“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Oh, don’t you worry,” he said. He looked back toward the doorway and then at me again. “You’ll be fine no matter what she and her lawyer do. You’re too precious to abandon.”
“Why are you here?” I wanted to add, and in your underwear, but I didn’t dare.
“I was thinking about you, just lying there above you, right above you, and thinking about how alone and frightened you must be down here.”
“I’m okay,” I said quickly, trying to dismiss him, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard me. He leaned toward me, and I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“You have had bad luck when it comes to men. You just haven’t had the right guidance. Remember? Remember how I said I was going to take better care of you, spend more time with you, take you places, wonderful, beautiful, expensive places? I will,” he said, and he put his hand on my shoulder and fingered my hair. “You’re too precious to abandon or to leave with her.”
“I’m all right, Donald,” I said more insistently. “Please, just go to sleep.”
“Sure, you’ll be fine. Sure,” he said. “Don’t worry. I bet you’ve been full of worry about what would happen to you now since she created this Third World War. You don’t worry,” he muttered, and then brought his lips to my forehead so quickly I couldn’t avoid him. His hand slipped down my arm to my waist as his lips went to my nose. I started to pull away, but his grip on my waist tightened, and then he practically fell forward on me, pressi
ng his mouth against mine while his hand moved up and over my breast. I struggled, pushing up on his chest with all my might.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said. “I’ll show you how you’ll be cared for and loved. You’ll know you need not worry. Let me show you.”
“Stop!” I cried. He had moved my blanket back to slide his legs under.
“I’ll keep you with me. You don’t have to stay with her,” he said, pressing his cheek against mine.
I continued to push and squirm, but he was so heavy, and the stink of his whiskey was turning my stomach. Then he suddenly licked my face as if I were an ice-cream cone, and that put me into more panic. When his hand started to pull at my nightgown, I turned my head and screamed as loudly as I could. I knew these walls were thick, and as I thought before, Jordan was putting herself to sleep every night now with a pill. No one would hear me and come to help me. I was crying harder and still pushing at him, even trying to dig my nails into his body, but nothing was working.
“Don’t be afraid,” he pleaded. “Shh, shh . . .”
His hands were groping me everywhere. I was growing exhausted with the effort to push him away. I felt myself slipping, and I was terrified that I would pass out. When I felt his hardness searching between my legs, I reached out to my right and grasped the neck of the bottle. I had been sleeping with it beside me. He was moaning and mumbling all sorts of promises when I swung the bottle and struck him in the back of his head. Miraculously, the bottle did not shatter, but Donald was stunned enough to stop. I was able to slip out from under him.
“Get away from me!” I shouted. “Leave me alone!” I held the bottle up like a club, shaking, gasping.
In his clumsy effort to lift himself, he fell off my bed. I sat back, turned on my nighttable lamp, and clutched my knees against my chest defensively. I watched him as he battled to get to his feet. He looked at me, realizing what he had done, I think, because his expression changed. He looked more like himself. He shook his head and turned and stumbled toward the door. Just as he reached it, it opened, and Jordan stood there in her bathrobe.
“What are you doing in here like that?” she shouted at him.
He stumbled past her and out. She flicked on more light and looked at me. I was sobbing hysterically.
“Oh, my God,” she said, and rushed to me. She embraced me and rocked with me. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
She didn’t have to ask for any details. I was still gasping too hard to speak anyway.
“He won’t come near you again. I’ll make sure of that. I promise. Oh, you poor child, you poor child.”
The tears rushed from my eyes so quickly that I thought I would never stop crying. Nasty and ugly images from the past came attached to every tear. I saw my nearly unrecognizable mother trekking along on the beach, dragging her bag of old clothes and tools for calligraphy. I saw us being hit by Kiera’s car that rainy night, and I saw the images of my hospital stay. I saw Kiera and her friends tricking me into getting that painful tattoo, and I saw myself struggling to avoid being raped on the boat.
“I’m afraid,” I finally said.
“Yes, you are, and you should be,” Jordan said. “Don’t worry. I’m staying with you. He’ll be out of here in the morning or else,” she promised, and she took off her slippers and robe and lay beside me.
It took quite a while for me to calm down. She spoke to me softly, held me, stroked my hair. When I looked at her, my mother seemed to slip in and out of her. Finally, I fell asleep again, this time with her hand in mine.
When I woke in the morning, Jordan was already up and gone. I heard footsteps in the hallway, and I heard Jordan shouting orders at someone. I rose slowly and went to my door to peer out. Alberto and two of his men were carrying suitcases and garment bags down the hallway. Mrs. Duval followed, and then I saw Jordan and opened the door wider.
“What’s happening?”
She stopped in front of me. “I want him out of the house. After what he tried to do to you, he put up no resistance.”
“Where’s he going?”