Chapter 13
Celia felt a flutter in her womb—the baby was moving as she sat in the medical clinic. She placed her hand at the bottom of her abdomen, waiting to feel more. She was sixteen weeks along, past the danger of miscarriage, and her sickness had begun to subside.
Everything would be fine now. She was in America, where she and the baby had a good doctor. She had nothing to worry about. Of course, she had told herself the same thing many other times since coming to America. As it turned out, she seemed to have even more troubles now than she’d had at home, but she pushed the thought to the back of her mind.
In just five-and-half months, she would hold the squirming child in her arms and run her fingers over his soft hair, just as she had done with her little sister twelve years earlier.
How Celia had loved her sister, carrying her everywhere, strapping her to her back when her mother allowed, sewing tiny clothes for her, and imagining how they would talk together when they grew up. She would have taught her to read and write and crochet. But it was not to be. Ana caught the measles at four months old. They buried her in a little white dress, beyond the fields where the lavender grew.
Celia’s baby would have a better chance at life in America, where the deadly disease was largely a thing of the past.
Another flutter. This baby would be strong. She could feel it. He or she would be a citizen of the United States, a native English speaker with a handsome, athletic father. Their child would attend school, drink clean water, and eat wholesome food.
The door opened, and in walked André, wearing his sweaty soccer shirt and shorts. Celia startled like a songbird catching sight of a hawk, but she forced herself to keep still, feigning indifference. André hadn’t hit her since he’d made the team, but she still had to tread carefully. The bruise beneath her eye had faded to yellow. Since her skin was prone to scarring, she would probably always have the split on the right side of her upper lip and the break in her eyebrow.
His being here was progress, though. It seemed he wanted to hear his baby’s heartbeat. Maybe he really was excited about becoming a father. Maybe he did care about her health. From the scowl on his face, it was hard to tell. The man was less predictable and more volatile than Fogo’s volcano.
The nurse called them back before André had a chance to sit. He stood out of the way while the nurse took all the measurements.
After the nurse left, André flipped through a magazine, ignoring Celia. That was a good thing.
The doctor came in, looking at some papers and carrying the heart monitor. He said something she didn’t understand, shook hands with André, and then had her lie down. He squirted warm liquid on her belly and rolled the monitor over her skin until the machine picked up the sound of the baby’s heartbeat, fast and steady. She smiled to hear it, glancing at André to gauge his reaction—still a scowl.
Then André stood and spoke to the doctor in English. “Is it too late to terminate the pregnancy?”
The doctor frowned as Celia brought her hands protectively over her belly. “No,” she stammered. “I . . . want . . . the baby.”
The doctor studied her face, letting his gaze rest upon the latest bruise on her cheek. This one had been an accident. At least that’s what André said. He hadn’t meant to hit her, just show he was angry so she wouldn’t forget to wash his soccer jersey again.
André raised his voice. “Is it too late to terminate the pregnancy?”
Celia shivered as she lay on the examination table. If she didn’t cooperate with André, she’d feel the brunt of his punishment once they were alone.
The doctor narrowed his eyes and turned to André, saying something she didn’t understand.
Once André processed the question, he puffed out his chest. “Yes.”
After throwing another concerned look at her, the doctor placed a hand around André’s shoulders and escorted him from the room. “Wait here,” the doctor told her before he shut the door.
What was going to happen now? Was he going to abort the baby right here? The doctor had told her to wait, but she wanted to run.
She pulled up the waistband on her pants and got down off the examination table. Then she paced the floor, rehearsing her words out loud. “I do not want to terminate.”
The doctor came back a few minutes later with a laptop computer.
“I don’t want to terminate,” she told him.
“Yes,” he said, “I know.”
He set the computer on the examination table and typed into it while she stood by the door. Then he turned to her. “You speak Portuguese, correct?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He typed some more before rotating the laptop for her to see. “Read this.”
She read the Portuguese translation of his words: “It is not your husband’s choice to abort the baby. It is your choice. Your baby is healthy. There is no reason to abort. Do you understand?”
