SOPHIA’S SECRET

Mama fled the isle carrying embryonic me and a sack of salted fish, came to the city to live with my aunt and uncle. She works in a sewing factory, always seems alone and much too quiet, smiles only when there is fresh octopus on the table and a new bottle of wine. I have a shadow memory of Mama singing. Well, I’m not telling the exact truth. She smiles at me at the end of the day when she comes to tuck me in, calls me the love of her life and hugs me so close I think I’ll suffocate.

Everyone has a daddy, the kids say. They think I’m hiding mine, but where would I hide a daddy? I don’t live in a mansion. Besides, I wonder if I need a daddy. What are they good for? My uncle slaps my aunt around, slaps and screams, slaps and shouts. She cries in closets. Their son is in an “institution.” There’s nothing wrong with him.

An ugly man who resembles me has been prowling the gated playground with mudfish eyes. He circles the playing field with slow deliberation. My chest tightens, but I can’t stop staring. His lower lip is divided by a deep wrinkle as is mine, and there is something about his nose that reminds me of my own. Maybe it’s the way it sits on his face, not perfectly centered, listing left. When I look in the mirror, my nose seems to totter off the edge of my face. I don’t scream, though my nose frightens me; I can’t control it. “She’s so good,” Aunt Chloe says so many times she makes me sick. I want to shake her and take her away. But where is away?

One day I walk to the gate to wait for the ugly man. He always arrives at 2:35, as though he knows the timing of our daily socialization skills training and outdoor exercise. I detest volleyball and softball and all of those other balls and my gym teachers scream at me, making me think of Uncle. I’m outside of the gate even when I’m inside. They can’t get to me. None of them. The man who resembles me arrives and I stare at him so hard I know I can make him turn to stone.

He turns on a light in those creepy brown eyes, gazes and coos, calls me “darling pretty girl.” He removes a flaccid red balloon from his pocket and fills it with his breath. He blows and blows till the balloon turns into a dachshund. I think he expects me to jump up and down with delight. I don’t. I turn my back. I’m supposed to be throwing balls.

I hear him whisper. When I turn around, I see that he’s crying. He utters my name repeatedly as he sinks into the lawn. I wish him not to be and he is never again. This is my secret.

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