by Melissa Witcher

 

Luiza has identified only one solution; she simply must go out. 

She smooths her sleek shoulder-length brown hair, glances at the front door, locked so her slippery son Júpiter doesn’t sneak out, and then looks down at her phone. She swipes a finger across the screen splintered into hairline fractures and opens to the messages she sent to José, the kids’ father. 

cadê você? read

when are you getting home? read

this is bullshit read

—Mamãe, Júpiter broke my toy. 

you don’t deserve the kids you have you aren’t even a real father você é menos que um tio delivered

—He broke it, it’s not fair! 

Eloá’s amber eyes fill with familiar tears and her chubby cheeks flush red. Her hair is matted and Luiza shifts her attention from the phone to locating a brush. 

—Life isn’t fair —she tells her daughter, recalling how many times her mother said the same thing to her. —Go play and I’ll fix your hair. 

Eloá sniffles but does as she’s told. Luiza calls her mom as she enters the bathroom to find the brush. 

—What now? 

Her mom’s voice makes the skin on her arms pebble. The phone trembles and Luiza looks at the screen, sure that the movement is proof José has responded, but it is only her hand shaking. 

—Can you watch the kids for a little bit? I need to go to the post office. 

—Not this again. You’re too old to go out preening on the streets, fishing for all those compliments. 

You see, the world has long told Luiza that she’s beautiful.

Ladies in curlers declare it while pinching her cheeks, kids whisper it, peers mumble it, dudes growl it, and old men utter it. At the post office, on the bus, in aisles and alleyways, entering the doctor’s office, leaving school.

Anyone. Anywhere.

Everyone knows it. Everyone says it. Every day.

Until yesterday. 

Yesterday, Luiza left the house as she often did. She walked on familiar sidewalks marked by piss and broken by overgrown roots, brushed shoulders in preparation of murmured obscenities, moved carefully expecting inevitable catcalls. But alas, she returned home empty-handed, something her mother had always warned would happen. 

—It’s not that, Mom. I need to send a package. 

Her mom tsk’s into the phone. Luiza studies her reflection in the mirror: smooth skin, perfectly arched eyebrows, full lips men beg to kiss. She cannot identify a single reason for yesterday’s silence. 

—I’m going to bible study, which is what you should be doing. The Lord says…

Luiza disconnects the call. Later, she’ll blame Júpiter. Everyone knows that boys will be boys.  

IF YOUR FUCKING A BITCH, TE MATO delivered 

She shoves the cell phone in her back pocket after sending the message and walks down the hallway, back towards the children, brush in hand. She can smell Júpiter’s diaper before she can see him. He should be potty trained by now but he refuses all her attempts.

Instead of moving closer to the shit, she stops and rests against the front door. It is cool against her cheek and the handle is slippery in her sweaty palm. The slick metal entices her fingertips and she presses down. The click of the lock lures her forward. 

She steps outside and there are no neighbors chatting or pedestrians passing. No one notices the crime she is tempted to commit, the children she is willing to leave. She whispers her name and there is no echo. The brush bristles bite into her palm.

She steps back inside, heart racing.

Suddenly, the children surround her. Eloá throws herself against the back of Luiza’s legs and Júpiter squeals porta porta porta.

—Love you mamãe! 

Eloá’s voice is soft and tender, reminding Luiza that beans need to be seasoned and rice needs to be cooked. Proof that there is nowhere to go.

She pushes the lock back into place and moves towards the wipes but Eloá refuses to let go of her leg and she steps on a block. The tender arch of her foot throbs as Júpiter rips off his diaper and throws it flat down on the ground, nearly hitting them. 

just finished last installation, home in 15 read

—Eloá, go sit down! Seu cabelo tá feio.  

Eloá blinks and does as she’s told as Luiza slides her own hair into a ponytail. She leaves the diaper on the ground, presses the bristles of the brush deep into the plump flesh of her fingertips until the skin turns red and dimpled and she can feel the pain, and she waits.