“You told them?” G.G. guessed.
“No.” Ildaria shook her head, but she didn’t explain how they learned it then. Instead, she blurted, “They also learned that while my mother’s latest boyfriend wasn’t beating me, he was sexually molesting me.” Ildaria lifted her chin defiantly as she said that, her teeth grinding together as she waited for his response.
G.G. breathed out as if he’d been afraid this was coming, but was still disappointed that it had. His expression compassionate, he said gently, “I’m sorry.”
That was all, no gasping horror, no outrage and vows of vengeance or justice. But it had more effect than those other things would have. Ildaria’s mouth wobbled with the bottled-up emotion that wanted to escape, and then firmed again. It had happened two hundred years ago. She didn’t even remember it. She’d be damned if she was going to get all emotional now.
Clearing her throat, she nodded in acknowledgment of his words, and then said, “My abuela was apparently very upset to learn this, so Señorita Ana very kindly suggested she take me home, telling her not to worry about my mother or her boyfriend. She would send men to take care of the boyfriend, as well as to fetch my mother back to my abuela’s along with a doctor to see to both she and myself.”
Ildaria paused to take a sip of her cocoa. She didn’t usually talk this much and her mouth was growing dry. The hot chocolate didn’t really help much, but it was still warm and tasted good, so she took another sip before continuing. “When my abuela took me home, my mother and her boyfriend were there waiting. My mother was apparently a mess, but insisted she was well enough to look after me, and wanted to take me home. But the way she kept a wary eye on her boyfriend and flinched whenever he moved made my abuela suspect it was he who wanted me back and not to look after me. She had no intention of letting me be taken back to be abused, so sent me to my room and then told my mother about the abuse.”
Ildaria grimaced. “As you can imagine, that didn’t go over well. The boyfriend at first tried to deny he was abusing me, but my mother came to my room and asked me about it. I don’t remember it, don’t know what I said, but apparently it was enough that she went storming back out.” Ildaria blew out a breath and shook her head. “All hell broke out then. I gather my mother grabbed a knife and went after her boyfriend. He got the knife away and used it on her, and then went after my abuela when she tried to help my mother. I have no doubt he would have killed them both, and maybe even me. Fortunately, Señorita Ana had sent men to deal with the boyfriend as promised. When they arrived at his shack to learn he and my mother had come to get me, they followed and arrived in time to save my abuela. Unfortunately, my mother wasn’t as lucky. She died in hospital several days later from her wounds.”
Ildaria stopped to sip at her cocoa again, hardly hearing his murmured condolences. Talking about it brought back the dark feelings that always accompanied discussing this subject. Were she to analyze those feelings, Ildaria would probably have to say they were a combination of shame and anger, but she didn’t bother analyzing them. It was her past. Best forgotten, as her abuela used to say.
She did feel sad, though, that she never felt much loss when she thought about the death of her mother. But she’d been too young to have much in the way of memories of her. To Ildaria, she was just a photo that her abuela used to show her. Just as the fact that she had been abused was just a story she’d been told. She didn’t recall much of either.
Even so, Ildaria knew it affected her to this day. She suspected it was why she’d never been interested in sexual intimacy, and the reason she had so little experience with the opposite sex. Sexual situations brought those dark feelings rising within her and morphed into all-out rage. Or they had before G.G. She hadn’t had any of those feelings with him, not in their shared dreams anyway. He’d never so much as touched her in passing when they were awake, though. She had no idea how she’d react if he touched or tried to kiss her . . . which was rather concerning now that she thought about it.
“So your abuela raised you after that?”
Glancing up at that question, Ildaria realized she’d broken off the story. She gave her head a shake to clear out her other worries and nodded. “Si. There was no more bouncing from boyfriends to my abuela’s. It was just Abuela and I.” Her mouth curved into a soft smile. “The next ten years were wonderful. She was an amazing woman and I was nothing like my mother. Probably by choice. I didn’t want to be like her.”
“Understandable,” G.G. murmured.
“So I was a dutiful granddaughter, always doing what I was told, and spending a lot of time with Abuela, rather than with children my own age. She used to walk me to school on the way to work, and then I would go to her employer’s after school and do my homework in the kitchen until she was done and then walk home with her.”
“What about friends?” G.G. asked when she paused to take a breath.
