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You seemed happy with her, and she smiled around you, even laughed. I couldn’t remember ever making her as happy as you did. You had your own room and lots of toys, and she rocked you to sleep. That first night home, I stood in the doorway of your room and watched her sing “Hush, Little Baby” to you.
I felt my father come up behind me; the air turned cold. He eased up too close, put a hand on my hip, and whispered in my ear, She’s going to be a looker. Your little wetback.
I spun around. Don’t you even look at my daughter.
He smiled. I’ll do what I want. Don’t you know that by now?
I screamed in rage and pushed him away from me. His eyes widened as he lost his balance. He reached out for me and I backed away, watching him tumble down the hardwood stairs—rolling, thumping, cracking, banisters breaking. When he was still, I went down to stand beside him. Blood seeped out from the back of his head.
I felt a pale gray coldness descend around me; it cut me off, separated me. I dropped to my knees in the blood beside him. “I hate you,” I said, hoping these were the last words he’d ever hear. When I heard my mother’s voice, I looked up.
What have you done? my mother screamed. She had you in her arms; you were sleeping. Even her cries didn’t waken you.
He’s dead, I said.
Oh, my Lord. Winston! My mother ran back into the room and I could hear her calling the police.
I ran up after her, caught her as she was hanging up.
She turned. I’ll get you help, she said.
Help.
I knew what that meant. Electroshock and ice baths and barred windows and medications that made me forget everything and everyone.
Give her to me, I pleaded.
She’s not safe with you. My mother’s arms tightened around you. I saw how she was fighting for you and it hurt me so much I couldn’t breathe.
Why didn’t you fight him for me?
How?
You know how. You know what he did to me.
She shook her head, saying something I couldn’t hear. Then, very quietly: I’ll protect her.
You didn’t protect me.
No, she said.
I heard the sirens coming. Give her to me, I begged again, but I knew it was too late.
Please.
My mother shook her head.
If they found me here, they’d arrest me. I was a murderer now. My own mother had called the police, and God knew she wouldn’t protect me.
I’ll be back for her, I promised, crying now. I’ll find Rafe and we’ll be back.
* * *
I ran out of my parents’ house and crouched behind a giant rhododendron in their yard. I was still there when the police and the ambulance showed up, and the neighbors.
I wanted to hate who I’d become—a murderer—but I couldn’t feel anything but happy about his death. I had saved you from him, at least. I wanted to save you from my mother, too, but really, how could I care for you alone? I was nothing. I had no job, no money, no high school diploma.
We needed Rafe to make us a family.
