Sasha

The airport is crazy busy today, and Enrique didn’t say where to meet him, just when. It’s 5:00 p.m., and I’m sitting by the luggage check-in looking up and down the terminal for anybody resembling my ex-husband or his family.

Fifteen minutes later, I see him heading my way, and things start to make sense. He’s dressed in a red satin button-up shirt, or blouse if I’m being specific, shorts that appear to be ladies bootie shorts, multiple gold chains, combat boots, and his hair is in a high ponytail with a purple streak and a braid.

“Um, hey, you look uh, great.”

“Hola mi amore, gracias por venir,” he says cupping my cheek. Everyone checking their luggage has been staring at him walking toward me, and now they are staring at me, too.

He leans in to kiss me, and I turn my head away. He takes hold of my chin and turns my head to face him again. “I want to kiss my wife.”

“I’m not your wife anymore, Enrique. We got divorced, or have you forgotten?”

“Divorce is a piece of paper.”

“So is marriage.”

“No, marriage is a sacred union between two people who love each other. I love you, my Sasha.”

My Sasha. Shit, he’s trying to be romantic, but he just reminded me of Victoria. “I don’t love you, Enrique. I haven’t loved you for a long time. What do you want from me?”

“I need you to go home with me and tell my papa that you will take care of me and make sure I take my medicine and stay out of trouble.”

I take two steps backward. “No. No way, I’m not going to Mexico with you.”

“I need you, Sasha. He’s going to kill me if you don’t.”

“He’s your father. He’s not going to kill you.”

“He kills people for a living. I make him trouble, he kills me. You come with me, I live… simple.” His accent gets thicker the more agitated he becomes until he’s speaking full-on Spanglish.

I’m pacing back and forth in the terminal wishing I hadn’t left my cell phone at Tito’s house. I need to get out of here before he throws me over his shoulder and hauls me to a private plane and flies me to Mexico.

I stop in front of my he/she ex-husband and poke him in the chest with my finger.

“You have to promise to leave my friend and his little girl alone. Forever.”

“Si, yo prometo.”

“I’m not going to Mexico, though.” He tries to interrupt me, but I put my hand on his mouth. “No, no, this is how it’s got to be if you want me to lie to your father. We do it via Skype.” I take my hand away.

“No. We go.”

“No. We don’t.”

“He will not allow it.”

“You’re going to have to force me, and if you do, I’ll scream bloody murder.”

He throws up his arms mumbling in Spanish and turns in a circle several times like a dog trying to make a nice spot to lie down.

“Sasha, Sasha, you don’t understand my father. He’s insane, he hates me. I’m a failure to him, and he wants to rid the earth of me, please help me. You’re the only person who ever cared about me. Everybody else only wanted money or drugs or power or fame, but you, you made my heart swell, you showed me real love, and I need you.”

I close my eyes and let my head fall back crossing my arms over my chest. He places his hands on my arms softly. He’s right. No one has ever loved him like a person needs to be loved. He was coddled as a child, spoiled with materialistic things and given no attention, which I suspect exacerbated his mental illness.

And now that he is sick and acting out, they are abandoning him, pushing the responsibility for his well-being off onto someone else, threatening to kill him if he doesn’t miraculously get well.

I open my eyes. “Enrique, I can’t be responsible for you. If we do this, either way, face to face or via Skype, your father will be expecting me to follow through. I can’t be with you like that anymore. I’m in love with someone else.”

“Just tell him, tell him you will, and I will hire a professional to help me.”

“Why don’t you just tell him you’re hiring a nurse then?”

“He says only you… he will only trust my wife.”

“You never told him we divorced, did you?”

He looks down at his combat-clad feet. “No.”

“Oh my God, Enrique, you’re such a mess. All right, I’ll do it, but then you have to keep your shit together, or he will be after both of us.”

He starts hopping up and down in front of me. “I will. I will. I promise. Oh, thank you, Sasha, thank you,” he gushes.

“You’re welcome. We have to try it my way first, though. I don’t want to go to Mexico.”

