Like many people trapped in destructive relationships, Heather Rose had become convinced by her partner that she was a bad person. Anton had an endless catalogue of her faults that he recited often. And the worst fault of all, the one that dogged her daily, resulted in the most painful disciplines, and shamed her most deeply, was that she did not love him as much as she should. In her wedding vows, she had promised that she would love him no matter what. Anton reminded her of it continually and made her pledge her allegiance over and over.
This pretense of unconditional love turned out to be a greater ordeal than any she could have imagined. He tricked her again and again, and the lies at the center of their marriage were the poison that made the burden of keeping her promise an impossible task, a war she fought with herself daily but could not ever hope to win. Often she had longed for a release from life altogether.
At the sound of the doorbell, she glanced at the clock. Two-thirty. Anton always rang the bell. Whatever time he arrived home he expected her to be there for him, to open the door and greet him with a drink and a pleasant smile. But he rarely came home this early.
Oh God, now it begins,
was her first thought. Anton had a sharp eye. She hadn't changed her clothes; she hadn't cleaned the last dirty diaper out of the pail. What would he criticize first? She wanted to get the diaper out of the apartment. But then the bell rang a second time, and it hit home that today none of the little things mattered. Trembling, she moved to open the door.
"Hello, gorgeous."
She couldn't stop her eyes from registering shock. "What are you doing here?" Reflexively, she stepped back. But he moved with her, and she couldn't avoid an embrace.
"Come to see my sweetie. Any reason why I shouldn't?" Big smile on his face as he enveloped her in the Big Hug.
"Hey, not today."
"Huh?" He drew back, looked at her with mock suspicion, hugged her again, squeezed her bottom, pressed her to him again, this time tangling his fingers in her hair. The whole ritual made her weak with terror. He wasn't a good man; he didn't like her at all. Everything was a sham. She'd be found out. Someone would be murdered. All this went through her head. Finally, he moved away and looked around.
"You look great. How's the baby?"
"Sleeping," she lied, knowing he knew.
"The place looks great," he said, following her as she fled into the kitchen. "You, too."
She didn't say anything. She was wearing tights and a sweater. Her hair was a wreck and she had no makeup on. She didn't look great at all. He knew everything.
"Hey baby, I missed you," he said to her back. "How about a quickie?"
The suggestion startled her. It was the last thing she'd expected. "Absolutely not." She turned around to be sure he understood, but before she could say anything more his arms were around her again, his hands taking inventory of her body in his very practiced way. His face was in her hair. She could feel his excitement.
"No." She tried to get away.
"Hey, don't do that. You're my honey."
"Come on, come on." She struggled in his arms, trying to cajole, trying not to panic.
"You smell so great," he murmured.
"No, don't, I mean it."
"With you no is yes. You want me as much as I want you. You're dying for me, baby. I can feel it." His fingers writhed their way into her tights.
"No." It was all she could think of to say. He knew, and he was angry. She could feel it.
"Yes." He drew back and found her lips, kissed her hard on the mouth, bruisingly hard. He tasted like beer.
The beery taste meant he was mad
and
drunk. Today, however, she wouldn't take it. She pushed him away. "I said no."
For a second his arrogance was replaced by surprise. He looked at her, amazed. Then he exploded. "Who do you think you are? You can't tell me no."
"I'm telling you no." She said it so softly she could hardly hear the words herself. She was almost afraid to breathe. Her back was pressed against the counter. Behind her the knives were stacked in their block of wood. The broom was propped against the refrigerator. She could see confusion in his eyes. He hadn't expected resistance. For a second he laughed, not believing she could act like this after what she'd done. But she didn't care. That morning she had resolved to be a good person, to draw the line in the sand and stop the lies, all the bad things that had happened since she'd married Anton with such hope and excitement—and been betrayed in so many ways.
This man was the worst. She could see his expression change from laughing at her, to disbelief, to anger. He was still, very still, as he considered her.
The first punch came as a complete surprise. He punched her in the stomach. She didn't have time to scream; she just doubled over, the air knocked out of her. Her falling down that easily made him mad. He thought she was faking, so he straightened her up and punched her in the mouth, then in the eye to teach her a lesson. When she finally hit the ground, he kicked her in the ribs. Luckily for her, she'd already passed out when he tired of using his feet and his fists and then saw the broom.
This event happened on a sunny spring afternoon when the temperature hit seventy-three degrees in Central Park and the sky was the color of cornflowers. When Anton Popescu called 911, he said he'd come home from work early and found his wife of five years bloody and unconscious on the kitchen floor and their infant son gone from their exclusive Central Park South apartment. The police arrived en masse within minutes.
CHAPTER 2
A
t the same time down in Chinatown, Lin Tsing, a newcomer to America, a seventeen-year-old illegal alien, lay on an old blanket under the living room window, as far away from the other occupants of the tiny tenement apartment as they could put her. She hadn't been well, and now she was acting spooky, like a woman possessed. She had come home early from work, spoken to no one, and wouldn't answer questions. She had a glazed and empty look on her face, as if she had entered another world since morning. And they didn't like it one bit. She lay there in a stupor, listening to them argue about her.
They were afraid she was sick; they wanted to put her out. She could hear them discussing this. The men kept their distance. The women hovered around her, covering their mouths and noses to protect themselves from whatever ailed her.
It was not so easy for them to get her out, however. She had enemies and no friends. Their problem was how to go about getting rid of her without bringing trouble from many directions upon themselves. No one made any effort to hide the nature of their dilemma. Lin could feel the women huddling together, not too close to her, afraid of everything, not knowing what to do.
Mei, with the shrill voice, said Lin was bad luck and they should put her on the street. This woman was shushed by the others for being so outspoken even though everyone, except the two aunties, believed that if Lin were put out on the street, an ambulance with sirens going and lights flashing would magically come and take her to the hospital. They were sure of this because they believed that the authorities in New York did not like to have sick people on the streets. The discussions intensified during the late afternoon when Lin would not speak and get up again, even to relieve herself. She could have been deaf for all they cared. The two aunties gave her a few aspirin, but they had no other medicine to give her.
Lin let herself drift, welcoming the emptiness in her head. She had been sick before and gotten well before. In the part of her head that was still aware and could think about things, she'd decided that being sick was a good way out. If she was sick, she did not have to work. She did not have to show herself on the street or have anyone ask her questions, threaten her, or get her in trouble. Now her troubles were over. She would rest, and she would recover.