in the hot weather outside.
Controlling the butterflies, she muffled the inner voice who told her nobody would hire a person without any sort of experience. Or references, for that matter. As she pulled the heavy wooden door by its loop-shaped metal handle, Ana also squashed the annoying voice that reminded her she had never interviewed for a job. Like ever!
Instead of panicking, she squared her shoulders and summoned her inner warrior, who turned out to be quite a kickass amazon princess or something. She felt she could conquer the world. When her eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, she distinguished an electrifying smile on the most devastatingly handsome face she’d ever seen. A green pair of eyes gave her the once-over of her life and the smile broadened as he offered her a hand in greeting.
“Deve ser Ana,” he inquired about her identity in a broken Portuguese.
“I’m Ana Oliveira,” she confirmed in a flawless English, so that he knew she could speak his language.
“Noah Cartwright. Welcome to Chez Nous.” His hand engulfed hers and his firm handshake spoke of professionalism. Until he uttered the next words, “When can you start?”
His intense stare took her breath away. She had never met a more charismatic person than the boyish-looking man standing in front of her. Life was taking a swift turn to surreal and she wasn’t sure she was comfortable with that.
