Unveiling the Truth

  HELEN DANTAS

  Copyright © 2018 Helen Dantas

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Dantas, Helen, 1961-, author

  Unveiling the Truth / Helen Dantas. – Third edition

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-7753464-6-3 (pbk.).—

  ISBN 978-1-7753464-7-0 (html)

  Cover art credit: Julia Toscano

  Issued also in Portuguese under the title

  Encontro com a Verdade

  Visit the author’s website at www.helendantas.com

  This book is dedicated to my daughters, who are the best accomplishments of my life.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I wish to thank all my friends who gave me their support and encouragement.

  DISCLAIMER

  Unveiling the Truth is a story based upon true events and conversations have been recreated from memories. In some instances, names of individuals and places, as well as identifying characteristics and details, such as physical properties, occupations, and places of residency, may have been changed to preserve the anonymity of those involved.

  PART ONE

  COMING TO CANADA

  CHAPTER ONE

  August 19TH, 1988

  USA

  (translated from Portuguese)

  Oh my God, Luiza, what have I done?

  I am exhausted. My body feels like a bag of aching bones and my brain like a thawing pack of frozen peas. I have not stopped crying since I said good-bye to you at the airport in New York.

  Sitting on a Greyhound bus for the past 6 hours, I’ve had way too much time to be alone with crazy thoughts racing through my brain. I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m starving but afraid to eat what little food I have in my bag because who knows when I’ll be able to afford to eat again??? I’m just waiting for the next disaster.

  I’ve got my return ticked to Brazil and $100 in my pocket, and I look like a raving lunatic.

  I’m scared. I feel so alone… I want to come home. Help!!!!

  Beatriz

  August 20TH, 1988

  USA

  Dear Sister,

  OK—so things are not so bad now. I’m laughing just thinking about the last letter I mailed you. You must have thought I was losing my mind! But truly, this little adventure of mine got pretty rocky for a while. Thank heavens our good friend Bob was there for me in New York after we saw you off at the airport. (I hope you had a good trip back home to Brazil.)

  Bob didn’t know what to do with me. I cried all the way to the bus station. It took a long time in heavy traffic and when we finally arrived, the ticket counter that sold the seven-day American Bus Pass had just closed. The sign said it wouldn’t open until 8:30 the next morning. So much for the “city that never sleeps”!

  You know me . . . I panicked and made a bit of a scene. Poor Bob, I feel so sorry for him now. There he was trying to calm me down, telling me he would look after me, and all the people were looking at me as if I was a mad woman. But he did manage to get my luggage into a locker so I wouldn’t have to drag it out to Long Island and back, and then, as we were leaving, he spotted an ice cream shop and settled me down with a double scoop of chocolate. That got me smiling again. He was kind enough to offer up his guest room to me and even brought me to a grocery store to buy some snacks for my trip the next day. What a relief it was to pack the cheese packets and chips into my travel bag along with a few apples, peaches, and fruit juice. Bob knew I didn’t have a lot of cash (he would have been appalled to know the actual amount was about $100!). Although I was a bit in shock, I knew I was lucky to have Bob.

  By the time we got to his place, I did feel better. Bob gave me a big hug and a kiss; I sensed that he wanted to talk. I wonder now, had the situation been different, if I might have had a chance at a relationship with him. I know that he cares for me. Do you think he likes me as more than a friend? I guess I’ll never know. I was simply too tired to chat. I felt empty, like my soul was missing from my body. Nothing at that moment would have made a difference.

  I just wanted to go to bed and numb myself with sleep. Maybe when I woke up, I would be home again and the nightmare would be over. I thought that night would never end. I hope Bob understood when I said good night and went to sleep in the guest room.

  Unfortunately, as soon as I opened my eyes the next morning, the tears started to flow again. Bob had already left for work, but had agreed the night before to meet me at the bus station during his lunch break. After a quick shower, I had to put on the same clothes from the day before because we had left my bags at the terminal. Yuck! Not a good way to start the day!

  I made my way to the station and bought my ticket for the 6:00 p.m. bus trip to Chicago. Exactly as agreed, Bob was there. I was starving (again!) and didn’t want to eat the food he had bought me for the trip. Never before have I been hungry without money to buy food. What an eye-opener!

  Again, sweet Bob was a godsend. He took me to a restaurant where I ate like a queen. Chicken and fries and ice cream never tasted so good. For a few moments, I felt like all was not lost. I started to build up hope again.

  I felt happy, but at the same time a little ashamed of myself. On the one hand, I also wish I had not been so stubborn in insisting I continue my trip to Canada. As I walked over to board the bus, I really considered turning around and heading right back home to Brazil.

  On the other hand, there was something drawing me to the little town outside Winnipeg. After meeting Tracey in Brazil, where she was working as a Mennonite missionary, I was curious to visit her at her home in Canada. Something that I can’t explain was telling me to go, to continue on with that trip.

