The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs
I’m just so tired. I need to rest. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
“Are you safe?” Caroline asked. “Were you followed?”
“No. I wouldn’t put you in danger.”
“Listen, you and your kids can stay as long as you need to,” said Caroline. “But if you don’t report this, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be safe.”
“I can’t risk being deported,” she repeated with a shudder.
“Then could you claim asylum or something? I know it’s probably not a simple process, but it would be a start.”
“I’m not starting anything tonight.” Angelique gave a weary sigh and dabbed gingerly at her lip. “It was a mistake to come here. I should go.”
“Don’t you dare. I want to help. But I have to know how. We need to figure out what to do in a situation like this.”
Angelique steadfastly refused to name her attacker. She refused to press charges. “My visa’s expired,” she explained again. “That means I’m here illegally. My kids are here illegally. I can’t risk it.”
“What happened to you is illegal, regardless of your status.”
“Perhaps, but I still won’t risk it.”
“What would happen if you did go back to Haiti?” Caroline asked. “Would it be the end of the world?”
“As a matter of fact, it would.”
“It would be worse than being battered by a man you’re scared to name?” She still suspected Roman, the jilted boyfriend, but for some reason, Angelique was protecting him.
“Haiti is much worse, and I do not say that lightly.”
“Seriously? Don’t you have family back home? Friends?”
Angelique looked at her for several seconds. “Let me tell you about life in Haiti. What I would go back to. We lived in the Cité Soleil slum—that’s in Port-au-Prince—in a shack made from sheets of corrugated tin. I was three years old when I lost my mother. I’m told she died of the cholera along with my baby brother. There is always a cholera outbreak in Cité Soleil.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“My father had no education because his family turned him out to work when he was ten years old. He survived by working as a bayakou.” She paused. “Do you know what that is?”
“No, sorry, I don’t.”
“Consider yourself fortunate that you don’t. You see, in Haiti, in many parts of the city, there is no sewage system. Families that can’t afford them have latrines instead. And these latrines need to be emptied. That is the job of the bayakou. My father earned the equivalent of four dollars a night doing this work. It was barely enough to keep us alive. He went out at night while I slept.” She paused. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“You lived it. I can handle hearing it.”
“He worked his job naked, because there was no way to clean clothes tainted by the filth. When I was very small, I was proud to have such a hardworking papa. By the time I reached school age, that all changed. The other children shunned me because of the labor my father did. You can imagine the names they called me.”
“Jesus, Angelique. I had no idea.”
“Most of the world does not. I was fifteen when Papa died. It was an infection. He was always getting something from the work he did—infections, sores that wouldn’t heal. He kept me away from him. I have no memory of ever touching him. When he died, I had nothing. I sold bracelets made from cowrie shells I found on the beach, and sometimes relied on the charity of strangers.”
Caroline gently covered Angelique’s slim, elegant hand with her own. Angelique’s nails were bitten and ragged. “You had it so rough. I can’t even imagine. Now I know you’re even more awesome because you found a way to survive.”
Angelique was silent for several seconds. Then at last she cried. Her tears were fierce and regal, and she looked like a queen sitting there, her life in tatters. “I came here to give my children a chance at a better life. What a terrible failure I am now.”
Caroline tried to sound confident and decisive. “None of this is your fault. And you’re not alone. I want you to try getting some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll figure out a way through this.”
Caroline didn’t sleep at all that night. She couldn’t. It was too upsetting to think about some monster hitting her friend. It was the height of frustration that she was at such a loss. She was angry—at her friend for not leveling with her. At the assailant Angelique refused to name. At the agency that exploited a vulnerable model. At herself for not knowing how to support her friend.
She spent hours online, researching shelters and aid organizations for both immigrants and victims of domestic violence. She stalked Roman Blake online. She stalked Angelique, too, culling through her list of friends and associates, trying to determine who else in her life might have attacked her.
In the morning, they went together to the kids’ school. Despite what had occurred the night before, Angelique looked incredible—her damaged lip concealed, fingernails trimmed, hair done, boxy top over skinny jeans with half boots. It made Caroline wonder how many times her friend had hidden the horrors she’d endured.
The children seemed unaware of the drama. They knew only that they were moving, a frequent occurrence in their lives. At the school, Caroline filled out a form designating herself as the children’s guardian and emergency contact. Then she convinced Angelique to go with her to the Lower East Side Haven, a place that provided services to victims. The staff there was discreet and moved with incredible swiftness, offering ways to keep her and her children safe. To Caroline’s surprise, no one pressured Angelique to name her abuser or to turn him in. One of the counselors explained that in the midst of a volatile situation, the priority was safety before justice.
After an exhaustive round of questions, the counselor said, “I wish I had better news. But I have to tell you, there’s a waiting list for accommodations. It’s a sad fact that the need is greater than what we can provide.”
Seeing the anguish on her friend’s face, Caroline took Angelique’s hand. “You and the kids will stay with me.” She turned to the counselor. “We’ll make it work.”
“Coming here was the right thing to do.” The counselor leveled her gaze at Angelique. “It’s incredibly important to have a plan.” She went through it step by step. Gas in the car. A prepaid phone, bought with cash. An emergency fund.
Angelique tensed up when the counselor asked about personal documents—ID, birth certificates for herself and the kids, insurance policies and papers, financial documents. She was caught in the horrible bind that so many undocumented workers with children faced. She could be deported at any time. She might be separated from her children. The prospect made her physically ill; Caroline could see her shaking.
“I’m sorry to have to ask this,” the counselor went on. “Do you have a plan for your children in case something happens to you?”
“The plan is that I’ll be the guardian. I know your kids, Ange. And it’s just a backup, after all.” Caroline tried to sound reassuring.
Angelique stared down at the stack of papers. She held herself very still.
“Every parent is obligated to have a plan, no matter what the circumstances. I know you love your children,” the counselor pointed out. “Have you made a will?”
Caroline’s phone vibrated like a trapped bee