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ISABELLI LUNA MARTINS
New York - three years ago
A chance or a risk?
Right now, it makes no difference to me. I’ve planned this for weeks, and there’s no time for a last-minute ‘let’s think about it, Iz’ jitters. I’ve got to get myself and my son away from Nando—far enough for us to lay low for a couple of months. Then, once I’ve given birth, I’ll be able to move again.
“Raffi, come on, baby. It’s time.” I wake my seven-year-old son.
“I’m still tired!” He slithers under the covers until I can only see his crown.
“We’ve got to go now.” I tug the comforter off him, mother’s guilt swarming me.
On my phone, a notification shows Nando’s flight has just departed. So for sure, he won’t be back until tomorrow night.
Raffi complains some more, but he eventually drags himself out of bed.
“You’ve got Mr. Oreo?” The fluffy toy is tucked under his arm. I’m just reminding him to hold on to it. Raffi won’t go anywhere without his beloved toy black lab. He’s hugged it, taken it for a walk (his version), slept with it—and on it—since I gave it to him for his third birthday.
We make our way down to the garage. Raffi settles himself in the back seat of my packed SUV, mumbling, “If Dad finds out, we’ll be in trouble.”
That man said he was going to marry me. Sweet, innocent Nando. But I never wish to get near that nightmarishly-ever-after milestone. I met him when I was seventeen and had Raffi when I was nineteen. He said finding me, a Latina with blue eyes, was like witnessing a rare flower that only bloomed one night a year. It should’ve been perfect. Until Nando turned my dream into hell. But I kept going, clinging to the hope that I could change him back to the man I fell in love with.
“He’s not here, baby, and he won’t know where we’re going.” I cover Raffi with a blanket and put on his seatbelt. My finger stiffens as I press the garage remote like I’m launching a bomb.
There might not be such a thing as a safe haven against Nando, but a temporary refuge is all I need until I can get help. In what form or from whom, I don’t know. But there’s got to be something or someone on this earth that can help me free myself from his clutch.
“Mom! Wait! Mr. Oreo!”
I sigh. “He’s not with you?”
“No.”
“Raffi! Where is it?” I rummage around him and through the car. “It’s not here,” I huff.
“Mom, find him. Please…”
He must’ve dropped the toy somewhere in the house. “You stay here, okay? I’ll get Mr. Oreo.”
A faint sound of a vehicle halts me.
Our house is perched on a cliff, facing the Atlantic Ocean. Our closest neighbor is a mile away. Whoever I hear is driving the cliff road and can’t know we’re leaving.
“Wait here, Raffi. Stay quiet.” I scramble to close the garage door before I return to the house.
I peep out the window. “Shit! Fuck!”
This isn’t happening. That man is supposed to be up there somewhere in the atmosphere, and he seems to be in a hurry to get home.
Too late to do anything else, I head to the kitchen.
I don’t need him to announceI’m home. The clinking sound of him tossing his keys into the bowl has primed me to heighten my alertness—and fear.
“Honey! You’re back early.” I throw him a surprised smile, a drink in my hand.
Nando strides to me, playing with the waves of my honey-brown hair, then circling his arms around my chest.
