“What happened to your parents?”
“Kieran . . .” The tremble of Ava’s voice begs that I’ve stretched her to the limit tonight.
“You had good parents, Ava. What happened?” Once she divulges all theColombianbawbags’ crimes, I’ll make them pay.
“We’d almost made it through Mexico . . .”
Ava begins to tell me a story that leaves me heartbroken and disappointed in my lies. I vow to find and avenge her parents. I hope my actions will pardon my own sins with my little bird.
32
Ava
I’m convinced certain tragedies stay with you until the end of time. Emotional scars damage from bone to marrow, even after the passing of almost twenty years. I often wonder if horrific memories will die after one’s brain begins to deteriorate and works against you. Something I’ll always remember was the mixture of guilt and relief when Mama and I climbed into the backseat of a Mitsubishi. We rode with twelve other undocumented immigrants, hungering for freedom. I remember the tears stinging my eyes as an image of Papa, who put hisfamilia’sneeds over his own, ultimately died from dehydration in a Mexican desert.
So, as I sat sandwiched in the van between people I’d never met, all I saw was my father giving up the ghost. I couldn’t feel the elbow of a teen boy on my left or the kid on my lap while I sat on my own mother’s lap. Mama spoke in my ear, uttering encouraging words from a God she always believed never failed her. While my own tears quieted down, I tenderly rubbed the back of the kid in my lap.
That day I learned to numb myself to our reality.
All of twelve years old. What a hard pill to swallow.
After telling Kieran my story, he gathers me in his arms. He lays us down in the king bed and holds me tightly for the longest time.
Sometime later, Kieran guides me from beneath the sheets. Maybe he’s discerned my lack of sleep, and I expect one of his bathings. It’s something I’ll vocalize my distaste for. The tender care. How he only has eyes forme. I soundlessly covet how his eyes turn from dark, lustful coals to warm silver pools as he adores my naked body with a lather and soft scrub. Except for tonight, Kieran doesn’t guide me toward the bathtub. I wear a pair of his cotton pants with the drawstrings pulled tightly and his long sleeve shirt. Kieran encircles a jacket around me, zipping it to my chin.
“What?” he asks, smiling at me.
“You have azaddyfetish?” I can’t take my eyes from him.
The up kick of his eyebrow weakens my knees.
I elaborate. “All the spankings, bathings, controlling.Zaddy, as indaddy,which I will never in a million years call you. I had an amazing Papa.”
“Hmm, I’ll remember that. Coerce Ava into calling me daddy. One way or another. Check.”
“I hate you.”
“I—” He stops short, the retort lodged in his throat.
“Hmmm, I’ll take that sort of slip of the tongue as I’m a very persuasive person.” Lowering my gaze, I hide a smile. “Why are we dressing in the middle of the night, Kieran? Couldn’t we have taken a trip to my room formyclothes—none of which I chose, by the way.”
“Kiera’s room is across from yours, no.”
“Well, aren’t we on lockdown?”
“Let me ask you, where do people keep the things they care the most about?”
“That’s easy—a bank. More appropriately in a vault,” I begin.
“No.”
“Oh, then behind expensive canvas paintings, locked away.” Clarity tumbles out of my mouth in a confused haze, passing away. “Kieran, you don’t care about me. Stop it. Not like your little sis.”
Growling in frustration, Kieran clutches my arm. “Don’t say a word once we exit the room, lassie. Got that?”
I zip my lips and follow the beast.
* * *