To be Maria (27 page)

            "Okay. But can you help me? My neck is still quite stiff."

            "Fine." Maria grabs Anya’s hand and helps her onto her behind.

            "Are you okay to get up on your feet by yourself, or do you want me to help you?"

            "No, I'll be fine," Anya says with that spark of determination in her eyes. With a small grunt, she gets herself onto her feet.

            After they change into fresh outfits, Maria helps Anya fold and tuck her clothes into her old suitcase. She then packs her own belongings. She is painfully aware that her face is unwashed and plastered with yesterday's makeup, and that her hair is one unruly mess. She wants to have a shower, but the washroom is next to Alex and Marissa's room. She fears that the sound of running water will wake them, so she resolves to wash up in the ladies restroom at the library.

            "What time does the library open?" She says

            "Nine-thirty."

            Maria's jaw drops. "Are you serious?"

            "Yes. It's Saturday. The library opens later on the weekends."

            Maria sucks in her breath.
The libraries in Madrid open their doors at eight-thirty every regular Saturday morning.
"Well, I guess we'll have to spend the next couple of hours at a coffee shop."

            Anya gives her a puzzled frown. "Why don't we just go over to your parents' place? You're going out for coffee with your mom later on, so it would be more convenient for you; for us. And you can have a shower."

            Maria inhales a huge gulp of air.
It wouldn't be so bad to see my mom and my little brother. But my dad? I don't know if I'm ready to face him
. "Let's just get out of here, Anya."

            The living room light gets turned on suddenly. It brightens every corner of the area. Maria jerks around to find Alex standing right in the center of the living room. His shoulders are stooped with exhaustion, but his brown eyes are as cold as ice.

            "Where are you girls going?"

            Maria's heart leaps into her throat. "We're going out for coffee."

            His eyes narrow. "This early? And why are you taking your bags?"

            Maria's eyes fall to her large, duffle bag.
Great. How am I going to get out of this one?
"I'm going over to my parents' place to have a shower."

            "You can have one here."

            The sharpness in his voice makes her stomach churn. "Well, Marissa will need the washroom and I don't--"

            "Maria, you've lived here for over two weeks, so what's the problem?"

            She bites down hard on her lower lip.
You're the problem. That's why we're leaving.
"Nothing."

            "Then, why are you taking your stuff with you?"

            The fierce look in his eyes makes her heart race. She is terrified of him, terrified that at any moment and for no reason, he will beat her and Anya. Or worse, he will pull out his gun and shoot them both. These very thoughts make her dizzy and weak.

            "Why don't you push your bags off to the side and come sit at the table." His suggestion is more like a brusque demand, yet Maria does as she’s told. And so does Anya.

            "I promised my mom that I would meet her at noon," Maria says, unable to keep her shaky voice steady.

            "Where?"

            "At the Starbucks near the hospital."

            "I'll take you there."

            Maria's head starts to spin. "Why are you doing this?"

            "Because I have to."

            This time, when she peers into his eyes, she can see that underneath the layer of ice, there is fear.

            "Maria. Anya. I like you both and I want to trust you. But I can't."

            Maria narrows her eyes. "Not long ago, you told me that you needed me to trust you. And now, you're saying you don't trust us. Isn't that a double standard?"

            The look on his face is thunderous. "You can't leave."

            Maria locks her eyes on his. She is no longer is afraid of him. "I don't care what you say, Alex. We're leaving and you'll never hear from us again." She jumps out of her seat. Unfortunately, Alex is quicker. He grabs her shoulders and forces her back onto the chair.

            "Alex. Don't. Stop," Anya shouts.

            He thrusts his face close to Maria’s. "It's too late, Maria. You're one of us now."

            Maria backs so far away from him that she almost ends up on Anya's lap. Her heart gallops and sweat soaks the armpits of her tight-fitting sweater.

****

            Patrick can't get his mind off Anya no matter how hard he tries. He has spent many sleepless nights thinking about her. The little sleep that he does get, he dreams about her. In every dream, she is with him and she’s happy to be by his side. Every time he wakes up to the realization that she's not there, he cries. He talks to his parents and he talks to the family counselor, but they all say the same thing: "If Anya really cared for you, she wouldn't have dumped you. You deserve much better. Move on. Find someone who genuinely cares about you." He knows that he should listen to them and forget about Anya. But their advice makes him feel worse.          

            School does not make him feel any better. In fact, it's the last place he wants to be. Every time he walks down the hallway, he hears someone mention her name. No one has made any snide remark about her, yet it still breaks his heart to hear her name and to not see her. He couldn't have recalled a worse moment than last Monday afternoon when Mr. Hawthorne asked how Anya was feeling and when she will return to school. Patrick couldn't answer the first question because he hasn't yet got a chance to visit Anya in the hospital. He knows that she won't be returning to this class, or to this school, but he couldn’t tell Mr. Hawthorne that. He tried as best as he could to evade Mr. Hawthorne's question, but when Mr. Hawthorne wouldn't let him change the conversation, Patrick said that she should be back soon.

            Despite all the advice he has been given, Patrick is still determined to see her. To hell with what Maria and Carly say, he is going to see Anya whether she wants him to or not. He wants to fix their broken relationship. He wants her back and he will do everything to get her.

****

            Saturday morning, Patrick walks up to the reception desk in the hospital. A woman on the other side of the counter peers at him with an inquiring look on her face. She is tall, slender and very attractive with olive-toned skin and thick, black curls that tumble over her shoulders. For some reason, she makes him think about Maria.  

