“Are you searching me?” Gia takes a step toward the closed door, her only escape. “What, you think I have drugs on me or something?”
Marin wishes it were drugs, rather than her daughter beaten. It was possible the principal was wrong. Surely the PE instructor exaggerated what she saw. Most likely she misidentified the student. Because a child of Marin’s could never be hurt that way. Marin has done everything to guarantee the abuse is behind her, not in front. It is the reason she has kept it a secret. Hiding it deep in the closet, without exposure, keeps everyone safe. Gia is meant to reach for the stars, not fall beneath them.
“Please don’t argue with me,” Marin says.
“I’m not arguing,” Gia replies. “I’m just not taking off my clothes,” she says with resolve. She reveals a confidence born of having been rewarded with all the best in life. No matter that it was Marin and Raj who provided her with the material comforts she has become used to. The sculpture has been created, and now the sculptor has to face her creation. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Yes, I can.” Any hope of compassion dissipates. They stand facing each other. Mother against daughter. A reflection of each other, yet a world of doubt separating them. Resentment and annoyance creep in. “Now, Gia.”
“No.” Gia reaches for the doorknob, ready to flee. “You won’t tell me what’s going on, and now you want me to strip? Forget it.”
She wrenches the door open, but Marin slams it shut. A battle of wills and anger begins. Marin starts to unbutton Gia’s blouse herself. Gia, too shocked at first to stop her, allows one button to get undone before she pushes her mother’s hands away.
“Don’t touch me,” Gia yells.
The skin bared so far is untouched. Relief mingles with fury at Gia for fighting her. Marin grabs her by the shoulder to hold her still while attempting to unbutton more. Desperate for this to be over so she can return to work, so she can make up for the hours of production lost. Just as she undoes another button, Gia pushes her, hard. Staggering back, Marin barely keeps from falling.
Marin will relive the next moment hundreds of times in her head. Rethink each step and imagine it differently. Wonder which options would have been wiser, smarter. Wish that it had occurred to her to stop and think before destroying the only thing that really mattered to her—Gia’s love. But hindsight is a vicious thing. It mocks you with what should have been done. Teases with how things could still be. When left with ashes, you wonder how you could have prevented the fire. But introspection is not Marin’s friend. Instead, blind fury propels her. With one hand holding Gia in place, she pulls back her other, slapping her daughter with all she has.
The silence that follows drowns out Marin’s regret. Her arms fall to her sides, too weak to hold up. Before she can utter an apology, Gia begins to unbutton her blouse. One at a time, while holding fast to Marin’s gaze. She clearly accepts that she can’t fight Marin any longer, yet her eyes fill with defiance. A need to take back control. Slowly, she spreads apart the lapels of the starched white shirt, the last barrier of innocence against the horror.
“Is this what you wanted to see?” Gia demands, allowing the shirt to fall down her arms. Bruises, some black and blue, others green, decorate her body. Two on her abdomen, framing her belly button. Gia loved playing peekaboo with her belly button as a toddler. Raj had found a flap book that showed different babies showing their belly buttons. It became Gia’s favorite game for weeks. Her shirt up and then down, laughing in fits when her belly button was exposed.