  So you know already… I did get on that bus and wrote to you in despair. But the rest of the ride was uneventful. I managed to get some sleep, and now I feel relaxed and calm. I don’t know how I will ever repay Bob for his friendship and kindness.

  Abraços e beijos,

  Beatriz

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE WARM, HUMID air felt fresh on Beatriz’s face as she stepped out into the Chicago sunlight. After the dimly lit, smelly bus and the equally dismal bus terminal, anything was a welcome relief.

  She had hours to kill before boarding her next bus, and she had a plan. She thought if she could get as far away from the depot as possible, she would find a presentable lunch with decent food, reasonable prices and maybe, just maybe, a cup of good coffee. It didn’t even have to be Brazilian—any South American source would be great. She was tired of overpriced coffee from vending machines and egg salad sandwiches in cellophane wrappers that smelled like stale farts and tasted even worse.

  The downtown Chicago streets were busy with weekend summer traffic, and Beatriz fell into pace with the flow of tourists rushing to visit the city. She was not at all concerned about her day’s adventure. She had picked up a small map of the city and was quite confident she’d be able to find her way back.

  Making her way on her own was not in the least bit foreign to Beatriz. She had distanced herself from a broken home and family by the time she was fifteen. Her father, who had spent much of his life “travelling” on “business,” had been caught one final time in a web of extramarital lies, and Mother decided it was the end of the line for him. The screaming and f
ighting and name-calling were all just too much for the young daughter to witness. Her siblings had long ago moved away, and she knew it was her turn to go.

  Her mother did not mind in the least. By that time, she was already planning to find another man to fulfill her many needs. Dolores saw men in general as a means to an end. She was not promiscuous; not at all. And she was wealthy enough in her own right to maintain the standard living to which she had become accustomed to. What Dolores lusted after was affection. She loved being the centre of attention, being admired, and being spoiled by a man whose universe revolved around her happiness. If he felt that jewellery, whiskey, and luxurious gifts would increase her happiness quotient, he would be correct—and who was she to argue?

  It certainly did not hurt that Mother was drop-dead gorgeous. With her spectacular figure, exotic features, and refined veneer right down to the tips of her perfectly painted toenails peeking out from strappy sandals, she would literally stop traffic in the street. “You study hard, Beatriz, and use your head,” she would say to her daughter repeatedly. “Always think and make a life for yourself, a career. Lord knows, I’ll be of no help to you.”

  It was not that Beatriz had not inherited much of Dolores’ very fortunate genes. Au contraire: Beatriz herself made a stunning entry into any room and turned many heads. She matured into a very attractive young lady with a curvaceous shape, voluminous wavy tresses, and the most lovely, piercing green eyes. But she was bound and determined that she would study hard, and she was an excellent student. She vowed to stay on the right side of good. Despite the many influences of easy drugs and alcohol, she refused to get caught up in bad habits that would make her stray from her goals. She had many suitors of her own, and many offers of romance, but she was determined to remain chaste and hold on to her virginity until at least the age of eighteen. She had kept her vow. Just. Barely.

  It had been a good ten years since she had left her mother’s home. Beatriz was now twenty-six; counting back, she figured that when Dolores was around this same age, she had been married for ten years and had already conceived more than half of her eight children. What a difference a generation makes! Beautiful fifteen-year-old Dolores had been itching to get away from her small hometown in the north. The moment she learned that a handsome young salesman had arrived in town, she made up her mind to hitch her wagon to his star and be off to experience the world. Poor Francisco did not stand a chance: he was smitten and ready to take her anywhere her heart desired.

  Francisco and Dolores settled into a very comfortable life in Belo Horizonte. They worked hard to build a local hotel business while Francisco continued his work as a travelling distributor. The custom-built house with several cars in the garage was proof of their success. The size of their domestic staff increased as the children arrived in quick succession. Dolores loved her luxurious standard of living, and she was not overly interested in the children—she had staff for that—but she did make sure they had the best of everything and attended the best schools.

  Below the surface of wealth and status, however, Dolores’ unhappiness grew with each passing year. Francisco had been attentive at first, and he was compassionate when the couple lost their first child before its first birthday. He was an excellent provider, but at home, he was demanding and abusive. Dolores began to suspect, and, ultimately, confirmed that her very successful husband was succumbing to the charms of other women, as his work took him on constant trips.

  August 20th, 1973

  Belo Horizonte, Brazil

  Dear Luiza,

  How are you? I am fine. Every day I wake up at 11:00 a.m. and want to go to the beach. I have been so lazy since I came back from my vacation at your house in Rio de Janeiro.

  You can’t imagine how much I miss you. You seem like more of a mother to me than Mom. The house is not the same since you and Marcos got married. Everyone has abandoned me, and it’s not easy for me to be here alone.