Tears flooded her eyes. He wasn’t going to force her. “Yes,” she said.
The doctor typed something else: “Is that bruise from your husband?” He pointed to her cheek.
She sighed and nodded again.
The doctor shook his head and pulled a pamphlet from his pocket, circling a phone number on it. Then he typed something else into his computer: “If he hurts you in any way, call this number. They’ll help you.”
“Thank you,” Celia said. It was the same number the Puerto Rican woman had given her, a number she’d now memorized.
He typed another sentence and pulled out his phone while she read: “I can call them now. They will give you a safe place to stay.”
She thought of the months she had spent sleeping on the floor at the Catholic church after the volcano erupted. She would go back to that if it meant keeping her baby, but she still had to get her things from the apartment. She would especially need her dictionary, and the phone number to call her mother. “No, thank you.” If only she could find her way home by herself, without André.
The doctor frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She would call later when she had her dictionary.
The doctor shook his head and exited the room, leaving the door open.
She peeked into the hall, making sure that André was nowhere in sight. She crept down the hall and peeked into the waiting room. He wasn’t there either. In another few steps, she was out of the office. In another ten, she was outside, walking toward the bus stop.
That was when she heard André’s voice behind her. “I’ve been looking at apartments, seeing how much they cost. I think we’ll be able to afford a place of our own soon. We won’t have to live with Grandma anymore.”
Right now, that was the last thing she wanted, to live alone with André. She quickened her pace as she headed for the bus stop.
But he went on talking as they stood at the bus stop. “Between the construction jobs I’ve been getting and your jobs cleaning houses, we’ll have plenty. That’s why I think it’d be better if we put off having a baby until later . . . after I’m on the pro soccer team. We don’t want to have a baby now.”
The hair on her arms raised, and she clenched her fists, preparing to resist if he tried to force her into aborting the baby.
“I talked to some of the guys on the team about it. We can end this pregnancy. Then, later on, when we’re more financially stable, when we’re really ready for a baby and can afford diapers and babysitters, we can try again.”
She turned to face him, squaring her shoulders. “No.” Her whole body shook as she said it, but she would not allow him to get his way.
“There’s another clinic a few blocks down this street. We could walk there right now. I’ll take you out to eat after.” He reached for her arm, but she flinched away.
“No.” Her voice was louder this time. There was no way she could give in to André on this. She already loved this baby, wanted this baby. It was hers, her flesh and blood, her family.
“Why not?” He grabbed onto her, his fingers locking around her bicep. This man who had once held her hand with a gentle touch had now become her greatest fear.
Cars passed on the street beside them, but despite all the people who might see, she swung her other arm around, whacking him in the head with her purse. “I’m not going to the clinic. I’m not going anywhere with you anymore.” When he didn’t let go, she whacked him again.
He grunted, swinging his elbow to protect his head. A car stopped beside them and an elderly man rolled down his window. “Are you okay, miss?” He would be no match for André.
“She’s fine,” André answered, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “I’m afraid she’s—how do you say it? Mentally ill . . . like her mother.” He dragged Celia away from the car, keeping the death grip on her arm. “You’re going with me to that clinic.”
She jerked back against his grasp. “That old man is going to call the police if you don’t let go of me.” She wasn’t just fighting for herself anymore. She was fighting for her child.
The bus squealed to a stop beside them, and when André relaxed his grip, she ran and got on, sitting down beside an old lady in the front while she dug in her purse for a few dollars. André glared at her. “Just wait until we get home,” he said. Then he scanned his pass and found a seat near the back.
Home wasn’t exactly the word she would use for their apartment together.
How she missed the days of her childhood. Before they lost the house in their home village, it was her custom to sit out on the front stoop with her mother, waiting to chat with anyone that happened by. Always one to stay busy, Mama would crochet doilies to sell to tourists. Even in the dark, she could keep her loops even and straight as she doled out advice.
Celia had given up following her mother’s counsel when she married André, thinking that because he ran a successful business, he could give her better advice than her mother ever could, especially since she had gone sick in the head. Now what she wouldn’t give to fall into her mother’s arms and pour out her sorrows. She bit the side of her lip, willing herself to hold in her emotions.
