An Untamed State (25 page)

Something soft was dropped on my face—my worn and filthy clothes. “Get dressed,” a voice said. It was not the Commander. I did not know his men’s voices well enough to make sense of this man though my body knew him. My body knew all of them. My bikini bottoms had long been forgotten. I stepped into my jeans quietly and pulled my shirt on, whimpering softly as the fabric fell over my skin. The man grabbed me by my elbow, dug his fingers into me even though that small cruelty was not necessary. He led me to the kitchen. On the table there were two cash counters shuffling money at a blurry pace, and an unfathomable number of stacks of hundreds and twenties, U.S. dollars.

I stared down at the ground, my bare feet. I was ready to say
mercy
to the Commander if he was going to throw me to his wolves once again. Right then, I would have done anything to save myself from the unkind attentions of all those men. The Commander sat at the head of the table wearing a dark pair of sunglasses. My escort shoved me toward the Commander and I stumbled into the kitchen, fell against him as he pulled me into his lap, held me against him, his arm across my stomach. I tried to pry his arm off me, strained to free myself from his embrace. He sank his teeth into the back of my neck and squeezed my breasts, less swollen now, hollowed. I inhaled sharply. The men around the table murmured their approval.

In the far corner, TiPierre stood sullen, glaring in my direction but avoiding eye contact like a spurned lover. A large bandage covered his cheek.

I nodded toward TiPierre. “How’s your face?” I rasped.

He jumped at me but the Commander shook his head, snapped his fingers once, and TiPierre stilled, remained in his corner.

I no longer gave a damn. I said, “Good dog. Heel.” I stuck my hand in the fire. I was willing to burn.

The Commander cleared his throat. “You will soon be free.”

There was a new, louder ringing in my ears. It drowned out the sound of everything in that room, the angry men, their voices, the cash machines still doing their work of calculating my worth. I said nothing, felt nothing.

“Did you hear me? It seems your father has finally found a reason to pay for his youngest daughter.”

I shook my head, still numb. “You said the negotiations ended.”

He squeezed my breasts again. “Perhaps I lied to you, after all.”

I tried to remember my name. I needed to remember my name but I couldn’t. It was locked somewhere I could not reach.

The Commander stood and pulled me after him. I resisted, trying to dig my heels into the slick floor. He threw me over his shoulder, ignoring my flailing limbs. His men cheered. “I think I will enjoy you one last time,” he said.

When he was done, I sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the distance. I said, “You should have killed me.”

Once upon a time, my life was a fairy tale and then I was stolen from everything I’ve ever loved. There was no happily ever after. After days of dying, I was dead.

Part II

Once Upon a Time

I
ran down an unfamiliar street, my bare feet slapping against the pavement. I was free even if I did not know it yet or my body was free and my mind was in the cage. It was hot, early evening, the hush of a day ending. I ran over shards of broken glass, felt my skin come neatly apart. I bled. My feet were slick. I did not stop running. The Commander told me to run until I could not run anymore so that is what I did. My thighs burned. It was strange to be able to move so freely, to breathe fresher air. I wanted someone to find me. I wanted to stop. I kept running. When I passed people standing in their doorways or ambling down the street, I stiffened, knew they could not be trusted. I ran. I saw a cross rising into the sky, reaching up. A church would be a safe place. I hoped.

I was so tired. I was loathsome. I was not a person. I was no one. I was nothing. Sweat dripped down my face, burning my eyes, rolling uncomfortably into my ears. I took the stairs into the church two at a time, leaving bloody footprints. It was dark and quiet in the chapel, where it smelled faintly of incense. In the far corner, there was a thin line of light and the silhouette of a door. I paused, leaning forward, panting heavily. I swallowed hard. I followed the edges of the room toward that sliver of light. I wanted to find something perfect behind that door. I wondered if I might find someone masquerading as God. My stomach was hollow. I was so hungry. I thought about the sensation of a dry disc of communion wafer on my tongue. When I reached the door, it was warm to the touch. Music was playing, Barry Manilow, singing about the Copacabana. My mother loves Barry Manilow. When I was a little girl, she had his records, and sometimes I caught her staring at them, tracing Barry’s face with her finger. I knocked on the door three times. I knocked so hard it made my knuckles ache. I drew blood. I marveled I could still bleed.

An older man finally answered. I tried to concentrate on who I had been before I became no one. There was a name and the memory of it lingered on my tongue. “Help me,” I said. The man looked at me carefully, reached for me but I stepped away and bumped into a wall. I hissed. There was a name of a woman I had once been. I rubbed my forehead, wanted so desperately to remember the name so someone who knew who I had been might come for me.

“Please say something,” the stranger said, staring at me curiously.

“I need help,” I said, hot air rushing from my chest.

The stranger shook his head. He said, “I don’t understand you.”

I repeated myself. My chest tightened. I looked back toward the church doors, hoping the Commander hadn’t chased me down again. I wanted to barricade myself in the sanctuary.

“What is your name?”

I pulled what remained of my shirt tightly around my body, what remained of my body. “Mireille. Kidnapped.”

He approached me again and wide threads of fear knotted around my throat.

“Don’t hurt me.”

The stranger smiled kindly. He was a small man, his white hair trimmed neatly. He wore a pair of dark slacks, a dress shirt, and a tan cardigan with thick wooden buttons. “You have nothing to fear from me. What is your last name?”

