“She lost the kids,” D.D. interrupted.
“Yes. Juanita blames me for the alcohol, for all her problems back then. Which isn’t fair. She was drinking way before she met me. But together . . . we were so loco. Apart is better for us. She is sober now, goes to AA every week. Manny says so. And me, I cleaned up my act, too. For Manny. He is my boy. Every Sunday, I pick him up and it’s our day together. Juanita and I, we might have the devil inside. But Manny . . . he is perfect. In every way. Perfecto.”
D.D. nodded. Her hand was still on Hector’s arm. Now her grip relaxed. But she kept her gaze on his face, her voice level.
“You’re saying Juanita was an alcoholic when she met you. But now she’s sober?”
“Yes.”
“What about this new guy, Charlie Boyd?”
“Mmm, they met maybe a year ago? Juanita is a nurse at St. Elizabeth’s. Charlie came in for stitches. Had cut himself on the job.”
“He’s a contractor?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like him? Get along?”
Hector shrugged. “Manny likes him. He’s helping Charlie work on this house. Fix up the place, learn some skills. I like that. Maybe Manny will become a contractor, too. Better money than bartending.”
“Sounds like Charlie spends a lot of time with your son.”
Hector stiffened, but didn’t take the bait. “Charlie doesn’t like me. Like I said, Juanita blames me for her drinking, so Charlie does, too. But I asked around. Charlie’s not so perfect either. At one time, he was a man who liked his beer. Manny, though, he says everything is good now. Charlie gave up drinking for Juanita, even goes with her to meetings sometimes. Life is calmer. Juanita . . . happier. That’s good. I loved Juanita once. She is the mother of my son. I want her to be happy.”
“And the girls?” D.D. asked. “Roxanna and Lola? Who are their fathers?”
“I don’t know. Juanita never talked about them.”
“One man? Two separate fathers?”
“Different men. But not around. I told you, Juanita was a drinker before she ever met me.”
“What can you tell us about the girls? Did they get along? Like Manny?”
“Roxanna and Lola? Yes, of course. Manny is their baby brother. They love him. Maybe spoil him. It’s not so bad that Juanita moved in with Charlie. Otherwise, poor Manny was being raised in a family of girls.”
“Roxanna is sixteen. Pretty?”
Hector shrugged. “Sure,” he said in a way D.D. took to mean he was being polite. “But, um, maybe not like her mother and sister. Juanita, muy guapa! And Lola . . . her mother’s daughter. Trouble, that one.”
In other words, D.D. thought, Roxanna was the ugly duckling of the family. Interesting. “She into boys?”
“Roxanna? No! Roxy is quiet, shy. She reads, takes her studies very seriously. When Juanita and I were living together . . . Roxy fed her siblings, got them dressed, then off to school, where there was also day care for Manny. She took very good care of them.”
“Roxy is the responsible one?”
“Yes.”
“She have a job?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She’s close to the dogs? Maybe the one who takes them for walks?”
“Blaze and Rosie? Manny loves those dogs! Charlie, he rescued them from some breeder. The kids, even before they liked Charlie, they loved his dogs. Roxy and Manny often take them for walks together. Manny says they are very good. When they were puppies, they were never allowed outside, so now they like to be on the back porch, lie in sunbeams. On walks, they trot right along; you’d never even know they were blind.”
“The dogs spend most of their time outside?”
“In good weather, yes.”
D.D. looked up at the brilliant blue sky, figured today qualified.
“And Lola?” she asked.
Hector hesitated. “Mmm. Lola is very pretty. Too pretty for thirteen. And fiery, like her mother. She doesn’t take her schooling seriously. And she definitely likes boys. Manny says she and Juanita fight. All the time. Things have not been easy lately.”
“Manny mention any particular boy his mother and sister might have been fighting about?”
“Manny’s nine. He thinks his thirteen-year-old sister is silly; he doesn’t pay much more attention than that.”
“But Manny loves his sisters and they love him?”
Hector smiled. His whole face softened, the jagged mark on his cheek becoming less menacing, more of a war wound. And D.D.’s heart broke for what she’d have to tell the big guy next.
“Those girls, they would do anything for Manny. And he loves them, too. He’s sweet, kind. Not at all like me. Can I see him now? My son?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Alvalos . . .”
“He’s at the hospital?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Alvalos . . .”
Then, she didn’t have to say the rest. He knew. From the neighbors’ reactions, the crime scene tape, the detectives who wouldn’t let him inside the home.
Or maybe a parent simply always knew. Felt it, like a light suddenly winking out.
Hector’s knees buckled. He went down, D.D.’s hand upon his shoulder. She kept it there while he hung his head and wept.
Chapter 4
AFTER MY MORNING RUN, I showered—forever—then threw on a pair of old gray sweatpants and a rumpled white T-shirt from my favorite kickboxing gym. I padded into my tiny kitchen, stood, stared, tried to identify anything I could eat. My mother was a compulsive baker under stress. To this day, our time together remained awkward. Her anxiously seeking my face for signs of fresh bruises, abrasions. Me trying to pretend that no, I hadn’t wandered the streets of Boston at three A.M., trying to blow off steam by baiting predators and picking fights. But at least when my mom came down from her farm in Maine, she brought me food and baked even more while she was here.
According to my refrigerator, she hadn’t visited in a bit. I should do something about that. Pick up the phone. Make the effort. Be the daughter she deserved.
What my mother and I had in common was guilt. Guilt on her part that I’d been abducted, though it was hardly her fault. Guilt on my part that my kidnapping had put her through four hundred and seventy-two days of hell, though that was hardly my fault. Jacob Ness. He did it. Hurt us both. And we hated him, vehemently. Which was the real problem. We both needed to let him go. Samuel told me that all the time. I would truly be over my trauma when I could go an hour, a day, a week without even thinking of Jacob’s name.
I wasn’t there yet.
I gave up on food, poured a giant mug of coffee instead. Then I crossed the three feet from my kitchen to my family room, where I set myself up on the sofa, laptop balanced on my knees, coffee mug at the ready. Light streamed in from the bank of windows on my second-story apartment. I kept the windows covered in a light gauzy material, enough to grant some kind of privacy in the midst of an urban area while allowing sunlight to filter across the room. Needless to say, I still didn’t do well in small dark spaces.
Such a bright, sunny Saturday morning. So many things normal people must do on a day like today. As for me . . .
I booted up my laptop. I got to work. Because while I’d never sold my story to any of the producers or agents banging at my door, lately I had started sharing it. In little bits and pieces. To a select group of kindred spirits, other survivors like me, also trying to find their way.
A year ago, I’d established a private chat room where we could meet. Sometimes just to vent or support one another through a particularly bad day. But also where, from time to time, we shared more detailed posts from our own experiences.
I hadn’t known what I’d think of it. One, this attempt at mentoring others. Two, finally putting even small pieces of my story into words. And yet . . .
These women I could talk to. These survivors got me.
And it did help make a difference.