This was how I remembered it, after gaining consciousness, lying on the floor, bloodied and battered.
I was sitting on the couch, going over my legal options for what was going to be a protracted and nasty divorce, trying to figure out how to make this happen with no money and working with a legal system over seven thousand miles away. My five-year-old son was sitting beside me, playing a video game. My eleven-year-old daughter was in her bedroom, door locked, doing whatever she did in the privacy of her own space. Juleen was hyper-adult, and one of the things I did when I rented this apartment was ensure she had her own space. It was a two-bedroom place and Sanjay slept in the smaller of the two rooms. Juleen had the master, and I slept in the living room on the couch.
I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear the footsteps outside the door. The building was exposed, and usually I heard people walking up and down the steps. Not this time. Had I been more alert, all this may not have happened.
It was only after the door flew open and I screamed “Run!” that everything kicked into high gear. Two Indian men: one immediately grabbed Sanjay, while the other said something about finding the girl. My son was kicking and screaming as I gripped his legs, pulling him toward me with my opponent pulling in the opposite direction: a mortal tug-of-war. The man had covered Sanjay’s mouth, and I remembered telling my son to bite his hand as I scratched the intruder’s arm and yanked Sanjay furiously. But the man was taller and bigger than I was and held on fast even with one hand over my son’s mouth and nose. I kept at it until the second man returned, asking where the girl was.
When I didn’t answer, he whacked me across the face—once to the right, once to the left, and another time to the right. Then he took my hair, wrapped it around his hand, and yanked so hard a clump came out. Sheer willpower was preventing me from letting go of my son’s legs. Then he hit me again on the right side of my cheek, this time with a closed fist. My vision sparkled and danced as I began to reel. As I was going down, he kicked me in the head and then twice on my right side in the ribs. I felt the crack. For good measure, he gave two final kicks—one in the stomach and one in the back. Still, I was clinging on to my son’s feet. It wasn’t until the siren came into earshot that the men panicked, saying something about a neighbor hearing the noise and calling the police. One final twist and then a hard jerk that brought an electric wave of pain through both arms, and my baby was gone, leaving me empty except for his small polka-dot Vans still in my hand. I brought it up to my face, balled myself up into a fetal position, and then things went quiet, then dark.
When I awoke, I hadn’t any idea of how long I’d been out. Only that things were silent and I was in excruciating pain. My right arm was dangling uselessly by my side, my jaw was throbbing, my head was ringing and pounding, and my face was on fire. I tried to stand, but as soon as I moved, my sides caved in and a new wave of pain and nausea coursed through my body. My nose felt clogged and runny at the same time, and as I wiped it with my left hand, I saw blood.
The siren that I had heard must have been from an ambulance or a police car passing by, because no one had come to save me. Since it was summer, it was still light outside, with the sun filtering in through the top of the curtain. I always kept them closed, but the gap at the top allowed me to see if it was day or night.
I lifted my head, and through swollen lids, I could make out my purse. I inched over, doing a soldier’s crawl to a side table next to the couch, and yanked it down with my left hand. The contents spilled out, including three phones: my personal cell and two pay-as-you-go burners that I picked up a few days ago from Walmart. I retrieved one of the burners and called my son in New York. Gabe answered after the third ring, thinking it was his father, but then he heard my voice and asked what was wrong.
I told him I was in trouble. I told him he had to come to L.A. and pick me up and that I was seriously hurt. All he kept saying to me was “Call 911.”
I couldn’t call 911. I couldn’t go to the police or to a hospital. They’d ask questions. They’d learn that I took my kids out of India without permission from the courts. I’d lose them.
I was still under the delusion that I hadn’t lost them already.
My personal phone sprang to life, Juleen’s name on the screen. Abruptly, I hung up on my son and took her call, but I didn’t speak right away because it could have been the goons on the other end of the line. But then she said, “Mommy, are you okay?”
Stinging tears leaked from my inflamed eyes and ran down my bruised and cut cheeks. “Juleen, where are you?” My voice came out muffled and garbled. I could barely move my jaw.
“Mommy?”
This time, I spoke slower and as clearly as I could. “Where . . . are . . . you?”
Probably not the brightest question to ask. I had no idea if my phone was being bugged and tracked.
