Page 64 of Love is Angry

He was going to kill me, and I was going to let him. Can I blame him? I just told him I killed his mother. I didn’t mean that I did it with my own hands, but that’s how it feels. The guilt is real, a permanent knot in the back of my throat. It swells and makes it harder to breathe whenever I think of Roxanne. Had I kept my mouth shut, she wouldn’t have known. She would have lived.

The weight of my guilt and shame is too much. It slows me down, making my muscles ache, my heart hurt. I can’t hear him behind me—maybe he isn’t chasing me anymore. I’m in a park now, a little decorative thing with a duck pond in the middle. I curl up in the gnarled hollow of a willow tree, pretending that the world can’t see me through the thin curtain of loose, leafy branches.

But the world can.

“Madison! Are you okay?” Laura’s voice comes from the left.

“Madison! What the fuck did you do?” Rhue’s from the right.

I’m trapped. Cornered. No matter what I do, how much space I try to give them, this family is never going to leave me alone. My heart beats fast, my breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. I wonder how deep the duck pond is. Wonder if I could lie down and hide in there until this all goes away. It’s not that I want to die, really—it's just that I can’t bear to keep living this life.

Then Laura’s hand is on my shoulder, comforting and warm. Rhue is storming up, breathless, red, and sweating. One glance at his face makes me tremble. Laura squeezes my arm, strong and steady. “Back off, Rhue,” she tells him calmly.

He ignores her, stepping closer. He’s staring at me, breathing hard. I can’t tell anymore whether it’s exertion or fury.

“Madison. What did you do to my mother?”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, my voice a whisper.

“That’s enough, both of you,” Laura snaps.

I look up at her, shocked. She gives me a gentle smile, then scowls at her brother. “I said that’s enough. Madison didn’t do anything to Mom, and if you don’t stop harassing her our whole family might as well change its name to Bullyveria. I have something I need to say to Madison. You can sit down and listen, or you can walk the fuck away, but you aren’t going to stand there and keep intimidating her for no fucking reason.”

I gape at her. I glance at Rhue to find him gaping at her too. Steve, standing behind her chair, isn’t gaping at all—he's got a smirk on his face and his eyes shine with pride. He must know her better than anybody these days.

“Laura,” Rhue says with forced calm. “She said she killed mom.”

“I didn’t… I mean… I’m so sorry, Rhue. My mind is a fucking jumble, and I am so bad with words right now.” I take a deep breath and look at my hands. “I told your mom about what happened with—with Julian, and not long after that, she killedherself. I’m responsible. That’s what I meant. And—it’s why you should both just stay away from me, okay? I’m no good.”

“So my father was right? You were trying to get him to choose you.”

“No!” So many emotions are packed behind that one word that it feels like I’m being choked. The more I say, the worse it gets.

“Then what, Madison? Spell it out for me. Did you feel guilty? Did you—I don’t know, ask for her forgiveness? Make me understand, Madison, because right now there’s a lot that doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

Laura clears her throat pointedly. Rhue gives her a sharp, impatient look. She gazes back at him, utterly unfazed. “Rhue. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you,” he snaps.

“Then trust me now. I know—Iknow—that Madison is innocent of every single thing you have ever accused her of. If you would kindly pull your head out of your ass and take a seat, we can talk this out like adults.”

“Says the seventeen-year-old,” Rhue mutters. But he sits down anyway, curled around himself in a petulant sulk.

Laura dismisses him from her attention and turns to me with that warm, angelic smile. “There’s something I need to show you,” she says. She reaches deep into an internal pocket of her chair and pulls out a thin, leather-bound book. Rhue jerks up straight and makes a sound of dismay. Laura gives him a single, long, warning look. “It’s my mother’s diary,” she tells me.

My blood runs cold. Oh, no. No—Roxanne wouldn’t have written it down, would she? If she was covering for her family, sweeping everything under the rug, writing it down would be a stupid thing to do. I say nothing as Laura flips to a page near the end of the book. She holds it out to me. I don’t want to take it. Idon’t want to see it written down in black and white. But I reach for the book with shaking hands and begin to read.

This log is a record of every woman who has ever brought accusations of rape or sexual misconduct against my husband to me. I have included the details of my actions upon hearing these accusations, as well as the eventual resolutions (if any.) While I intend to present this evidence to the appropriate authorities myself, I acknowledge that I may not have the opportunity to do so; therefore, I leave this book and all of its contents to the safekeeping of my daughter, Laura Echeveria. I trust she will know what to do with it.

May 19th, 2000: Geneviev Rescale, age 19. Live-in cook and housekeeper’s assistant for the Echeveria household. Found disheveled and in tears in the pool house. Told me that Julian tried to rape her. I confronted Julian, who denied the accusations. Upon returning to the pool house to offer to take Ms. Rescale to the police station and support her in the subsequent investigation, I found that she had already left. July 21st, 2000, she contacted me from Italy and told me that she had misunderstood his intentions, and that he had sent her home to her family with a significant financial gift by way of apology.

My stomach turns. He not only bought her off, he sent her out of the country—so long ago that I hadn't even been born. How many women? How many years? My eyes fill with tears and I blink them away. I can’t read all of this, it will destroy me. I skim the page instead, flashing past name after name. Angela Gibbs. Sibel Osman. Georgia Dixon. Then, at the very end—Madison Willis. How long have I obsessed over what she must have thought of me that day? Now that I have the opportunity to know, to see myself through her eyes, I’m so afraid.

But I need to know.

Age 18. Tutor to both children. Left tutoring session early and in tears, looking shaken. After some encouragement, confessed that Julian had raped her the previous day after having lured her to our bedroom with the promise of returning her bag to her, which she had forgotten during her tutoring session earlier that morning. I strongly feel this is my last chance to bring my husband to justice. As Julian was not at home when I received this information, he would not have the opportunity to buy her off immediately; if she told no one else, he would not feel pressured to neutralize her. I asked her to stay quiet about it and promised that I would take care of it. I intend to keep that promise. She is one of only two women that he has assaulted who I can still contact; as such, it is imperative that she remain safe until I can find an officer willing to record charges against Julian Echeveria.

I tuck into myself, shivering. An officer willing—so the police are no help. Twenty-plus years of accusations against him and not a single charge filed. I want to know why—but not now. I would have to read their stories to find the resolutions, and with every story comes an image of Julian’s beastly attack. I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough—not today.

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