“Ferns and figs,” she says, flinching as my nose tickles the bare skin of her shoulder.
“Never wear another scent.” I inhale as much of her as I can. “It smells…like you.”
Sweet and natural. Sexy and real.
God damn, she makes me lose my mind.
“Thank you,” she says. “And thank you for coming.”
“We wouldn’t be anywhere else, Lou.”
“Are you ready for a taste of my world?”
“We’re ready for whatever you throw our way,” I say, as Paige grabs one of each of our hands.
A couple of hours later, Luke escorts Lou onstage as the first ad for House of Moreno plays on the wall-sized screen behind her. Images of her in dress after dress after dress, all showcasing the wounds from her battle with Pierre in front of our houses. She didn’t cover any of it. Every shot has a bruise, a gash, or a scar prominently highlighted. A strange woman voiceovers the images, talking about the cause, describing the help the charity hopes to give. I can’t focus on them, though. All I see is Lou. On the screen and standing tall on the stage as she looks at me.
I give her an encouraging smile and mouth the words, “I am so fucking proud of you.” She smiles back, her eyes shining, not with tears but with something soft. Love, I think. Then, she walks to the microphone.
“I am not a victim,” she starts. “I was abused. Controlled. Manipulated. Gaslit, for years. I was beaten when no one was looking. Humiliated when they were. But I am not a victim. I fell for a charming, accomplished man who love-bombed me until I was hooked. Until I was alone in the world with nobody buthim by my side. Nobody else was good enough to be in my life, he’d said. They drag you down, he said. Hold you back. With me, you’ll soar. He failed to mention that he meant through a wall, or a window, or down a flight of stairs,” she says to a chorus of shocked gasps and sympathetic cries. “But I am not a victim. In the minute I’ve been speaking, twenty-four more people, in this country alone, have fallen victim to rape, physical abuse, or stalking by an intimate partner. Twelve million people a year report such atrocities from their partners. Nearly half of all women and men will experience psychological aggression from their intimate partner in their lifetime. Children witness violence by a domestic partner in nearly one in four cases filed in court. House of Moreno aims to lower every one of those statistics. I am Louisa Moreno, and I am not a victim. I am a survivor.”
She lets a lone tear fall, and I hate that I can’t be up there to wipe it away when the crowd stands and applauds. No one with more enthusiasm than the eight-year-old beside me.
“But survivors have a new set of issues when they escape their horrific situation. They are three times more likely to self-harm. Three times more likely to develop PTSD. They are twice as likely to develop depression and six times more likely to have a substance use disorder.
“For now, my abuser is behind bars. People will tell you I’m lucky. That I’m lucky I survived. When what statistics really show is that the abusers are the lucky ones. They rarely see the punishment they deserve. My abuser will be lucky because he’ll get out. Probably sooner rather than later. He’ll be lucky because people, some maybe in this room, right now, will want to work with him. They’ll hire him. One of you may even date him. Me being here, my bruises on full display, doesn’t make me lucky. It makes me brave. It makes me strong. Stronger than him.
“Strong enough to build a coalition of safe houses around the country where survivors can seek shelter, safety, education, career training, daycare services, and therapy. A place to start fresh, free of the tethers of their tormentors. With the help of the fashion industry, House of Moreno will be there to support survivors like myself, because I couldn’t have done it without help, and I want to offer that same helping hand to others.”
There’s another round of applause and I take the time to hone in on the voices around me.
She’s so brave. I can’t believe he did that to her. I can. Pierre was always an asshole.
Mostly, they’re in support or sympathy. But there are a few people with lackluster clapping and disbelieving looks. I make eye contact with one of the men who peers up at the stage as if he’d like to do the same to her as Pierre did. I stare the motherfucker down until his neck reddens and he looks at his feet.
She’ll never escape it. In every crowded room, she’ll face at least one naysayer. At least one predator hiding behind a well-tailored suit and expensive tie. They’re everywhere. But from here on out, she’ll have me watching her back as she walks forward in life.
“There’s something I want to do in Los Angeles,” she tells me later that evening. After she answered all the press questions that awaited her outside the theater. After her impromptu photo shoot with Paige in their matching dresses, which my daughter loved, saying she felt like she was a movie star. After Lou removed her impossibly high heels and I massaged the tension out of her feet.
“Anything.”
“Since he’s still in jail,” she says, “I want to go to his house and pick up some of my stuff. Will you go with me? I don’t want to walk in there by myself.”
That’s exactly what we do. Juliet and Paige had a pool day at the hotel in Disneyland, while I drove Lou to pick up the possessions she’d left behind. I was surprised that he hadn’t changed the security codes on the door or the alarm.
“He wouldn’t,” she’d said. “He’d leave a way for me to fly back into my cage.”
She was right. On the drive, she’d said there were only a handful of things that she really cared about. I encouraged her to not limit herself. Even if they weren’t items she wanted to keep, they still had value. Maybe not to her, but to her cause.
We ended up filling the back of the SUV. The smile didn’t leave her lips the entire drive back to Anaheim.
Lou has found purpose. She’s found herself.
I’ve found the love of my life.
Epilogue
Lou