“Hiding—”
“Quiet!” I said. “Remember where we ate dinner last night?” It took me several attempts to make myself understood. Every time I spoke, electric shocks ran through my jaw.
Finally, she said, “Yes, I remember.”
“Can . . . you . . . get there . . . by yourself?”
“Yes.”
Ms. Hyper-Adult.
“Turn . . . off . . . your phone. Look around. Wait near . . . door. I’ll . . .” It was getting harder to talk and harder to breathe. “I’ll . . . meet you.”
I hung up. I regathered all the contents of my purse while still lying on the floor. Then I managed to sit up, then stand.Immediately, I was light-headed and nauseated.
I threw up.
It was good that I gave the manager of the apartment a big cleaning deposit.
I was holding on to the back of the couch, telling myself to move slowly—as if I had a choice. Clutching on to furniture and then the wall, I made my way into the kitchen and retrieved two plastic garbage bags. I groped my way into Juleen’s bedroom using the hallway for support. We shared a closet, although neither one of us had much in the way of clothing. I began to throw dresses, pants and shirts, shoes, socks, and underwear into the sacks: enough to get us through three or four days without doing a wash, but still light enough to carry.
I didn’t bother with my son’s things.
More tears.
Not now, Terry, not now.
I was holding everything in my left hand because my right arm was in searing pain. Before I inched my way out of Juleen’s room, I noticed her violin case. I bent down in a squat—easier than bending at the waist—and picked it up. The extra weight was hitting me in waves of pain, but I couldn’t leave without it. Although she wasn’t anywhere close to the prodigy that Gabe was, she loved that violin.
I knew I couldn’t go out the front door. They might still be out there, waiting for me. I had to follow the plan I had formulated with Juleen should a break-in like this happen in this apartment.
Lock your door, jump out the window, and run like hell.
And she had executed it perfectly. The back window was still halfway open. I couldn’t lift it any higher. Too much pain and too little strength. Luckily, I was small in stature—not like Juleen, but I could squeeze through. I pitched the bags out the window along with my purse. I took the violin case in my left hand, held it close to my body, and hoped for the best. When I landed, I nearly passed out as agony ripped through my right side. But I got to my feet, gripped the bags and my purse, and started the block walk to my car.
I realized my face was probably a mess. One eye was shut closed; the other was bloated, but at least I could see out of it if I squinted. I probably would have looked like a homeless lady to anyone still out on the streets. But this was Los Angeles. No one walked. And even if there had been someone, one look at me and eyes would have been averted. No one wanted to see ugliness. Furthermore, no one cared.
I never parked in front of my apartment, but Devek had caught up with me anyway. Normally my husband was mild-mannered and even wimpy. But his gambling over the last three years had put him on edge. He had tried desperate measures to get money, and in his last couple of ventures, he had crossed the line. I had to leave.
I had to leave.
I was constantly on high alert, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t praying. Gabe had converted to Judaism, and my two younger children were Hindu. I was born Catholic. I wasn’t choosy about who was up there as long as God was listening. And as soon as I managed to fish out my car’s fob and unlock the door, I said my thanks. I opened the back door and stuffed my belongings inside. Once behind the wheel, I locked the door and took a deep breath.
Sitting on my butt hurt more than standing on my feet, but I had no choice. I pressed the ignition button with my left hand, looked around several times, taking into consideration that I could barely see, and pulled out from the curb. It took me five minutes in a car to get to the restaurant. Juleen was sitting on the bench by the door, phone and laptop in hand. I pulled up and she got up. I noticed that she was hobbling as she walked toward me. She opened the front passenger door and slid in. It was closing in on seven p.m. She saw my face and gasped.
“I’m fine.” Clearly, I wasn’t. I left the parking lot and pulled into traffic. “I’m okay.”
Tears were running from her eyes. She took my useless right arm and I cried out in pain. Immediately, she dropped it.
“It’s . . . a little sore.”
“Mommy, I’m calling 911—”
“No!”
“You’ve got to go to a hospital!”
“They’ll take you away . . . send you back to India. Is that what you want?”
I couldn’t tell how much of my muffled speech she understood, but she must have gotten the gist of what I said. She shook her head and said no.
“I’m fine.” I stopped at a long red light. I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do. Then I remembered. “Gabe. Call him.” When she picked up her phone, I said, “Use a burner . . . my purse.”
“Right.”