“Okay.” He’s clutching his hands together in front of his chest still bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet. He can hardly contain his manic energy.

“We have to get you changed, you look ridiculous. And where are your meds?”

“In my bag.”

“Where’s your bag?”

He looks around not finding the bag. “Never mind, do you have money?”

“Yes.”

“We can go buy you something to wear and refill your prescriptions. Then we can go to your house and fix you up so we can Skype your dad.”

“Okay, sure. You’re so smart, Sasha.” Thankfully he’s always been complimentary and pleasant when he’s manic.

We make our way out of the airport with a couple of catcalls—for Enrique—and a lot of staring eyes until we reach his truck. He hurries around to open the door for me, but I ask for the keys, and he hands them over willingly. I drive us to the nearest mall, and we choose an appropriate outfit, and he changes into it. Then we make a stop at the drug store for his meds, dose him up, and drive to the summer home his father owns on the beach. The offspring of drug lords don’t stay in hotels… how could I have forgotten?

“How about we sit out by the pool, so it looks like we are vacationing in Florida, and everything’s fine?”

“Yeah, that’s good, real good. I like it,” he says unlocking the front door. Inside I’m shocked to find boxes of… of, everything and anything. Cases of chocolate bars, foreign beers, books, boxes from Amazon with various electronic devices, jewelry, and even kitchen appliances.

Holding down the flap of the box nearest me, I look at Enrique. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, I flew in this morning, but I ordered all this great stuff before I left California. Amazon is fucking amazing, isn’t it?”

I look around the room full of enough crap to fill a UPS truck and nod. “Yeah, fucking amazing,” I say under my breath. He’s on a buying binge again. I’m surprised his father hasn’t cut up his credit cards yet.

I watch him bustle around the room muttering to himself about cleaning up, and I wish that his medication worked immediately. Unfortunately, it takes at least five days to calm him. In the meantime, I’m going to give him a sedative to help while we are video chatting with his father.

“Enrique, did you take that pill?” He looks up from digging through a box of t-shirts with Eggo waffles on the front that says Why be a ten when you can be an eleven? I love Stranger Things. I’ll have to snag one of those when I leave.

“Yes, no, yes, which pill?” He’s agitated. I don’t need him agitated. I need him relaxed.

“The one to help you relax. I handed it to you in the truck.”

He nods confidently. “Yes, I took that one.”

“Let’s go outside, come on.” I take his hand and lead him to the patio where I sit him down at the table under the umbrella. “Now, where’s your laptop?”

He thinks for a moment, and it’s like I can see the medication working on his brain. He’s getting tired. He looks like he’s melting into the wicker chair. “Is it inside?” I ask trying to jog his memory.

“I don’t know.” His words are beginning to slur. I need to hurry before he’s knocked out. “How about we just FaceTime him from your phone?” I suggest, and he nods lazily.

I pluck the phone from his breast pocket and hold his finger to the home button unlocking it. When I find his father’s phone number in his contact list, I call and wait while the phone chirps.

“Hola hijo, dónde has estado? Te he estado llamando,” Carlos says when he sees his son’s face on the screen. I step into view and greet my former father-in-law.

“Hello, Carlos. We are on vacation in Florida. I’m so sorry we have missed your calls.”

His tone lightens, and a hint of a smile graces the corners of his mouth “Well, hola, my daughter. Why have I not seen or heard from you in so long?” He almost sounds hurt, but the suspicion in his voice voids it out.

“I’m so sorry. Working and trying to take care of your son is a full-time job,” I say playfully.

“You don’t have to work. You should quit that job with the shoes and take care of Enrique. He has been making much trouble lately.”

“I did. I quit, and I’ll be on Enrique duty twenty-four-seven from now on,” I say smiling sweetly at the phone.

“Oh, that is good news, very good news. I don’t need him drawing attention to himself, you know? He’s been wild lately.”

“It’s his meds. We have had to make some adjustments. I’m sure when the doctors get it all evened out, he will be as good as new.” I rub Enrique’s shoulder and kiss him on the top of the head like a doting wife would do.