  Dad was here when I arrived home. It didn’t take long for the fighting to start, so as usual, I am locked in my bedroom. I will write in my journal and do my homework and pray until it’s safe to open the door.

  Don’t tell anyone I told you this—I will get in trouble—but we think Daddy is having sex again with another lady. Mommy told me that once Dad leaves for his next work trip, she is going away with Nita for a couple of weeks. I heard them talking about following him and catching him. I am very scared about this!!! How could Daddy do this? What will happen to me???

  Do you still remember the day we were trying to cross Olegário Maciel Avenue and you held my hands so tight? While crossing between the cars and buses you said, “We are the courageous sisters. We’ll always support and listen to each other. It doesn’t matter what happens to us or who comes into our lives.” For now, I will close my eyes and think about that moment, and remember that I have and I’ll always have you on my side.

  Please Luiza, pray for us all.

  Abraços e beijos,

  Your sister Beatriz

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE FAINT STRAINS of a mariachi band pulled Beatriz from her little girl memories. She was sure the music was getting louder, and as she picked up her pace towards it, she could smell the distinct aromas of food. Is that barbeque I smell? She wondered. Oh, could that be coffee?

  Like a cartoon character floating in the air on the waves of delicious scents, her mouth watering and her stomach growling, she turned a corner and found herself in the middle of a street party. The road was blocked off to traffic, and there were people everywhere laughing and preparing food in a sea of little white tents.

  She read the sign: “Welcome to our Third Annual Street Fair, courtesy of the Spanish Community of Chicago. Enjoy!”

  She made a beeline for the barbeque tent.

  “Hola, pretty lady,” called the teenager from the grill. “How do you like your burger?”

  “Oh yes, please, very much,” replied Beatriz, not believing her luck.

  “No, I mean how do you like it cooked? Rare? Well done?

  Beatriz blushed. She realized her mistake, but she was here, after all, to improve her English. She smiled shyly and with her natural charm told him she liked it any way he would cook it. She thanked him for the hamburger and smothered it with ketchup and mustard. She then helped herself to some salad and made her way to a picnic table to devour her meal.

  Brazilians are well known around the world for their party spirit, their appetite for good food, and a general zest for life. Beatriz was a classic Brazilian: with her inviting smile and deep warm eyes, she could be a social magnet. By the time she had finished her burger and popcorn and cotton candy and nachos with cheese and had washed it all down with a rich, aromatic coffee, she had made several friends along the street.

  “Señorita, I can tell you want to dance: hips don’t lie,” she heard the burger griller whisper in her ear as she felt his arm around her waist leading her to the middle of the street. He was correct. The mariachi music had melted into a distinct salsa beat, and she had instinctively started to tap her toes and move her body to the rhythm.

  The fact that no one else was dancing didn’t faze this fellow and did not bother Beatriz in the least. Within moments, the couple had found their sync and were swaying to the music as if joined at the hip. The footwork came naturally to both, and the turns, salsa rolls, and catch-and-release moves got faster and more intricate with every beat.

  The musicians were ready to step up the party. The volume and the tempo of their music were starting to attract a crowd, but people were not dancing. They were forming a circle, watching the couple as if mesmerized by the style and energy of the duo. Beatriz was aware of the attention. She heard the clapping and cheering and the wolf whistles, and she disappeared into the moment. She branched off into a few solo moves—hips gyrating and hair swinging in big circles—then she dropped low, back into her partner’s outstretched arms. The raw sensuality and delirium of the two dancers sparked the excitement of the spectators.
They went wild with applause.

  Beatriz was gasping for air and practically shaking with exhaustion by the time the music finally stopped. She looked at her watch and realized that she would need to hurry to get back to the bus terminal for the next leg of her trip. She said her gracious good-byes to all of her new friends and hurried away. She could not stop smiling all the way back to the terminal. This, she thought, is what it must have felt like to be my mother.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AFTER THE EXCITEMENT of the street party and the vibrancy of downtown Chicago, Fargo, North Dakota felt like a ghost town on a desolate Sunday morning. As planned, Beatriz had spent the night on the bus—her way of avoiding expensive motel rooms—and had sponge bathed and washed her hair in the ladies’ room sink at the Fargo bus depot. She was a little refreshed after a reasonable slumber on the bus, but certainly not thrilled about putting on the same clothes from the day before. Everything in her suitcase was screaming for laundry detergent. She quickly washed a gauzy, bright yellow blouse, shook it out vigorously and put it on damp, pairing it with her tight denim pants. She gave a brief nod of approval in the cracked mirror. Not bad.

  She parted with one dollar to buy a just drinkable cup of coffee in a small Styrofoam cup and ventured out into the street. Beatriz could not help thinking that she was on a cowboy movie set in a deserted town, with strong gusts of wind lifting leaves and litter into circles in the air. It would not have been surprising to see actual tumbleweeds rolling down the street. She felt alone and frightened in this desolate place and shivered at the eerie howling of the wind.