When Faults Collide (Faultlines #1) (24 page)

I walked out and entered into the conference hall and took my seat at the table.

I opened the bottle of water in front of me and took polite sips
while the panel was introduced and the two speakers before me spoke.

When I knew my turn was coming up soon, I finally scanned the crowd until I saw Blake, Amy, and Lily sitting about halfway back. Blake smiled at me reassuringly as I was being introduced.

I stood and made my way towards to podium. I shook the hand of the host before turning towards the crowd.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then I began.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Asha Harris. I was invited to speak at this symposium because of my experience growing up in an Indian brothel where my mother was a prostitute.

“This experience seems so shocking to everyone I encounter, but to my childhood self, this was normal. There were many other children at the chakala, and throughout the country it was commonplace for brothels to house both mothers and children.

“Something that was not common knowledge to me, however, was that my mother was not there by choice.

“Of course, when she died, she probably believed that it was her choice, but my mother had been conditioned and brainwashed for years to believe that it was in fact her decision to remain there.

“When it comes to making a decision between what she believed to be life and death, or rather, the life and death of her child, there was no choice.

“My mother was offered perceived love and sanctuary in exchange for the small price to pay that was her body. She believed that after being branded as a whore that she would never be able to obtain housing or employment. She was vulnerable as a young, single mother with no family support, which made her the perfect target for a trafficker.

“Many people believe that in order to be trafficked you must be forcibly and violently taken and transported somewhere else.

“This is not the case.

“You can be a human trafficking victim and never leave your own community.

“In India alone, which should be noted as being a top country for trafficking, 200 women and girls are brought into trafficking every day, and it is said that approximately 80% are there against their will.

“But for the other 20%, can it truly be a person’s will to be sold to men? Can it truly be a person’s will to be used and abused and debased solely for the purpose of another person’s pleasure?

“When you are dealing with a country with exponential poverty rates, a horrible education system, and generations of poverty and lack of education to try and overcome, I don’t believe that anyone can truly make the choice on their own.

“In order for me to make you understand the experiences that my mother had, I must read you her own words.

“This is my mother’s journal. This entry was written late at night after I had gone to bed. I remember this night well, because it was the night that my mother told me the story of my father here in America. I remember this night because she came home with a bruised cheek and was horrified that I was tending to her needs instead of my own. Please hear her words, her experience.

“’I saw Haasita tonight. At first, I didn’t recognize her. It has been over a year since I saw her running through the halls of the chakala. She was nine the last time I saw her. She has just turned eleven. When Mr. Gonzales, the man I was seeing this evening, took me to the party with other women, I wasn’t too shocked. Many times the business men will have big parties with their dates. I usually get tipped well those
nights. Tonight, however, the ‘women’ there were not women at all, but young girls. Young, terrified girls in saris that could hardly classify as clothes and so much makeup caked over their skin they looked like wax figures. Despite the makeup, you could still make out the bruises and dirt littered across their skin. Haasita recognized me and immediately left the side of her date and ran to me, begging me to take her. She was beaten right in front of me. I am not even sure if she is going to make it from the beating they delivered. When I foolishly demanded to know why such a young child was there, I was hit in the face and then held down while five of the men had their way with me. I didn’t fight them, for surely they would have killed me. All I could think about was Asha. She is older than Haasita. I see the way the other women look at her, as if she is just on borrowed time. She already shows interest in my dates, believing in her mind that I am out having a glorious time. I fear two things: that tonight my bruises have shed light on the depravity of what I, her mother, actually does; and two, that the fantasies in her mind will create a vulnerability for her, and that someone will take her from me. I have to get her away. For me, it is too late. This is the existence of my being. For her...she has a chance. A chance at better. If it is the very last thing that I do, I will get her away from this.’

“Let me ask you...do those sound like the words of someone simply choosing an alternate career? A career where you live in fear of speaking, where rape is commonplace, and where every night you worry whether or not your child is going to be taken and sold into the very life that you want to so desperately get her out of?

“These women are more than just whores and prostitutes. They are someone’s mother, someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend.

“They are women, like every other woman, and they are victims.

“My mother is not here to have a voice for herself, but I am here.
I am here to speak the words that she will never get to speak.

“She is not a nameless, faceless whore. She mattered. Her name was Devi Vijay, and while the world may not remember her when she was here, I will make sure that I do my part to make sure that the world knows of her plight and the fight that she never had the opportunity to see to the end of.

“I stand for my mother, for Devi, and for every other woman and child being trafficked.

“You are not alone, your story matters, and I stand to be a voice for you.

“Thank you.”

My hands shook and my knees felt like they would buckle. As I looked around I saw the crowd was giving me a standing ovation. I locked eyes with Blake, who had tears in his eyes and looked at me with nothing less than total pride and love. Amy was blowing her nose and Lily was also wiping her face.

I made my way to my seat and clutched my mother’s journal as tight as I could.