There was a man who knew the name that had once been mine, a man with an easy smile and blond hair he wore too long, blond hair that curled in his face in the morning. When this man said the name that had once been mine, the sound came from deep in his chest. The sound of my name in his mouth spread easily, was full of joy. I remembered a little boy who also had curly hair, both brown and blond. His cheeks and thighs were chubby. I leaned against the wall behind me and sank into a tight crouch. I could see their faces, hear that blond man with the easy smile calling out to the woman I had been, calling out to me before I became no one. “M m m m . . . ,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Michael.” The name came out awkwardly, sounded like three different names rather than one.

The stranger removed his glasses and looked at me closely. “My goodness. I think I know you.”

I tried to give him some way of making sense of who I was. I was so lost.

He nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes. I met your father at the HaitiCel gala. He is a good man. I heard about the kidnapping, terrible business.”

“Please call Michael,” I said. “Please.”

The stranger was a preacher at the church, was up late writing his sermon, he said. He excused himself and quickly returned. “I have called your father and he is on his way. God brought you to safety.”

I did not look up. “There is no God,” I said. I stood, my legs stiff and sore, moved away from the preacher. I did not want to be alone with this man I did not know in a small room. I did not want him to hurt me. I did not want to have to do something terrible to keep him from hurting me. The preacher called for his wife and she sat with me as we waited. It hurt to sit against the curved hardwood of the pew, in such a false place. The preacher’s wife clasped her hands in her lap, asked if I needed anything. She tried to see to my wounds but I refused. I wanted no part of a stranger’s skin against mine. I said, “I am fine, thank you.” I wanted to be polite. It was important to be a good reflection of my family. Somehow, I remembered that too, that once, I was a good Haitian daughter.

Time passed. I wanted to close my eyes, relax, but I was not safe. I was not safe. It was best to stay awake. I gripped the pew in front of me. I tried to breathe. Suddenly, I heard a desperate voice shouting a name and pounding footsteps. I stood and turned slowly. A man who seemed familiar ran through the church’s doors, followed by my father and a man I did not recognize. These men knew who I had been.

I stood and stared and said, “Michael?”

“Yes, baby, it’s me.”

“I need help. I am not safe,” I said, as loudly as I dared.

Michael looked stricken. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Take a deep breath.”

I whispered my name several times, tried to find a way to fit myself into that name, tried to hide the truth. I was no one, a woman with no name, no family.

Michael tried to pull me in his arms but I backed away. I wanted to run again. I was terrified. I could not trust these men. My husband’s face wrinkled. He held his hands up. “It’s me, baby. We’re here to take you home. You’re safe now,” he said as if he understood the meaning of the word. He saw the fear in my eyes. He could see. He smelled the rot of me. He closed his hands into tight fists and said, “My God, what happened to you?” his voice echoing through the chapel.

I pointed to the two men behind him. “Who is the man with my father?” I needed a precise accounting of everyone who could hurt me.

Michael shook his head, rubbed his jaw, covered in stubble. “I’m not understanding what you’re saying but that man, where you’re pointing, is the hostage negotiator.”

I looked at Michael again. He seemed more familiar. The man who used to be my father was increasingly familiar as well.

“Days,” I said, softly. “How many days?”

Michael looked down. “We can talk about that later. Let’s get you out of here.”

“How many days has it been?”

“Thirteen.”

I held my stomach and faltered, to truly know how much time had passed. Michael caught me, steadied me. “Let go of me,” I said, shrieking. “Don’t any of you touch me.”

The three of them started speaking at once. My husband told me how good it was to have me back. My father told me how strong I was, as if I needed his appreciation of my strength. I had a calculation for my strength he would never understand. The stranger was silent. They were all liars. My father shook hands with the preacher, holding both of the man’s hands between his, promising a donation to the church, an additional ransom. He could barely look at me. Later he would tell me the bruises made him sick to his stomach. I would say, “Your hands are on them.”

The men surrounding me didn’t know what to do with me. I could see that. I wanted to be away from my father and his money and his convictions that had brought us all to this empty church.

My legs trembled and I sat again in a pew across the aisle. Michael sat next to me; he was too close. I needed something from him. I needed him to know what to do for me. I tried to think of another name. I knew it well. It was a good name but I couldn’t find a way to say it.

“Picture,” I said.

Michael shook his head. He looked so helpless. “Picture? Mireille, you’re still not making much sense but I want to understand you, I do.”

I took a deep breath, tried to start again, tried to find a way to speak the same language as the man beside me. “You have a child.”

He nodded. “We have a son, yes, baby, we do.”

I shifted uncomfortably, wanting so much to say the right thing. “What is the boy’s name?”

Michael slid closer. “Look at me,” he said.

I turned to face him but couldn’t hold his gaze, looked down at my hands.

“We have a son and his name is Christophe. He misses you very much.”

“Christophe,” I said, softly. In my head I said the name over and over. “Like Henri Christophe, the man who declared himself king.”

“That’s who we named him for.”

My father cleared his throat. Michael waved his arm, ignored him.

“Is he okay? Was he hurt? Do you have a picture?”

“He’s fine, with your mother.” Michael reached for his wallet and pulled out two pictures of a small boy, a smiling boy. My hands trembled as I took one of the pictures and stared at it and said the name
Christophe
once more.