56

Marta

Fifteen empty seats surround her, and to an outside observer it would appear that Marta is the only passenger in the police van. Yet this outside observer would be wrong. Hundreds of phantoms, whose fear and sweat she can smell, ride along with her. Despair rises from the rows behind her and hovers like an amputated limb that throbs long after it’s been cut off. She is haunted by their stories, alive and pulsing.

The guards came for her when it was still dark, and now the sun is rising behind the glass buildings of the Seaport. It is Monday, and Jason had told her that on Monday morning she would be taken to a town north of the city that starts with a B and released on bail. He promised he would be waiting for her. Her knight in bright armor. Despite these promises and the van and the fact that she is on I-93 North, dressed in the slightly musty clothes she wore to court a week ago, it does not feel as if she is moving toward anything good.

The driver cracks his window, and Marta greedily inhales the air infused with car and truck exhausts. Not particularly fresh, but it is better than what she has been breathing. The air at Suffolk was thick and hot and suffocating, and the single hour a day outdoors in the yard was canceled more often than not.

When she did go outside, she stayed close to the building’s facade, afraid to catch the attention of the guards or the angry women arguing and whispering and casting the evil eye in every direction. Now the sun is hot on her right shoulder. Traffic encases them. A horn honks. She presses her hand into the metal edge of her seat until it hurts and there’s a red line running across her palm. All of her senses confirm that she is here, so she must be.

In less than an hour, Marta sits in a holding cell while her paperwork is being processed. So much paperwork and so much processing, and yet no one has confirmed she will be free when it is complete. She examines the room with its hard bench and its cinder-block walls and its green metal door without a knob. Bars crisscross a two-foot square window set at eye level in the door. Do they really believe a person could climb through such a tiny rectangle? They do not. If she has learned anything in the past week, it is that bars are a symbol. A symbol of power and a symbol of submission.

Marta is not certain if she slept more than a few minutes at a time while she lived within all those bars. But she knows that she hardly ate and she was only allowed two showers with hardly any soap. She cannot imagine what she looks like or what she smells like, and she is ashamed.

Finally, a woman in street clothes enters and indicates that she should stand. Marta uncoils, and the woman leads her into a brightly lit waiting room. Jason jumps from a chair, rushes toward her, and gives her a hug. They have never hugged before, and Marta is moved. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough.” Her eyes scan the room. No Liddy.

Jason grabs her arm. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Marta follows him through the door. She is filled with dread because of Liddy’s absence, but when the sun hits her, she stops and raises her face to meet it. Here she is, walking outdoors. Here she is, crossing a parking lot. Here she is with Jason, her savior, her protector. No handcuffs. No guards. No enraged women. She stretches her arms above her head and wiggles her fingers at the sky. Then she drops them. Where is Liddy?

They climb into his car, and when Jason clicks his seat belt, he says, “Why don’t we go to my place? All of your things are there, and you can shower and get a change of clothes. Take a nap. What do you say?”

“I would very much like a shower. And a nap. Thank you.” Maybe Liddy is waiting for her at Jason’s apartment. But Liddy promised to bring the clothes and the work materials that she left at Jason’s to her condo at The Tower. Why has she not done so? Marta’s chest tightens.

They are silent as Jason pulls out of the office park and enters the highway. “I can see you’re a bit shell-shocked,” he finally says. “And who wouldn’t be after what you’ve been through? But I have some good news for you, something very surprising that might come as an additional shock . . . And, uh, I just want you to be prepared.” He glances over at her.

Marta meets his eyes, and he turns quickly back to the road. What he wants is to prepare her for the bad news that is coming right after whatever this good news is. And the bad news is about Liddy. Una hija.

“Would it be better if we waited until we get to the apartment?” he asks when she does not respond. “Maybe after you’ve showered and had something to eat?”

She leans her head against the headrest and closes her eyes. She is so very tired. “I am ready to hear it now.”

Jason exits the highway and pulls into a shopping center. He turns off the car, touches her hand. “Your mother and sisters are alive and safe. They’re in Spain.”

This is so unexpected that it takes a few seconds for her to understand his words. Her mother and sisters? They are in Spain? This is not possible. She stares out the windshield at the row of scrawny trees on the grass median separating the slanted rows of yellow lines. Maduro and his men are everywhere. After what they did to Papí and Juan, they would never have allowed the rest of the Bustamantes to leave Venezuela alive. She turns to him, incredulous.

Jason’s smile is kind. “I checked and double-checked. I’m sure. I have their contact information. There’s been no mistake.”

Jason’s bathroom is cramped and could have used improvements years ago, but the shower is strong and hot. She is in a shower by herself. There is soap. There is shampoo. The naked bodies of dozens of other women do not surround her. She shivers, despite the warm steam, and remembers how she had to push against those bodies to get to the rusty water. All that sad skin, doughy and slippery. All those angry words.

But she is not there anymore. She is free. She raises her face to the water. Her mother and sisters are alive. She will be able to talk to them soon, and perhaps be able to see them. A miracle. She washes herself and her hair three times. She still does not feel completely clean, yet she does not feel quite as dirty. This is the same for her joy and relief. She is afraid to ask Jason about Liddy, because what he’s going to tell her will surely undercut those feelings.