She fished out a burner and called up her brother, knowing his phone number by heart.
Hyper-adult.
Over the phone line, I heard my son’s exasperated voice. “Finally! Where are you?!”
I told my daughter to put it on speaker. Juleen said, “Gabe, you’ve got to come. Mommy is hurt!”
“Badly?”
“Badly.”
“What happened?”
Juleen sidestepped the question. “You’ve got to come get us. I don’t know what to do.”
“Where’s Sanjay?”
Tears overflowing from my eyes, I whispered, “Gone.”
“What happened?” A pause. “Mom?”
Juleen said, “Someone busted into the apartment. That’s all I know. Mommy told me to run and I did.”
“They took Sanjay?” he asked.
I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “Yes.”
“And beat you up?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you now?”
Juleen said, “We’re in the car.”
“She’s driving?”
“Stopped. You’re on speaker, Gabe. She can hear everything. But she can’t talk well. They hurt her face.”
“Oh God,” Gabe said. “I don’t know this phone number. Are you on a burner?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Can you give me the phone number? It’s coming up blocked. If it’s like an iPhone, it should be at the top of your contacts list.”
“Let me look,” Juleen said. “Okay . . . got it. Here it is.”
“Great! Thank you, Jules.” A pause. “That’s a start. Mom, listen to me and listen carefully. I can’t get there until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. You’re hurt. You need to go to the hospital—”
“No!”
“She won’t go,” Juleen told him. “She says they’ll ask questions and then take me away.”
“I thought that might be the situation.” Another pause. “So, this is plan B. Mom, are you listening?”
“Yes.”
A sigh over the phone. “When I talked to you the first time, it sounded like you needed immediate help.”
“She does,” Juleen said.
“Mom, I asked Chris to help. He’s much closer to you and he knows L.A. as well as I do. He has a jet. He can get down there in a couple of hours. As a matter of fact, he could be on his way now. If you need protection, and it sounds like you do, there’s no one better who can help you.”
I closed my one good eye. Chris. From the frying pan . . . My life was a complete and utter mess!
“Mom, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Mom, he’ll only help you if you ask for help. I know this is a deal with the devil, but you’ve got to call him. This is not just about you, it’s also about Juleen.”
I didn’t answer, but I knew he was right.
Juleen said, “Give me the number and I’ll call him.”
Gabe said, “He won’t help you, Jules. Only Mom. She’s got to make contact.”
I said, “Give me the number.”
“What did she say?” Gabe asked.
“She said to give her the number,” Juleen said. “I’ll write it down for her.”
“Jules, call me back as soon as Mom has spoken to my dad, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Jules, my dad can be super abrupt and mean. When you meet him, no matter what he says or how he acts, just be calm and super polite.”
“Okay.”
“I’m really giving you the benefit of my wisdom. Please listen.”
“Okay. Let me get off the phone so Mommy can speak to him.”
Hyper-adult.
“I love you, Mom.”
I couldn’t answer. It was getting harder and harder to speak. I could barely stay awake. Juleen hung up and called my ex’s number. It rang three times and then went to voice mail.
Juleen said, “Mr. Whitman, this is Teresa McLaughlin’s daughter, Juleen. My brother Gabe said to call you. My mother is hurt and can’t talk very well, but she will talk to you when you call back. I’ll give you the number of this phone. Please, please call back. Thank you very much, sir.”
I gave my daughter the thumbs-up.
“Now what?” she asked. When I didn’t answer, Juleen said, “Mommy, we can’t stay here. They might come back.”
I nodded and pulled into traffic.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t . . . know.”
“You can’t just drive around.”
She was right. I thought for a moment. “My . . . house.”
“What house?”
I waved her off.
“What house?”
“Where I grew up.”
“You grew up here?”
I nodded.
“Does Mr. Whitman know it?”
“Donatti,” I told her. “Mr. Donatti.”
The burner rang. Juleen put the cell on speaker and answered the phone. “Hello?”
I heard my ex’s voice. “Terry?”
It wasn’t the first time Juleen and I had been mistaken for each other over the phone. Our voices sounded alike. “I’m . . . here,” I whispered.
Chris said, “What’s going on?”
I started to cry and so did Juleen. She said, “They beat her up.”
“Where are you?”
“Valley,” I answered.
“Where in the Valley?”
