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“I’ll be there soon.”
This isn’t the first time Matty complains about a headache to get away from a lesson he loathes. But I suspend my suspicion. If he’s really ill, I won’t hesitate to take him to the hospital and ask for Isabelle.
11
ISABELLE
“Babe?” Thomas greets me with a frown. “Why are you looking like Heath Ledger?”
Am I really looking like a scary clown?
“Sorry I’m late. Had to deal with a difficult parent,” I huff out my lie.
His hooded eyes follow me as I put my handbag on the café chair and sit down. It’s a January day. L.A. is overcast, around fifty degrees, and slightly breezy. Yet, hot flashes rise in my chest. The walk between here and where I left Clayton felt like a walk of survival.
“Oh! You found your bracelet.” Thomas studies my wrist under the light. “How shiny!”
“I found it and got it clean. It was in my bag all along.”
“See! What did I tell you? You just forgot where you put it. All those tears!”
“I know!”
I came home from Kenya whimpering like a child and I blamed it for losing my bracelet. It was true, I was terribly sad about it, but the pent-up stress, confusion and fear just broke me. Moreover, seeing my son again—after apparently being hidden in Sacramento while I was away—just made me realize how close I was to losing him. When we picked him up, Raffi stopped talking to Don, and somehow that rattled the man. I guess the boy was the only one who hadn’t seen him as an enemy, and when that changed—miraculously—the Reaper showed remorse. His stance softened as he tried to win my son back. When talks failed, he put forth a different kind of peace offering.
Don gave us a couple of VIP tickets to an L.A. Clippers game with backstage access. My son worships that team like they were gods. For the sake of Raffi, I accepted Don’s offer and let him be the hero. I even let him tell my son lies. About how wonderful our trip to Kenya was, that he’d take him there next time, and that he transferred him to Sacramento that night for protection because some bad guy wanted to hurt him.
Had I stayed with Clayton that night, defying Don, things would’ve turned out differently. So I made the right choice. Because I swear, I wouldn’t be able to live without Raffi.
After fidgeting for a few seconds, Thomas sits tall. He then leans forward. “Hey, I think it’s time for us to start preparing our getaway.”
It’s taken us too long, but his statement terrifies me.
He had his twenty-first birthday just last week. The guy has a brilliant mind. If only someone else had spotted his talent. He won a programming contest that Fletcher Tech organized despite having no formal qualification. He was sixteen, broke, and lost. He had a rap sheet like a small-time thief but got tangled with the big guys—enticing enough for Don to intervene and take control of his life.
“Tell me,” I urge.
“Look, I know someone in the immigration who knows someone who can give us new passports.”
“Thomas, I don’t want to mess with immigration.”
“They’ll be legit passports issued by the Department of State, but the records will be like ghost records.”
I shake my head.
He presses, “It’s the only way we can get out of here, out of Don’s reach.”
“Where to? We’ll be forever fugitives!”
“We can go to Thailand or Cambodia.”
I puff. “You may be able to survive living there. You’ll even love living there!” He’s told me his ideal place to live is by an exotic beach where coconut cocktails are served in abundance, and people speak a foreign language. “But can you imagine me and Raffi?”
“I would’ve said the Caymans or Virgin Islands, but Don has got contacts there. Even in Mexico or Brazil.”
The last country makes my skin itch all over. My parents and I left Brazil in the middle of the night, not knowing if we’d arrive in the United States alive. We were packed like cattle, transported in a windowless cart, sitting on a floor coated in human excrement.
“No. I wouldn’t go near South America,” I maintain.
