By Nairobi Rivera

The Other Side: Second Place Winner

When the cops pulled up you were in the middle of packing for Dubai. Or was it India? They knocked so hard the sleeping cat curled by the window shot straight up. When you are in shock, noises sound distant and muffled, your body freezes and the world seemingly moves on without you. I imagine you there, doorknob still in hand, unable to respond when they told you they were looking for your husband. You almost told them he’d gone out— he sold energy drinks. (You would point to the stack of cases in the living room corner for proof. He was making a delivery.) He called out from the bedroom to ask who it was, however, before you had the chance to speak. 

The catechism teacher who once taught your kids hadn’t been aware before now that a child molester lived in the apartment above her. Neither had the old lady next door who would bring your family pineapple bread. They watched as he was handcuffed, shoved into the backseat of the patrol car and driven away— you calling out his name until he was gone from sight. I think we knew before we knew. It was something about the way his hugs lingered for too long, the embrace too tight. An uneasy feeling that he was undressing you with his gaze. But now the word was out— that he’d sexually harassed nearly every underaged girl in our family. He’d be gone now. They’d be safe. But you paid the $10,000 bail and after that you stayed with him. 

You were warned about love. The way it corrupts the senses making you do things you never thought you would. I say this not because I believe you loved him— I had seen you cringe when he’d approach from behind, wrap his arms around your waist and kiss you, the smile you’d force appearing half a second too late. The love you had for her— your mom, however, was real. I am often intrigued by the complexity of mother/daughter relationships. The way questionable acts are often justified with good intentions and compliance with those acts, justified with love and respect. Out of your eight siblings, you were the eldest, a role model for the rest. Your pregnancy at seventeen, which resulted in twins, was a mere slip up. She told you to marry him, she’d forgive you if you did— the kids weren’t his but still, he wanted you and was willing to give you a home. That had to be enough. 

As a child I envied the apartment you lived in. A three bedroom in the center of X street that never knew silence. I heard so many stories from your brother, my father, about the days you lived there together— the landing place for your siblings and their families when they moved to the United States. I absorbed those stories— the rattle of change being counted, 25 cents for the afternoon game of Loteria, the shrieks of a toddler resisting a bath, your Selena cassette tape playing over gossip being spread in the kitchen. And on holidays— the clacking of heels as everyone arrived dressed up, the music blasting so loud someone always showed up to complain. But now that’s all gone. Only quiet rings through the place. I remember you once made a comment about never having a moment to yourself, how someone would always show up to visit or call. Do you still feel that way? Now when the phone rings you fear it’s your son again, threatening to show up and kill pa for what he did to his daughter. 

I ran into you three months afterwards— inevitable given that our families live within a five-block proximity. Even before you saw me your gaze was lowered, the gray hair you gave up dying, falling around your eyes like blinders. You made constant glances over your shoulder to ensure that no one was waiting to take the anger of his crimes out on you. As if by intuition, you picked up your head when we were merely feet apart. Just enough time for you to search your purse for an item you knew wasn’t there, then about-face before I could say anything. I want to hate you the way I hate him. Shut you out the way the rest of the family has— for your silence, for dismissing your gut feeling that something was wrong, and then for choosing him over us. But I recognize the fear in your eyes. It’s the very same fear I saw inside my cousins, during the sleepover we found out we’d all mutually been his victims. When by coincidence, we ran into each other again, on a different block— this time too close for you to ignore me; I greeted you and said what I had been meaning to say all along. What I wish I said sooner. 

“I hope you’re okay.”