“She’s driving to her house where she grew up,” Juleen answered.
“She’s driving?”
“Do you know where her old house is?”
“Yes, I know where it is. Don’t go there—”
His phone cut out. Juleen called him back, but it went to voice mail.
The sun was beginning to go down, and soon we’d be under the cover of darkness. We were about a mile away from the apartment we were renting but four miles away from my old house. My one good eye was starting to close up. I knew if I didn’t get there soon, I wouldn’t be able to drive at all. My head was exploding with pain, and I was getting very sleepy. I decided to head in the direction of my old high school—a common landmark for Chris and me. I kept shaking my head to stay awake. Each time I did that, bolts of lightning and thunder clapped inside my brain.
The burner sprang to life. Juleen answered. “We’re on speaker, Mr. Donatti.”
“Terry, are you there?”
“Hi, Chris.”
“Terry, listen to me. Are you physically able to drive?”
I didn’t answer.
“Terry?”
“Yes.” For the moment.
“Don’t go to your old house, babe. If I were looking for you, that’s one of the places where I’d camp out. Do you remember where I used to live?”
“Yes.”
“Go there. It’s on Jasper—8246 . . . no, 8446 . . .”
“8226,” I told him.
“Your beat-up brain is working better than mine. Can you make it there?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. I’ll meet you in a couple of hours. Probably less. I’ll blink the headlights twice, then pause and blink them twice again, so you’ll know it’s me. You blink back. Do not leave the car for any reason. I’ll come to you.”
“Okay.”
“Juleen, do not let her fall asleep under any circumstances. Can I trust you to do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll see you later.”
After he hung up, Juleen said, “Can you drive, Mommy?”
“Yes.” Sort of. “I’m . . . okay.”
It took me about a half hour to go four miles on empty streets. I arrived on Jasper just as the last bit of daylight was fading from the horizon. The last time I had been at this apartment, I had been sixteen years old, in deep love with the most gorgeous guy in high school. I had tutored Chris at his apartment and at my house for about three months until the relationship turned odd and weird and was too much for me to handle. Inside, I knew he was bad news, but I kept going back. The last time I was here, we had spent the night together. It had been sexual but not sex. That happened in a prison somewhere in the Mojave Desert. By the time I had decided to cut bait, it was too late. But it all worked out. I couldn’t imagine a world bereft of Gabriel. I closed my eyes, hoping for numbness.
Juleen suddenly blasted the radio.
“Turn . . . that off!”
“He told me not to let you fall asleep.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Whit— Mr. Donatti. You know, Gabe’s father.”
I reached over and turned the knob to off. “I’m fine.” A minute later, my eyes started to close. Juleen shook me. I said, “Leave me alone.”
“You can’t fall asleep.”
I barely heard her words. I was fading away. She kept shaking me awake. She turned on the radio again. I turned it off. When she went for the knob again, I hit her hand. She didn’t care. She kept shaking me, screaming at me, clapping her hands in front of my face. I became too tired to even yell at her. Then I began to cry in earnest. I was crying because I had made a mess of my life. I was crying because I was in terrible pain. Most of all, I was crying with heartbreak for my lost little boy.
He must be so scared!
“It’ll be okay, Mommy,” Juleen said. “It’ll all be okay.”
I couldn’t answer her. I could barely breathe, and crying was only making it worse. Here I was, a forty-two-year-old woman, completely broke and utterly broken. I had made terrible choices in men. I had abandoned my older son and I couldn’t save the younger one. I was a terrible role model for Juleen. She was comforting me instead of the other way around. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t even provide the minimum of parenting?
I dried my eyes on my sleeve. My lids had swollen shut. If I picked one of them up, I could see. My head was throbbing, and I was dizzy and nauseated. On the plus side, I could still think, which meant I had a functioning brain. I also had my eyesight, one good arm, and two working legs. That was a lot of good stuff.
A text registered on the burner in Juleen’s hands. She said, “It’s Gabe. He’s asking about us and his dad. What should I tell him?”
The lightbulb went off. I couldn’t talk, but I could text with one hand. I took the phone and pecked out my sentences with my left index finger.
We made contact with Chris. He’s on his way down.
Thank God! I’ll come to see you. Probably tomorrow.
Don’t worry. I’m fine.
How are you feeling?
Ok. Tired. TTYL.
A
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