“Oh, I had school friends,” she said with a shrug. “But I never saw them after school. Abuela worked late enough that my friends were inside when we got home.” Ildaria smiled faintly. “I know most people would consider that abnormal or unhealthy, but I didn’t really miss not having friends my own age. I had my abuela and she was always doing things with me. Teaching me to cook and clean, helping with my homework. We played board games and cards and laughed a lot. I loved my abuela. She was wonderful.”
G.G. nodded, but pointed out, “You said the next ten years were wonderful. What happened after that?”
Ildaria was silent for a minute, her mind going back to that time. “My abuela usually finished work around dinnertime when the night staff took over, and then we’d walk home to make our own meal. But if her employer was having a party, she’d stay late to help and send me home alone. It only happened perhaps once or twice a year over those first ten years, but then Señorita Ana got engaged. She was rich and from an important family, so the engagement meant a lot more parties, two or three a week. My abuela was getting older, and I knew she found these parties exhausting after working all day. I wanted to stay and help, but she refused to even consider it. She wanted me nowhere near these parties. She’d send me home every time.
“It was as I left before one of these parties that a man approached me at the end of the driveway. He introduced himself as Juan, a friend of my abuela’s employer, assured me I was safe with him, and insisted on walking me home. I wasn’t completely comfortable with him, but I didn’t want to offend my abuela’s employer by offending him. So, not knowing how to make him go away, I let him walk me home, thinking it would be a one-off. But a couple days later there was another party, and again my abuela sent me home alone, and there he was, appearing at the end of the drive to accompany me.
“As I say, I wasn’t comfortable with him, but couldn’t have told you why at the time,” she said unhappily. “Juan never did anything wrong, never touched me or said anything untoward. He was very polite and even charming, but I—” she hesitated and then tried to explain, “I was very naïve, but even so I think I sensed that he wanted . . . something,” she said helplessly, unable to better describe the creeping sense of discomfort he’d caused her when he hadn’t done anything that she could point to as being threatening. Grimacing, she gave it up and said, “I began to loathe the nights my abuela had to stay late for parties.”
Her gaze slid to G.G. and she paused briefly as she noted the grim expression on his face. He knew something was coming and was mentally preparing himself. It was part of the reason he didn’t gasp in horror or outrage at things he was told. Which, she suspected, was also part of the reason women liked to talk to him. He was a good listener, really listening . . . with interest and caring and calm. G.G. was a good listener in the way that a good driver kept an eye on the traffic ahead, not just on the car ahead. The driver who watched only the car ahead didn’t know there was trouble until the brake lights of the car in front of them came on, often too late to keep from hitting them. The good driver watching the traffic ahead, saw the brake lights of distant cars coming on and automatically slowed down, preparing for the coming trouble and usually avoiding hitting the car in front when it suddenly braked. G.G. listened that way, sensing something coming and preparing himself mentally for it so that he could remain calm and sympathetic, rather than making it about himself and his reaction to what he was hearing.
A nudge at her ankle drew her attention away from G.G. and down to see H.D. curling up against her. She smiled faintly, and reached down to pet him briefly before straightening and continuing, “Anyway, I think my desire to avoid the man was why I committed my first act of rebellion.”
“And what did you do?” G.G. asked.
“My girlfriends from school were always asking me to go places and do things. Not wanting to worry or upset my abuela I always said no. But Emilita, one of those school friends, was having a birthday party on the Friday night and invited me. I knew Señorita Ana was having another party that night. I didn’t want to have to walk home again with Juan, so I asked if I could go to the birthday party. It was directly after school, and we would all walk there together where her family would be in attendance. I was fourteen, certainly old enough to go to a birthday party, but I was still surprised when my abuela gave me permission.”
“Why wouldn’t she? You were always a good girl,” G.G. pointed out softly.
“Si,” Ildaria breathed unhappily. “I meant to be that night as well, and everything was fine at first. A group of us went to Emilita’s house after school. There was food, non-alcoholic drinks, and a piñata. I had fun, so when the party started to wind down and some of the girls talked about going to a cantina where Emilita’s brother worked, and invited me . . .”
“You agreed,” G.G. guessed.
Ildaria grimaced, but nodded. “Emilita’s brother did work there. He served us alcoholic drinks we shouldn’t have had, but he did try to keep an eye on us too. Unfortunately, he couldn’t watch all of us at once. The other girls had apparently drunk before. They handled it better than me, who after one drink was drunk. After two I was stumbling drunk. I stopped counting drinks at four,” she admitted and shook her head with disgust at the stupidity of youth.