“Did he tell you what’s going to happen if those med adjustments don’t work out?” he asks putting extra emphasis on the words med adjustments.

I stand up straight, and all of the color I got today in the sun drains from my cheeks. “Yes sir, he did. I am confident we will have a handle on it soon.”

“You’d better, or I’ll have someone make a trip to see him, and it won’t be a pretty Florida vacation.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Go put that worthless waste of space to bed before he does something stupid.” He disconnects the call, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I hate that man. I look at Enrique who is holding his head up with his hands, and I almost feel sorry for him.

He can’t help that he was born into a family of terrorist drug dealers. He also can’t help that he’s bi-polar, but he could take his damn medicine, so the rest of us don’t have to suffer.

“Ready for bed?”

“Te quiero mucho, Sasha,” he murmurs into his hands.

“Yeah, you only love me when you’re on the upswing. As soon as you come down from this high, you’ll beat the shit out of me and treat me like a dog so don’t tell me how much you love me, okay? Go to bed. I’m going to clean up around here a little.”

I cringe when the chair scrapes along the concrete. He wobbles when he stands, and I guide him to the French doors. When he has his balance, he swats at me, and I let go and watch him stumble around the boxes and into the bedroom where he flops down face first onto the king-size bed.

I start to go through all the things he ordered taping up the boxes up that he hasn’t pilfered and moving the unopened ones against the walls. When I’m done, I check on Enrique and find him passed out cold. Then I flop down on the couch and look at his phone.

I should text Xander and let him know I’m okay. Sneaking out the way I did was shitty, but I knew he would never let me go. I also know that if I contact him, he will convince me to come back, and I can’t do that, not yet anyway.

Today’s phone call will hold Carlos for a time, but eventually, I know he’s going to want me to come to Mexico with Enrique and make an appearance. If I walk out now, Enrique will go right back to threatening Victoria and Xander, and I can’t have that. I won’t.

I need a plan, a way to make Enrique go away without getting him, or anyone for that matter, killed. Nothing’s coming to me. I’m tired and exhausted. Scooting down on the couch, I stuff a pillow under my head and close my eyes. I can’t think anymore. I have to sleep and figure this all out in the morning.

Hours later, I wake to Enrique’s hands around my throat. He’s choking me, holding me tight against the couch. I can’t breathe, and my heart is pounding so hard, it hurts in my chest.

“Why are you here, bitch?”

I can’t answer his question because he’s blocking oxygen from entering my body. I thrash and try to wiggle out from under him, but it’s no use, he’s too heavy. Suddenly, he lets go, and I gasp for breath holding my hands around my throat.

“I know you don’t give a shit about me, Sasha, so I’m going to ask you one more time. Why are you here?”

“I love him and his daughter. I don’t want you to hurt them.”

He huffs in disgust and pushes off of me. I sit up right away to put myself in a better defensive position. He stands and storms into the kitchen.

“Go back to your doctor and his bratty kid, Sasha. You don’t belong here.”

I stand up and back toward the front door. “Not until you promise you’ll leave us alone. And not just for a couple of weeks. I want you to leave us alone forever.”

He turns to face me placing his hands flat on the island counter straightening his arms. His eyes are cold and dark, and his face twists into an evil expression with a curled lip and stiff jaw. He looks like the devil himself staring at me across the room like he’s about to condemn me straight to hell.

“Why would I do that? It’s so fun messing with your simple little minds. I text a few words, and you lock yourselves up in his security fortress thinking I can’t get to you there. I can. I will if I want to. But you’ll never see it coming. Forever you will be walking on eggshells wondering what’s around the next corner or over the next hill.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“You promised in front of God and my family that you would love me forever, in sickness and health, for better or worse, until death do us part.” He opens his arms and looks down at himself and then back at me. “We don’t look dead, Sasha. I got sick, and you bailed.”

“You never told me you were sick. And I wasn’t exactly a willing participant in our wedding ceremony. You know as well as I do I was forced to marry you.”

