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18
Reece
Lucía’s eyes pop open and she stares at me unblinking. I let go of her hands and stand back. And then, I tell her.
“The summer I turned nineteen, I was back in LA. I had just competed at my first Olympics and I’d medaled. My coach was kicking my ass getting me ready for my next meet. I was in the gym and swimming ten, sometimes twelve hours a day. I was exhausted at the end of those days.” Her face is a study in patient curiosity. I look away, I blow out a breath and keep going.
“One night after practice, I was leaving the gym and I saw a woman being attacked in the parking lot. A man had her pinned to the ground, facedown and he had her dress up around her waist. I ran over and pulled him off her. He ran off as soon as I got him loose. I thought about chasing him, but she was a mess, petrified and I didn’t want to leave her alone. So, I sat with her and called the police. They came, took my statement, I gave a general description and went home.” I can remember that night like it was yesterday. I’d gotten a pretty good look at the guy. Or so I’d thought.
Lucía’s perfectly still. Her curious expression completely blank as she takes in what I’m saying.
“The next day they called, said they’d picked someone up and wanted me to come down to the station to see if I could pick the guy out in a line up. The lady who’d been attacked had never seen his face. I went, picked the guy that looked like the one from the night before. They thanked me, told me I’d picked their guy and that they’d let me know if they needed anything else from me. I never heard from them again.
“Fast forward four years. I won a gold in the Olympics, but came home injured after that car accident. My shoulder was shredded and no amount of surgery would have made me whole. I retired but had months of physical therapy to deal with. Fabienne was out of the country for work and I was staying with my parents. One day over lunch, I asked my mom if she’d ever gotten an update.
“She told me they’d gotten a call, a couple of weeks after the initial incident. Another woman had been attacked near the pool. The woman that was attacked had a Taser and stunned him repeatedly until the police arrived. The DNA they took from him matched the DNA they took from the attack I helped to stop.”
I take her hand and she doesn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes are completely unfocused and swim with unshed tears.
“I’d picked the wrong guy out of the lineup. She and my father decided it was best not to tell me because the news came right before a major meet. She said she didn’t know anything about what happened to the poor kid I’d originally identified.”
I look at Lucía and can see that even before I finish my story, realization is dawning on her. She snatches her hand out mine.
“Luc . . .”
She shakes her head, quick and fast and I plow ahead to finish the story. I just need to lay it all out and see where we go from there.
“I called the police officer who’d been assigned to that case and I asked after the first suspect. The case had been closed. I had to bribe him with movie premier tickets to get him to look up the boy’s information. But then he told me that even though the boy had been arrested for the attempted rape, they’d also charged him with unlawful entry into the U.S. and he’d been in ICE custody within forty-eight hours of being arrested.”
She whimpers . . . it’s feeble and broken and I feel a trickle of cold sweat run down my back. Yet, I push on.
“And then he told me his file showed that he was deceased. Died in the detention center awaiting deportation. At the age of sixteen.”
She starts to sob, quietly, but her shoulders are shaking.
I move to her, to put my arms around her. As soon as I do, she pulls away. Her eyes ablaze and her jaw clenched, her mouth pinched. She rises on her toes to put her face in mine, and between gritted teeth, she spits, “Get out.” And then she bursts into tears.
“Lucía . . . I’m sorry.”
I stop talking because she is crying so loudly. Sobbing uncontrollably. I don’t know what to do. Driving over here, I could only think one thing and that was I was going to have it out with her for lying to me. I’d assumed that was the worst thing. But this is the worst thing. I never suspected that she would tell me the story in her book was her story, too. That the boy whose life I’d ruined was her brother’s.
“I know sorry isn’t good enough, but it’s why this issue, this movie is so important.” I know I can hear the plea in my voice. But right now, I’m ready to beg if it would make her listen to me.
“Luc—”
“Shuuuuut up!” Lucía roars at me suddenly, in the middle of a crying jag. She fights her way out of my loose hold and jumps up. “I don’t want to hear any of this!” she shouts at me. She is vibrating with rage and every word she bellows is punctuated with her jabbing a finger in my direction. Her face is tear streaked, her nose is red and her lips are puffy.
“He was my brother. My blood. And you’re telling me it was you who put him behind bars? You who cut his life short? And why? Because you were tired from your swim practice and didn’t get a good look at him? Or do all Mexicans look the same to you?” Her hands are waving around her head as she screams. She’s still crying, her rage and sorrow creating a tempest before my eyes.
“What do you want me to say? That I forgive you?” She clutches her chest, tears streaming from her burning eyes. She doesn’t bother to wipe at them as she faces me.
I can’t answer her. I have no idea what I want to say. She rushes into the house and I follow her.
She grabs the front door and pulls it open.
“Get out,” she says, not looking at me, her voice barely above a whisper. But I hear her loud and clear.
“Lucía, please. I know you’re angry, but let’s talk,” I say, not budging. I need more from her, even if it’s fury.