“This was for you, Mom,” I whispered.

Chapter Thirty

“May I have this dance?” Blake asked me politely.

I giggled and took his hand. “Certainly, sir.”

He guided me to the center of the dance floor that had been set up in the small clearing next to the cabin and pulled me in close as HelloGoodbye’s
Oh It’s Love
played softly in the background.

I held him close and we swayed to the song.

The ceremony had been simple and beautiful; only family and very close friends, during sunset, on the deck of the cabin. The reception held in the clearing next to the cabin had a small dance floor, a few tables with calla lilies as the center pieces, and strung Mason jars holding candles.

Lily wore a short white dress with pink cowboy boots. Very funky and very much Lily.

All of us girls wore pale yellow dresses made of cotton with a lace trim around the bottom, just above knee length. The boys all wore jeans with white button ups and argyle cardigans that were
accented with pale yellow. Everything was very vintage chic and cute.

Blake held me close until the end of the song and then tilted my chin up and kissed me softly on the lips.

“I love you,” he whispered, breaking our embrace.

“Mmm, I love you too,” I said back.

“Oh God, come on y’all. There’s enough of that going around today as it is!” I heard from behind me.

I giggled and turned to face Beatrice with her plus one, her step brother, Rhys. Rhys had dirty blonde hair and brown eyes and had a very bad boy thing going on. I hadn’t had much conversation with him, primarily because what the heck do you say to a living, breathing,
Sons of Anarchy
member? Well,
Sons of Anarchy
had been about my only exposure to motorcycle clubs, but I preferred to keep my Jax Teller fantasies just that...fantasy.

“Oh, get over it, B. One day you’ll meet your perfect guy,” I said teasingly.

She scoffed, “Ha. Doubtful.”

“Well, we shall see, won’t we?” I said, waving my finger at her.

The rest of the reception was fun, and I had never seen Lily so happy. She looked radiant. Tom beamed with equal joy.

I had never been a big wedding person, but sharing this day with my closest friends and with Blake had been just magical.

Blake and I decided to stay the night at the cabin and drive back in the morning. Lily and Tom had driven to the airport to go to their secret honeymoon destination. Lily assured me that she would text me as soon as she landed to let me know where she was and that she was safe.

Blake and I laid on loungers on the deck and stared up at the stars.

“I used to do this when I was a kid,” Blake told me. “I would go lay on the grass in the backyard and just stare up at the sky...most of the time wishing I was somewhere else.”

“Me, too. Though, you couldn’t see the stars very well, I would climb up to the top of our building and scale onto the roof. My mom just about died every time she caught me,” I said, laughing at the memory.

“It really is crazy,” Blake said.

“What is?”

“Life. Our moms. Us. The fact that the pattern of our lives had been weaved so similarly, oceans apart, and we managed to find each other,” he replied thoughtfully.

I smiled shyly and squeezed his hand. “It is pretty amazing. Lily says we are like a perfect romance, without all the drama.”

“I wonder how the story ends?” Blake asked, not really looking for an answer.

I sat for a moment contemplating and finally said. “I don’t know. I think we had a pretty shitty start...so I think it’s fair to say that karma would dictate a happy ending.”

Blake leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I agree.”

Chapter Thirty One

We drove back from the wedding the next day, happy.

That’s the only way that I know how to describe us. We were chatty, light, and carefree.

Perfectly us. Perfectly happy.

Lily texted me that morning to say that they were at Disney World and were staying in Cinderella’s Castle. “The perfect honeymoon,” she called it.

Blake held my hand, as he typically did, while we cruised our way home, the radio blasting Hozier.

It happened so fast.

One second, we were driving down highway 360, going the speed limit—happy.

The next second was chaos.

A car came speeding through a red light and t-boned us on Blake’s side. It hit us at just the right angle and speed that it caused our car to go skidding all the way across the highway.

So, in one brief second, we were beautifully happy. The next, surrounded by smoke, strange smells, the sounds of metal being moved.

I was temporarily knocked out of it. No more than a few seconds, minutes at the most. I may have even just been in shock.

I opened my eyes, squinting and confused, coughing from the smoke.

Then I gasped, turned my head, and found Blake.

His hand was no longer holding mine.

I saw blood running down the side of his face, his eyes closed but his mouth slightly open.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no
, I willed to myself privately.

Adrenaline, or something, kicked in and I was able to unbuckle my seatbelt and open my door, which wasn’t damaged. I dashed to the other side of the car

“Blake!” I screamed, “Blake! Can you hear me Blake?” I was franticly reaching in to unbuckle him.

I was jerked back by a stranger who identified himself as an off duty fireman. I could barely hear him telling me to stop. He, and two other men, pulled me to the side as I saw uniformed EMTs reach in to get him out.

When they got him out onto the street I started screaming towards him.

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare, Blake!” I sobbed, hysterically.