CHAPTER 1

It's Friday. July 8, 2010. 7: 23 in the morning. The sun isshining through my windows and I can almost bet that it is like 120degrees outside. I struggle to get out of bed and I begin to think, Whydo I need to wake up? It's so early! Dang! Ughhhhhhh!

I wish I was back with my family and friends in New York. But it'stime to get my mind back to business. Back home; back in Boston. Ireturned from New York yesterday, Where I visited my cousins Ashley,Nolis, and Chayanne, and, of course, "J;" the most stubborn man inthe world, but the only one who makes my heart twirl. The man I loveso much.

Even though I was on vacation, I maintained my schedule of joggingthrough the busy streets of New York City. I've been training for theBaystate Marathon in October, so I still have a few more months. I'mrunning not only to stay healthy, but to honor cancer survivors.

In reality, it is about ninety-something degrees but it is still toobrutal to go for a run. Nonetheless, I remind myself that excuses aremade by those who can't commit. Sticking to my training agendahas been a challenge, but it serves as a path to find peace and to helpdiscover myself. I can't stop now. I can't stop ever. In the summer, I tendto begin my jogs before sunrise but there are days when the sheets keepme in bed a little longer than I expect. Can you blame me?

I could stay in bed. Or ...

I could push my limits.

The sun rays light up my entire bedroom, forcing me to keep myeyes wide open. No more thinking! Get up!

I stretch myself awake, turn on Pandora for some morning melodies.I change into my running gear, braid my unruly hair to a pigtail andbrush away my morning breath. I wiggle into my leggings, gulp downa protein shake, and grab my iPod.

I drive to my usual jogging spot near the baseball stadium at theUniversity of Massachusetts at Lowell. After I park my car, I abandonmy black-and-white purse in the passenger seat where I usually leavemy cell phone. I finally feel disconnected from the world and ready fortake-off.

With my headphones in ears, I begin my usual run. The rapidshuffle of music on my

iPod keeps me focused and feeds my adrenaline. Sometimes I chooseto skip a bunch of songs just to listen to Alicia Keys. She's my favorite;her lyricism inspires me in a number of ways; but most importantly, sheinspires me to B Beyond Words. To B Beyond Words means, to pushyourself beyond your past, your fears, your obstacles, your shadows, andthe labels that people attempt to use to define you.

The scenic trial by the river always fills my mind with peace andallows for meditation. The river cools the air on ninety-degree summermornings. I look at my watch and notice it's a few minutes past 9:00AM. I'm only on my third lap and I have so much more distance tocover. Today, my path looks sad and desolate since there are barely anyrunners. Only a lunatic like myself would run in this scorching heat.

Suddenly, I cross paths with a young man. He smiles at me. I smileback. I feel all the hair follicles in my body stand at attention. Thepatterns of my heartbeat all of a sudden lose control. No matter howmuch I want to catch up, I just can't find the rhythm.

He's a tall. White male. Dark hair. Wearing a black tank top.Around his hand, I noticed he was carrying a knotted white grocerybag which read Thank You in red lettering. I slowed down and beginwalking north while he walks south. I glanced back, and one's there.He's still walking away. A new song begins. I look down to my iPodand see Tanks album cover on the screen as the piano keys of the songScream genuflect in my ears. Before I can take two steps forward, I feelsomething bad inside of me, like an animal instinct. Intuitively, I feelthreatened. Before I can finish my thought and turn my head and taketwo steps forward, I close my eyes to pray silently.

Lord, I know nothing is going to happen to me, but ...

But. I just need to look back again. As I turn my head to release mybreath, I feel his face is right next to mine. It's already too late. I can'tget away. He smells like fear as he grabs me by the neck and begins tochoke me. My eyes are wide open. The music disappears. All I can hearis myself gasping for air, fighting to gather the strength to shout for help,to get away, to stay alive. I fight his hold, but fail. My feet up in the airflail with no sense of direction, as I am being squeezed like a fruit.

Get off me, I want to shout for help but I drown in silence. All I seeis the sky, dense with menacing clouds. Dad, please don't let me die today.God, help me. Help me, pray.

CHAPTER 2

It's pitch black. I see nothing. I hear the sound of nature. Birdchirping, leaves moving, and the sound of the river water flowing downthe stream. Where am I? Am I in the jungle? Why is my body in so muchpain? Am I in a dream? A nightmare?

I say aloud, Lord, was I not grateful enough for my past life that you'vedecided to give me a new beginning somewhere else?

My eyes open to shadows of tree branches and falling leaves. Wheream I? What happened? Every part of my body burns, especially mythroat. My neck sticky with tears, I look around and don't recognize mysurroundings. I'm alone. Terrified. I don't know what to expect.

