Wait For You

The Beginning

The Beginning



The first time I cried was the day Mama died. I was not old enough to fully grasp the meaning of death, but I understood the loss, felt it deep in my bones when her light grip on my hand loosened and her eyes closed for the last time.

"Meu lutador de Caração de ferro” My iron hearted fighter. That's what she used to call me. I always hated it when she called me that, but now that I think more deeply about it, I could not have had a more befitting endearment. Not many things hurt me to the point of letting my tears fall, yet the very next day, I shut myself up in my bedroom and soaked my favorite stuffed teddy with my own tears as guests paid their final respects.

All I could think was how I wanted my mama. I yearned for her comforting arms around me, patting my back as she whispered sweet words of consolation into my ears. Tears have no place on your beautiful face, Meu Amor. Your eyes were made to shine bright like a diamond, not for useless tears. You tell me who hurt you and I will beat them myself. The last sentence would always hit its mark, making me giggle. "You can't beat anyone mama, your hands are tiny," I would giggle as she'd wipe the last few droplets of tears from my eyes.

I won't have that today. I'll never have that again. It was a situation far beyond my control, and my tears were those of frustration and anger. There was also a deep sense of loss and sadness any eight-year-old should feel at the sudden death of their mother.

Papa made Lady Jane, my guardian, take me downstairs to say goodbye to the guests later that evening after I had knocked myself out from grief and woken up again.

"It is rude to let your guests leave without any acknowledgment," Papa had said in his thick German accent as his equally thick thumbs forcibly brushed the tears from my cheeks. Maybe it was my grief, but something in me yearned for my father's reassurance, the smallest word of kindness, that everything would be okay. Deep down, I knew that was wishful thinking.

"There," he said, tucking his hands back into his pockets and leaving my already burning cheeks feeling raw. "That should be the last of it. No more tears. You must never let anyone see you cry."

"Sir, the child just lost her mother!" Lady Jane burst out, her usual calm and quiet tone now reprimanding and stern. She seemed to catch herself, remembering that she was speaking to not only her boss but also one of the most dangerous men in the country. She mumbled a quick apology, but the way she wrung her hands told me she was not done yet. With her eyes locked on the floor, she spoke in a more solemn tone, "At least give the child twenty-four hours to grieve,"

Papa glances between Lady Jane and me for a brief moment, for one foolish second, I think I see some emotion in his fierce unwavering blue gaze, but I'm reminded that even rocks have more emotion than this man when he says: "Beatriz has been dead for twenty-four hours, make her look presentable and bring her downstairs" With that, he disappears down the dark hallway.

Even on the worst day of my life, appearances, etiquette, and protocol mean more to Frank Geruer than I do. My heart feels numb from all the hurt I've endured all day, that's why I don't feel the sting of that realization. I have no room in my heart left for any more pain as I stand next to Papa later, receiving half-hearted condolences from men who just cannot wait to return to the real reason they're here: business.

I remember thinking that no one really looked sad at Mama's funeral. The house had more of a celebratory air than a somber one. That would've been understandable if Mama had been Papa's age, but she was only 25.

Years later, I understood how miserable Mama's life had been, despite the brave, smiling face she always put up for me. How much she shielded me when she was alive.

She was an immigrant from Portugal and had been excited to go on a trip with her father when he sold her into marriage to my Papa. In a foreign country, married to a man who saw her more as an object of his satisfaction than a human being, she never had any friends or close relatives. None of her friends had come to her funeral because she had none; Papa never let her keep any. She'd been overjoyed at my birth. Grateful for having not just a daughter but also a friend and companion. She named me Madeira, after her hometown, where she had been everything to her own mother. We were everything to each other, and now she was gone.

I looked around the room, feeling an unfamiliar sense of vulnerability at the unfriendly faces staring back at me. They were all men around Papa's age, and they terrified me as much as he did.

One time, I had overheard Mama warn Papa sternly to keep his filthy friends away from me. She had told him she would kill him first before letting him sell me off like her father had her. It was the first time I'd ever heard Mama raise her voice to Papa, and that action caused her a great measure of pain, as I remember hearing her being flung across the room, her screams visceral and loud enough for everyone in our gilded palace to hear. She had made that sacrifice, standing firm on her will to protect me.

I shuddered to think of what awaited me now that she was no longer here. But it was a little more than fear of the unknown, I felt something else, something entirely new for me as well.

For the first time in my life, I felt alone. I was in a room full of no less than 400 people, yet I'd never felt more alone in my entire life. When Mama was alive, we would spend every waking moment together. She taught me, played my silly games, got me dressed, protected me from Papa. And now she was gone.

I felt the sting in the back of my eyes and before I could control them, my vision was blurry with unshed tears.

A figure appeared in my blurry vision. I could tell it was a man, no, not a man, a boy. His tall features and broad shoulders were familiar, and as I let the tear fall, he held out something white to me.

A handkerchief.

I look up to Papa, who is standing next to me, speaking to the boy's father, and silently ask his permission. His disapproval though well masked from the other guests is too well known by me to miss. I know I'll get an earful about crying in front of strangers later, but for now, he gives me a stiff nod.

I whisper my thanks as I take the handkerchief from the boy. Now that I can see more clearly, I recognize him.

Ryker. He's Mr Reynolds's son, dad's chief of security. I've seen him a few times before. He's always watching me when I see him and always from a distance. I wish he would talk to me sometimes, and even when I wave at him, he never waves back. He's much older than me, and he scares me, but not in the same way Papa and his friends scare me.

It's a fear my eight-year-old brain cannot fully understand. Or maybe it's not fear, it's an odd feeling in my belly, still unexplainable.

"I'm sorry your Mama died," he says. It's the first time I've heard him speak, and I'm almost shocked by the earnestness in his voice. I've heard those words no less than a thousand times in the last two days, but he's the first person who actually means them. The way he says the words makes me think he's not just being polite, he really is sorry Mama died.

I whisper another thanks, forcing myself to hold it together and not cry in front of him again. But then he does the strangest thing.

He hugs me.

Physical touch has never been my strong suit, and I'm frozen to the spot the second I feel his arms around me. But it only takes another second for his enveloping warmth to break the ice brimming inside me. "It's okay to cry, and whenever you're sad, I'll be here to hug you,"

His words heal something inside of me I never even realized was broken. It's the reassurance I so desperately needed. With those little words, I don't feel so alone anymore. It's incredible how I could still trust that promise a decade later.