Talking to her mother was exactly what she needed, but how would she call her when she didn’t have a phone? More importantly, how could she do it without André or Teresa overhearing?
At their stop, she followed André off the bus, staying a few steps behind him as they walked toward their apartment complex. Luckily, he seemed to be ignoring her. Just get home, and you’ll be safe, she told herself. Teresa will be cooking, and André will sit down to eat.
But when André opened the door and they stepped inside, the apartment lay dark, the air stale. No food lay on the table to distract him.
The door shut behind her, and before Celia could run, André’s fist slammed into her nose, crunching the cartilage. She fell against the small table beside her. He kicked her ear, and she slumped to the floor, shrieking. Pain radiated through her head as metallic-tasting blood seeped into her mouth and salty tears raced down her cheeks. “That’s what you get for embarrassing me in public,” he said. Then he turned and walked to the bathroom, presumably for his nightly shower.
She lay on the linoleum floor, knowing her nose was broken. It was too painful to touch, so she crawled to the full-length mirror on Teresa’s bedroom door, blood dripping from her nose. What she saw almost made her faint—a monstrosity of a face with a dented, crooked nose. Blood poured into her mouth and down her neck.
This was it. She couldn’t do this anymore. He’d gone too far, and might break more than her nose the next time. Next time. There would be no next time. She had given him the greatest gift she could offer—her child—and he still wasn’t happy. He would never be happy with her, no matter how hard she tried. Everything to do with André was not going to be fine. Her American dream was dead. No more plans for a happy family with André. It was all about survival now. She got up and found a rag in the kitchen drawer. After wiping her hands with it, she placed it against her nose, trying to stem the tide. She had to get out of there before André finished his shower.
Her belongings were already neatly stacked in her tote bag—her clothes, the little bag of mementos from Fogo, her photos, her key to the apartment, and her dictionary. She had no cash in her wallet, of course. How ironic that was—that she, the one who worked all day, was the one who never had cash. Teresa gave the money Celia made to André, the so-called man of the house, and not to her. Some man.
It wasn’t right, and now, for once, she was going to get what she knew she deserved.
She opened the front door slightly and placed her tote bag beside it. She could hear the water running in the shower, so she crept to the bathroom door and tested the knob. Locked.
But she knew what to do. She had once seen Teresa unlock a similar door in a house they cleaned. Grabbing a small screwdriver out of the kitchen drawer, she inserted it into the lock and twisted. She felt a pop, and her heart hammered away.
Slowly, she twisted the knob. Then, all at once, she opened the door, caught sight of André’s wallet, and grabbed it. Without stopping to think, she also grabbed his phone.
“What are you doing?” He yelled, poking his head out from behind the shower curtain, but Celia was already shoving the door shut behind her and heading out of the apartment.
She could hear him behind her, opening the bathroom door. She didn’t turn to look, just grabbed her bag and flung open the front door. “Celia!” he yelled. “What are you doing with my things?”
She clutched the wallet and phone to her chest, threw the bag over her shoulder and ran with all she had, in spite of the jostling pain to her nose and her throbbing front teeth. Across the parking lot, past the overfilled dumpsters. She slipped the wallet into one pocket of her pants, the phone in the other. When she reached the sidewalk at the edge of the street, she heard him yell her name again. How close was he? She had to know, and risked a glance to see her dripping husband sprinting about twenty meters behind her. He wore only his soccer shorts, and his face burned with rage. With the shape he was in, he’d catch her within a minute.
She ran as fast as she could and didn’t look back. Past the rows of apartment buildings. Past the playground. Past Sofia, the teenage girl she’d caught with her husband. “What’s going on?” Sofia called after her, but Celia just kept running, her breath growing tight in her lungs, her swollen nose throbbing with each heartbeat.
His hand grabbed onto her arm and she screamed. The grip whipped her around just as she reached the bus stop, his wet hand tightly clutching her elbow.