I notice a river ahead of me. I see trees everywhere, making me feellike I'm in the jungle. I lower my head and close my eyes, try to go tosleep, hoping to wake up in a different place. I do this over and overagain.

Where am I? Why am I in so much pain? I say to myself, Okay, if thisis a dream and I need to fight to wake up, I'll fight. Who am I? BiancaRamirez. Who is my mother? Who do I love? Jaaaaaa.

Oh, my God. I stand quickly, but I trip after trying to walk, noticingthat my pants and panties are wrapped around my knees. I desperatelypull everything up and take some steps to find someone, anyone. I tryshout for help but my voice sounds low with pain.

I run to the U Mass Lowell parking lot. I can't stop crying. In theparking garage, I see a woman. An Angel. Please help me. I'm amazed Ihave it in me to form these words.

I loose my strength and collapse to my knees, while she calls thepolice. Curls of nausea flow through my body. I want to explode intomillions of little pieces.

The police arrive and ask me how I am and if I can walk. I nodmy head and close my eyes. Hoping they understand what I'm tryingto say.

Do you know who did this to you?

I shake my head. I'm trembling. One of the officers hands me hisjacket as I gather my strength and wait for the ambulance. When theparamedics arrive, I'm given some water as I prepare myself to give mystatement.

I began jogging before nine. Then I crossed paths with a white guy.Small lips. He was wearing a dark tank top and was holding a white bagthat said Thank You. He ... he was. But after I say the words thank you Ican no longer control myself collapsing to tears.

Then the interrogation continues. Can I show them where theattack happened? How many minutes ago? All sorts of questions. It'salmost as scary as the attack, but in a different way. I remind myselfthat they're here to help, to be cooperative. That making me relive whatjust happened in words is helping me. So I continue.

The police ask the paramedics to stay with us as we walk to theprecise, terrible place. We find my headphones on the grass, crumpledin a little wisp. As I see my poor earbuds, I begin to cry. I'm caught bythe paramedics, brought to the little bed in the ambulance. I cry all theway to the hospital, and when my tears come to a stop, I vomit blood.

* * *

In the hospital, while the nurse examines me, a female officer asks meroutine questions. Her feminine, kind aura makes me feel safe for thefirst time all day. Not having my cell phone and only knowing fewnumbers by heart, I call my Aunty Charo. I tell her what happened. Iask if she could go by the house and pick up some clean clothes for meto wear, and to please rush to the hospital. Crying, I beg her not to tellanything to any of my family members especially my mom. Not yet. Itouch my heart, imagining how she'll take the news.

The two officers tell me that they had parked my car right in thefront of the hospital. Hey, we found all your things, including your cellphone, one of them states.

My cell phone? No. I didn't bring my cell phone with me thismorning.

Oh! What kind of cell phone do you have?

I have a black HTC. It's in the car, inside my black-and-white purse.

Oh. Okay, one of them responds.

Could I please have my cell phone? I ask. I don't know any numbers byheart, and I would like to make some phone calls.

I remember my good friend Darwin's number by heart so I callhim next, but I get no answer. I want to call my best friend, LaSauna,and my J, but I can't remember either of their numbers. I try to containmyself but tears win and take over me.

Lord, why? Why me?

CHAPTER 3

It is early afternoon when Rafael hears a knock on hisdoor, Apartment 4B. He walks toward it and asks, Who is it? He thinkshe recognizes the voice on the other end, so he opens the door. A troop offour men run in with guns and masks. They ask for the stash of money andfor the drugs. Rafael doesn't answer.

One of the robbers sticks a gun in his face. Where is the money? Still,no answer. The robbers search the house and beat Rafael, and he finally tellsthem where to find what they're looking for.

They release their hold with a warning. If you move, I will kill you.I will shoot, bellows one.

Rafael thinks he can run to the door before any of them can pick up agun and shoot. He is wrong. As he runs for the door, a robber shoots himin the chest.

Mami wakes up trembling and sobbing because she has dreamt thishorrible and vivid dream. Two days later, her terrible nightmare comestrue.

* * *

My father never did any of the usual dad things with me like playingcatch, or teaching me how to ride a bike, or reading bedtime stories. Henever even kissed me good night. It wasn't because he abandoned me.Shortly after I was born, he was assaulted by four men, shot point-blankin the chest while attempting to escape from his own home.

His name had been Rafael Cena. He and my mother lived a fewmiles from New York Presbyterian Hospital, where I was born onFebruary 26, 1985. My father had rushed to the hospital as soon ashe heard that Mami's contractions had begun. He arrived to find mymother sprawled out and in excruciating pain. In the hands of maskedstrangers, who claimed to know what they were doing. I was comingout, barely a little human being. A thrill in the room. Me.