            "Hi…uh…I'm here to see Anya Preschnikov," he says.

            She crumples her brow. "Who are you?" Her voice carries a heavy Spanish accent.

            He looks at her, his right eyebrow slightly raised.
You must be Maria's mother.
"I'm Patrick O'Connell. I'm a good friend of Anya."

            She stares at him, looking like she suddenly remembers something. "Oh, yes. Anya. My daughter's friend. She left the hospital over two weeks ago."

            "Would you know if she went home?"

            "I don't know. I wasn't here when she left," she says with a small shake of her head.

            "Thanks," he says with a faint nod of his head.

            His next stop is the Preschnikov household. When he turns onto Gerard Avenue, all of the memories of his time spent with Anya play in his mind. They are so strong that he can feel her presence. Once Patrick parks his truck, he opens his mouth to speak, but the moment he turns his head, he realizes that no one is sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

            He slinks out of the truck, then slowly makes his way over to the front door. He knocks on it but is greeted by silence. Although, Patrick is determined to stay until someone opens it. After waiting patiently for a few seconds, he knocks louder. Once again, he is met by silence. This time, it frustrates him. He jerks the doorknob, then enters the house, mildly surprised that the door is unlocked. A strong, foul smell slaps him in the face. He wrinkles his nose.
Ugh. I can't remember this house smelling this bad.
He waves his hand in front of his face in effort to dispel the smell. "Anya," he calls. No one answers and Anya does not appear in the doorway of her bedroom. "Anya. Are you here?"

            "Hello?" someone says in a low, hoarse voice.

            Patrick jumps. He jerks his body around, hesitatingly allowing his gaze to fall on the door beside the old television set. Ivan emerges slowly from behind the door. Patrick gasps when he sees him. Ivan looks absolutely horrible. He appears as though he hasn't showered in days and his eyes are beet red. Patrick doesn't know whether to feel compassion for the misfortunate man or disgusted by his presence.

            "Patrick. Are you here for Anya?" His voice is barely louder than a whisper.

            "Yes," he says, turning his attention back to her bedroom door. It remains shut.

            "She's not here." Ivan bursts into tears. His wails hinge on the verge of hysteria.

            Patrick backs slowly away from the man. "Where is she?”    

"She-she moved away. Forever," Ivan says between sobs.

            All of the color drains from Patrick's face.
She couldn't have left Peach Valley. She doesn't have the money to move.
Then, the memory of Maria and that tall, dark-haired man returns to him. He remembers how terrified he was of that man. There was so much hatred in those dark eyes.
Anya couldn't have gone to live with him. She couldn't have.
But the realization hits Patrick over the head like a ton of bricks. Anya has moved in with that jerk and Maria.

            Patrick turns and runs out the door. By the time he reaches the truck, his face is wet and his vision blurred, though through his agonizing disappointment, a small voice inside tells him not to give up the search for her.
Anya needs you, Patrick. You must find her. You can't let her go.
"I'm going to find you, Anya, even if it takes me all next week. I love you and I don't want to lose you," he says while he turns the key in the ignition.

            When Maria walks through the glass door into Starbucks, she almost immediately spots her mother sitting at one of the small, two-seated tables in the back corner of the room. Her mother's eyes are fixed on a newspaper, but as Maria approaches, she looks up and casts her a small smile.

            Maria forces a smile. She is in such a mess and she knows that she must find her way out of it somehow. She has secretly planned to go back to Spain, and she has planned to take Anya with. Maria has several family members who would be eager to help them until they are able to fend for themselves. Madrid would be the best place to start their lives on a clean slate. They could work while they complete high school and then travel throughout the rest of Europe once they receive their diplomas. This plan gives Maria a glimmer of hope, but she is faced with one large problem: she has enough money to get herself to Vancouver on a bus and then on a plane to Madrid from Vancouver International Airport, but she doesn't have enough to pay for Anya's way. She needs at least fifteen hundred dollars, and that includes food.

            "Hi, honey. What drink would you like?" Her mother's voice is unusually soft. It should ease Maria's nerves, but it only does more to intensify her anxiety.

            "I'm…not thirsty. Thanks,
Madre
,"

            Teresa crumples her brow. "Maria, you look upset. Is it because of what happened to your friend?"

            Maria's heart flutters.
No. It has nothing to do with Anya. It has everything to do with the people we ended up with.
"Yes. No."

            Teresa lays her fingers on Maria's right hand. "You can tell me everything when I return. Are you sure you don't want anything?"

            Maria chews on her lower lip. "I'll have a Mocha."

            Within a few minutes, Teresa returns carrying two fat mugs filled with steaming liquid. The Mocha is topped with whipping cream, and a drizzle of thick, chocolate sauce forms a zig zag over the white cream. The delicious drink, though, does nothing to soothe Maria's unsettled stomach.
How am I going to ask her for money? And how am I going to tell her I can't stay here anymore?

           
"Dr. James told me about what had happened to Anya."

            Maria's eyes meet with hers.

            "What those girls did to her is disgusting. They should be put on trial."

            "I agree," Maria says, her voice not much louder than a whisper.

            "And, you’re friends with those girls, Maria?" The all-too-familiar scolding look appears on her face.

            "No,
Madre
. I can't stand them."
But now, I've jumped from the frying pan into the fire.