“Did you have a gun to your head?”

“No, but I was young and scared and in a foreign country where no one spoke English. I hardly knew what was happening and then, poof, I was married.”

“Liar, you knew what was going on. You wanted to marry me. Your eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning when I gave you that ring. You wanted me.”

He’s getting agitated again. I need to keep him calm so I can get out of here.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I was a bad wife, it’s no wonder you divorced me.”

“You asked for the divorce, not me.” He’s pouring himself a drink—Scotch neat—a double. Enrique isn’t nice when he’s depressed but add alcohol, and he could become lethal.

“You had someone else. I thought you didn’t want me. I thought she made you happy.”

“That slut never made me happy. She never made any man happy. She was a whore, trash from bad stock. She meant nothing to me, nothing at all.”

“I’m sorry, we had some bad communication, I guess.” I hold my hand on my chest. “And I’m sure it was me. I never was much good at talking to you.”

“I bet you communicate with your doctor friend just fine, don’t cha?” he asks throwing back his drink and slamming the glass down on the counter to pour another. Nothing I say is going to help. I have to get away, and I have to do it now. I start to back away when he’s not looking at me until I’m standing between the foyer and living room. He’s concentrating on pouring his next drink when I make a run for it.

I’m not wearing shoes. When I walk on the tile, it’s quiet, but when I open the door, he hears the creak of the wood. “Where do you think you’re going, bitch?” he roars, and I take off at supersonic speed running down the street and sliding Enrique’s phone from my pocket where I put it last night.

The cement hurts my feet, but they’re tough from all the time we’ve spent on the beach in the coarse sand. I have the advantage of being an avid runner, and Enrique is still mildly medicated and on his way to being drunk, but that doesn’t stop him. He’s clamoring out the front door when I bolt left at the end of the short street.

It’s still early—four or five in the morning, I think—so there aren’t many people out and about yet. I consider yelling, but I need to call Xander, and I can’t concentrate on pressing the right buttons if I’m yelling for help.

I glance up and down several times until I get his number dialed and hold it to my ear. “You better get back here, bitch. You know whatever my dad does to me he will do to you, too!” he yells.

I have no idea if he’s serious, but the threat makes me run faster. The phone is ringing, once, twice, and Xander picks up.

“Sasha? Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m running,” I say looking up at the street sign I’m passing. “I’m at the corner of York and Stanley Street going west down Stanley. Enrique’s chasing me,” I say huffing and puffing. “I need help.”

“York and Stanley, going west on Stanley,” he repeats to someone, probably Tito, sounding like he’s running, too. Yes, on foot, she’s being chased.” Tito asks him a question that he relays to me.

“What’s the phone number you’re calling from?”

“I don’t know! I’m running.” I glance behind me and see that he’s gaining on me, not a lot but enough to make me change gears and go faster.

“We’re coming, keep going, keep running, don’t you dare stop, do you hear me?”

“Yeah.” I look both ways as I dart between two parked cars and cross the street.

“Sasha! Dammit, stop running!” Enrique screams behind me getting closer. How is he even keeping up? The sedative I gave him should still be working a little bit, and his other meds make him groggy not to mention the three or four drinks he just had.

“I’m on my way, Tito has your location, and we’re in the car. Keep running baby, don’t let him catch up!”

“I’m trying. He’s gaining on me,” I pant. There’s a gas station and several shops coming up in the distance, but it’s still so early I doubt anyone will be there yet. “I see a gas station, it’s a Sunoco, but I don’t think it’s open.”

“Stop fucking running!” Enrique screeches behind me, but I ignore him and keep pushing myself forward.

“It’s only 5:00 a.m., keep going and don’t stop until you see us. Is he armed?”

God, I hadn’t thought of that. Enrique usually has multiple guns on him, but he just rolled out of bed. Lucky for me I left his gun in his truck yesterday after he changed his clothes at the store.

“No, no gun.” I hear Xander blow out a relieved breath.

I don’t hear Enrique anymore when I turn another corner. I take a fast look back and don’t see him coming either. Maybe he gave up? Maybe he passed out? Maybe he hurt his foot or twisted his ankle?