Marta dries herself, changes into fresh clothes, and steps into the kitchen. Jason is making chocolate-chip pancakes, her favorite breakfast. There is a place mat and a napkin on the little table. Also a cup of coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a vase filled with spring flowers. She is overwhelmed by the sweetness of the tableau. Jason places her full plate on the table and bows like a waiter in an elegant restaurant. A voracious hunger grips her, and she attacks the food. He leans against the counter and watches her with a pleased smile on his face. Then he turns to make another batch.

When she finishes the second helping, she pushes her plate away and takes a sip of coffee. Dark and strong, with a tiny dab of cream, exactly as she likes it. “This was lovely. Thank you.”

Jason pours himself a cup of coffee and sits across from her. “Guess you were hungry.”

“I probably should not have eaten so fast. It is a long time since my stomach has held so much food.” She pats her midsection, which feels far too thin. “So much good food,” she adds with a feeble smile.

Jason does not meet her eyes and then clears his throat. Neither is a good sign. “Marta . . .”

She forces herself to look at him and feels a rush of empathy. This is no easier for him than it is for her. “Please, Jason, please say what you have to say.”

He clears his throat again. “This isn’t as good as my last news.”

“I do not expect it to be,” she says, and to make it easier on him she adds, “It is about Liddy.”

He inspects his coffee cup and then raises his eyes. “Yes.”

And suddenly Marta sees it all. “Garrett,” she says. “He has won.”

Jason nods.

“Tell me.”

After Jason describes the details of the agreement, he says, “I’m sorry, Marta, but when Garrett comes home from the hospital, they’ll move back to the condo together—which is why I picked up all your things and brought them here. And if Liddy defaults on any of his conditions, the witness statement will be sent to the police.”

Move back to the condo together. How will Liddy stand it? How will she?

“It would be difficult to prove premeditation,” Jason continues, and it sounds as if his voice is coming from far away. “But now that an eyewitness has corroborated Haines’s story, plus some of the physical peculiarities, this could be enough for a judge or jury to find her guilty of felony assault and battery, maybe more.”

“This would result in many years in jail?” she whispers.

“Yes.”

Marta cannot speak.

Jason begins to back up his chair, but then he remains seated. “Haines gave her no choice. Just like he did with the owner of Metropolis, he threatened to come to the courtroom in a hospital bed and testify that she tried to kill him. As you can imagine, she’s heartbroken, devastated, and furious. But she can’t put her kids through a trial. Or the media frenzy.”

Marta’s chest is so tight she can only take small breaths. “I will never be able to see her again.”

Jason closes his eyes and nods.

Marta stands abruptly. “I think I would like to take the nap that you suggested. I am very tired, so I will be able to use the couch. I hope this will not bother you.”

“No couch for you.” Jason stands also. “I made up the bed. It’s all yours.”

She thinks about protesting, but she is so bone-weary and heartbroken that staging any kind of argument is beyond her strength. “Thank you,” she says again, and stumbles off into the bedroom. She collapses on the bed and sleeps through to the next day.

After three days of eating and sleeping and showering, Marta feels more like the person she was before her arrest. She has not left the apartment, although she is free to do so. She is exchanging her grief over losing her family for grief over losing Liddy, and finds she is incapable of doing more than sitting on the couch and pretending to watch television. It is a newer bereavement, more visceral. Often it becomes unbearable, and she can do nothing but submit.

She is unable to stop thinking about the witness statement. This explains the terrible guilt Liddy was feeling. Why she yielded to Garrett’s threats. But because Liddy knew the elevator was broken, this does not mean she was responsible for tampering with it. Marta is infuriated that Garrett would propose such a falsehood to the police.

Yet there is also lightness. Her mother and sisters are alive. She has not contacted them, and will not do so until she knows if she will be granted asylum. She does not want to raise false hopes, theirs or her own. If it goes well, she will find a small apartment, finish her dissertation, receive her degree, and begin her career. Perhaps she will move to Spain, or perhaps her mother and sisters will move here.

Jason warns her that even after asylum is granted—if asylum is granted—their family reunion might take some time. She cannot travel on her Venezuelan passport and will need to secure a refugee travel document. He says that many asylees travel abroad without problems, and it is just a matter of paperwork. If her family is in possession of Spanish passports, they may be able to come here right away.

On Saturday night, they go to a French restaurant in the South End for dinner. She has been cowering inside Metropolis and Jason’s apartment for almost a year, and it is strange to be able to go out with no fear of arrest. They order a bottle of wine, raise their glasses. It is an unseasonably warm night, and the sidewalks are full of dogs and babies and happy couples, both straight and gay. It should be Liddy and she who are walking along with them, hand in hand. But this is not to be.

“Have you made a decision about what is next for you?” she asks Jason. Since they met, he has been reticent about himself, and she does not like that their conversations are always about her. She is surprised when he actually answers her question.

“I’m out of here as soon as you’re all set, and are no longer in need of the services of a top-notch immigration lawyer,” he says with a grin.

Although not unexpected, Marta is stunned by his revelation. “Where will you go?”

“A cross-country road trip, to clear my head and figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Maybe live in California for a while.” He shrugs. “I’m going to stash my work files in my parents’ basement, save the law books for my niece, and leave all the office furniture at Metropolis. What else am I going to do with it? Move it to another storage facility? I’ll do the same with the furniture in the apartment. Which means you’re welcome to stay there until the lease runs out in September.”

“It seems I am always thanking you,” Marta says, her eyes filling with tears at the prospect of losing him too. “You are a good friend, and I will miss you.”