And I go from the verge to the middle of a full-blown fire. At three p.m., after Diego and Warren and Pedro have all left early, as they usually do on Fridays, I get a text from Vera.
Have you seen it?
I haven’t, and I don’t need to ask what she’s talking about.
I take in a deep breath and try to steady my shaking hands as I click on the bookmarked page for the Diez Minutos site.
Vera texts me again, but I can’t look at the phone. My eyes are glued to the screen. It’s about as bad as I feared. Maybe more, maybe less, and somehow knowing that this was going to happen doesn’t make it seem like less of a surprise.
It’s front page of the site this time, and maybe that’s why it causes the actual hairs on the back of my neck to stand up, for my chest to fill with concrete and quicksand.
Future Atlético Coach and Ex-Football Star Attacks Photographer.
There are three pictures. One is of me walking with Chloe, trying to shield her from his lens. The other is of me yelling at him, spittle flying out of my lips. The last is one of Carlos—the after shot—with his purple bruised eye and nose. He doesn’t look horrible, but he’s definitely adding to it with his pained expression.
The article does not paint the truth. It paints a lie. It says that I saw him and went irate, wanting revenge for past wrongdoings. I apparently hit him completely unprovoked, smashed his camera, and then sped off from the scene of the crime. That last part is true, of course, but the amount of pure bullshit in his words is unbelievable.
To make matters worse, he actually interviewed the woman with the lip liner, that immature puta. It turns out her name is Maria Francisco, the wife of a local politician for some lesser-known party. She says that she knew I was “bad news” when I came to pick up Chloe Ann, and was already antagonizing her and other ladies at the day camp for no apparent reason. She notes that she wasn’t surprised this happened at all, and had only wished she could have done something to protect the photographer from my wrath. She had witnessed the punch that I “randomly” threw and then ran over to help. By the time she arrived on the scene, I was gone.
The article goes on to say that the photographer is thinking of pressing charges, and it’s only then that I realize he didn’t write the article himself. I suppose he figures it is more credible this way.
As I sit back in my chair, the room seems to glow brighter, the fluorescent lights buzzing louder. Everything inside me seems to be caught in a stranglehold. It’s like I don’t breathe, I don’t bleed, I don’t have a heartbeat. I feel like my anger is so raw and terrible that it’s actually trying to kill me on the spot. I don’t think I’ve ever been this livid, felt so fucking hopeless, in my whole entire life.
I sit like this forever. It feels like forever, seems like forever, and when I finally manage to move, I’m shocked to see that only thirty minutes have passed. I eventually eye my phone and the missed calls and ten panicked texts, all from Vera.
There is nothing to say, really. So I text her that I am on my way home and will see her soon.
When I get into the apartment, I am still in my daze. Vera has been crying, and she’s fluttering around like a flightless bird. She’s afraid for me, she’s afraid for her. She’s muttering things about me going off to jail, that she’ll be all alone, that she’ll never see me again. It doesn’t seem to matter that yesterday things seemed more straightened out with the lawyer. Suddenly it’s like it hits her, how fragile her life here is, and she seems to lose it right before my eyes.
I do my best to comfort her but it’s hard when I don’t believe half the shit that’s coming out of my mouth. But I have to be strong, even if I don’t feel it. I have to be the one to stand tall and get us through this, to hold her above the water, this rising, raging tide.
I’m not sure how it happens—maybe it’s the glasses of scotch we down, sitting together in the living room and staring at the bright, hot sunshine outside until it disappears into blue and black, but somehow we get through the day.
Just when I’m about to tell her we should go to bed and see what tomorrow brings, just when I think to myself that we may have gotten off easy, my phone rings.
We both freeze. We know who it is somehow without even looking. I look at Isabel on the call display, and from my stance alone, Vera knows. She places her hand on my shoulder, kisses me softly on the shoulder, and heads to bed.
Isabel is furious. This is nothing new, but her anger has so many levels, it’s like the Zelda game I used to play as a kid. Once you unlock them, they just keep coming.
I barely listen. It’s everything I thought it would be, and she has no interest in the truth, the fact that this man is a threat to us and our daughter. She just cares about her image, about being made a fool of, how she, by default, looked to those other parents. I think maybe some part of her is happy that I ended up in such a violent act because it’s a way for her to show the world that the divorce was a good thing—it gives her some control. But the fact is, her pride speaks louder than anything else, and she’s embarrassed she married me in the first place.
When I hang up, I’m not sure where I stand or what’s going to happen. I head to bed and curl up beside Vera. Neither of us sleep for the longest time, but when slumber finally does pull me under, it does so with such ferocity that my last hazy thought is the fear I may never wake up.
But when I do the next morning, I’m not sure if it was fear at all but desperate longing.
Chapter Eight
The weekend passes by in a blur. Once again, there is areason why Chloe Ann can’t come see me, and this timeI am not afraid to question it. But I am met withresistance from Isabel and excuses. Apparently she hadtold me a long time ago that she wanted to bring ChloeAnn to a waterpark before the summer was over, andthat in this heat it was barbaric to deny her theopportunity to cool down.
I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it with every part ofme. I feel like this is the beginning of the very slowprocess of annihilation. But my protests go unnoticed,and I spend the weekend with Vera, trying to get throughit with a whirl of heat, haze, and alcohol.
We are afraid to leave the apartment, so we don’t.It’s prison time again but this time I really do know it’sfor the better. I just know that Mr. Cruz will be outside,waiting for me, waiting for another attempt, and I knowthat other reporters will have joined in as well. It’s a bigstory, big enough now that it makes the Sunday editionof El País.