There I was, entering this mashed world of violence and beneficence.For the moment, everything was glorious, and my family basked in thedelivery of this six-pound, three-ounce baby girl. My father held mefirst, then gave me to my mother. Their arms touched. One of the finaldays together.

My father was six feet tall with glazed, noir skin and a big, burstingsmile. He was an athletic man. If he hadn't been shot, my life couldhave gone in a few different directions. Unfortunately, because myfather was involved in an illicit business, I probably would have livednot the safest life. Maybe I would've been a troubled person. Maybe,just maybe, I would have grown up with my parents in a happier andhealthier environment. But this is a question that can only be answeredin the safety of my imagination.

My mother rarely speaks about my father. I have asked many times,but it kills her to speak of him. I've studied pictures of him. I don't looklike him; in fact, I look just like the pictures of my mother when she wasa girl. It's alleged that I do carry many of his qualities, though. Both ofus affectionate and hopeless romantic. He never settled for less, nor doI. He always kept busy, as do I. Even though I never got to receive hisblessings, I feel as though he guides me and lives within me.

When my father died, my mother's life tumbled into a nightmare,a whirlwind of guilt. She believed that if she had warned him about thedream or asked him to tread carefully throughout the day, maybe myfather wouldn't have been killed that morning.

* * *

There was an awful irony in my mother's situation: she had to shipmy father's body back to the Dominican Republic, going back to herbeautiful homeland for the first time under such horrible circumstances.I was just an infant, but that was first and last time I was with my birthfather's family. We stayed in the southern part of the country, in a towncalled Bani.

Bani is the capital valley of the province of Peravia, one of thewealthiest towns in the Dominican Republic. It's an hour west of thecapital of Santo Domingo, and it's industrial, known for producingthe city's coffee and bananas. It's also notable for a man known for hisinternational prominence: Major General Maximo Gomez Baez, whodedicated most of his life to the liberation of Cuba. At the end of Cubanindependence in 1898, he refused to Cuba's presidential nominationbecause he felt that being Dominican didn't naturally grant him withthe civility to become civil leader of Cuba.

My mother is originally from Santo Domingo, but as a teenagervacationed in Bani with her father. Her father had been in the military,which gave my mother some luxuries, including a high-quality educationand plenty of opportunities to travel.

Bani was filled with pleasant memories for my mother, includinga past romance with a young man named Enrique. He was veryhandsome, with intellect to spare. His middle name was Rafael, justlike my father's. Photographs record vivid images of my mother duringthese days, photographs that I value tremendously. She was young andcurvaceous. She had fair skin, long and dark hair, tight curls that sprangto the rhythm of her steps.

Mom

When we returned to Bani, my mother avoided going to places whereshe thought she'd bump into Enrique. Naturally, she bumped intohim almost right away. It could have been a scene from a romanticcomedy, one where a couple sees each other after years and the shockcauses them to act like middle-schoolers. Stuttering. Avoiding any eyecontact, even though all they wanted to do was stare at one another. Itwas as if fate had forced the chain of events leading up to the momentshe saw Enrique.

No escape for either one of them.

"P-P-Paula? Is that really you? struggled Enrique.

Yes, she said.

Do you have a summer job here or something? And whose baby is thatyou're holding?

This is my daughter, Bianca, and I'd rather not say any more. I haveto leave.

It had been an awkward moment. As my mother walked in theopposite direction, wishing to be anywhere but there, flashes of shameoverwhelmed her. Sweat tingled on her arms. Enrique followed her,drawing closer. He spoke with sorrow, asking why she had moved onwithout him, why there were no letters or phone calls.

I've waited for you. I thought we had both agreed?

I was in high school Enrique. The timing was wrong.

Didn't you think we had something special?

I'm sorry if I've hurt you. It was never my intention. I just thoughtyou'd move on after a while. She walked away for good this time, andcried on the way home.

Weeks later, Enrique arrived at her house, offering friendship anda helping hand. She opened up, revealing to him about how she hadcome to be widowed at twenty-one. Their friendship began to flourish.Although she was often reluctant to receive his help, he was alwaysthere for her.

It was obvious that Enrique had an agenda: he wanted to win backmy mother's heart, and his calculations began to pay off when mymother accepted his dinner invitation. For Enrique, this was the timeto ask if she would consider embracing a new beginning with him. Hepleaded my mother to give him a chance, to let him be the father in herdaughter's life. After she mulled it over, she accepted. We began a newlife together, the three of us.