“Street! What street are you on Sasha?” Xander’s muffled, a far-away voice yells from the phone in my hand. I look up at the closest sign, “Brooklyn,” I yell.

“Take a right, we’re almost there, don’t stop,” he yells, and I continue on even though I just stepped on something sharp. I cry out, and Xander asks me what’s wrong, but I can’t answer him. I’m breathing too hard, and all my focus is on the pain surging up my leg with every step.

I consider stopping to see what’s causing the pain, but when I do, I hear Enrique’s voice close and menacing. “You thought you could outrun me, bitch?” he says stepping into the intersection straight ahead of me. I have no idea how he got there. He had to of known a shortcut and anticipated which way I’d go.

I stop in the street and turn to run in the opposite direction. When I do, I hear a horrible thump, bump, bump, whump, and finally a loud crack. When I turn around, Enrique is lying on the pavement lifeless with a pool of blood spreading on the ground under his head.

A little old lady driving a big blue Buick Regal hit him when he stepped into the street. I run to her glancing down at Enrique when I pass his body and find her shaking and white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“I didn’t see him. I didn’t see him. I drive early when nobody is on the road so that I won’t have an accident but… but, I didn’t see him.” She keeps repeating the same thing over and over. I tell her it isn’t her fault, he was in the street, and he was chasing me, but she can’t wrap her brain around it.

I open the car door checking to see that she’s all right, but she’s driving a tank, and there’s not a scratch on her. “You sit tight. I’ll call you an ambulance to make sure you’re okay,” I tell her.

I feel hands on my waist pulling me away from the car. Xander turns me in his arms to face him. “Are you okay? Shit, Sasha, are you hurt?” he asks, his hands traveling up and down my arms and torso searching for an injury.

“I’m fine. I didn’t have anything to do with the accident. He stepped out into the street, and she didn’t see him. I was running the other direction…” I look at Enrique’s lifeless body and shudder. “Is he?” I can’t finish my sentence.

“Yes, he’s dead.”

“You’re sure? Did you look at him?”

“His head injury is fatal, I’m sure.”

“Will you look her over? I don’t think she’s hurt, but she’s in shock.” I point at the lady, and he nods his head. When I step away, I limp, and he sees my bloody footprints on the cement.

“You’re feet are bleeding.” He scoops me up and walks me back to Tito’s car opening the door and sitting me on the edge of the seat with my feet dangling out. “Do you have a first-aid kit?” he asks Tito.

“Yeah, I’ll get it.” He gets out and walks around to the back of the car to retrieve it. Xander is crouched down examining the bottoms of my feet when I hear sirens in the distance.

“Did you call the police?” I ask.

“As soon as we left the house.” I watch as he picks glass from the cuts in my feet and bandages them with gauze pads from the first-aid kit. I grit my teeth and try not to complain as he works, but it’s not easy. The glass had plenty of time to become embedded deep into my feet while I ran, and I ran for a long time.

“I’ll need an x-ray to make sure there aren’t anymore. I’m going to check on the driver, I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” He points his finger in my face like a disobedient child when he says don’t move. I don’t say anything, he’s stressed, and I’ve put him through enough.

“You got lucky, you know?” Tito says gathering the first-aid kit and putting it back into the car.

“I don’t consider my ex-husband’s brains getting splattered all over the street lucky.” As much as I hated Enrique, there was always a part of me who felt sorry for him. Being born into a crime family and having a mental illness weren’t things he had any control over. He got a raw deal if you ask me, and his end wasn’t much better than his beginning.

Tito doesn’t comment. He joins Xander who is talking with the poor lady who just killed the son of Mexico’s biggest drug lord. Sadly, I don’t think he will even care about avenging his son’s death. He will be relieved he doesn’t have to worry about him anymore. Hell, he might send her a thank you note and a reward for saving him the trip to the States to do it himself.

Sometimes in life, you’re the window, sometimes, you’re the bug. –Mark Knopfler