I told him I was in trouble. I told him he had to come to L.A. and pick me up and that I was seriously hurt. All he kept saying to me was “Call 911.”

I couldn’t call 911. I couldn’t go to the police or to a hospital. They’d ask questions. They’d learn that I took my kids out of India without permission from the courts. I’d lose them.

I was still under the delusion that I hadn’t lost them already.

My personal phone sprang to life, Juleen’s name on the screen. Abruptly, I hung up on my son and took her call, but I didn’t speak right away because it could have been the goons on the other end of the line. But then she said, “Mommy, are you okay?”

Stinging tears leaked from my inflamed eyes and ran down my bruised and cut cheeks. “Juleen, where are you?” My voice came out muffled and garbled. I could barely move my jaw.

“Mommy?”

This time, I spoke slower and as clearly as I could. “Where … are … you?”

Probably not the brightest question to ask. I had no idea if my phone was being bugged and tracked.

“Hiding—”

“Quiet!” I said. “Remember where we ate dinner last night?” It took me several attempts to make myself understood. Every time I spoke, electric shocks ran through my jaw.

Finally, she said, “Yes, I remember.”

“Can … you … get there … by yourself?”

“Yes.”

Ms. Hyper-Adult.

“Turn … off … your phone. Look around. Wait near … door. I’ll …” It was getting harder to talk and harder to breathe. “I’ll … meet you.”

I hung up. I regathered all the contents of my purse while still lying on the floor. Then I managed to sit up, then stand. Immediately, I was light-headed and nauseated.

I threw up.

It was good that I gave the manager of the apartment a big cleaning deposit.

I was holding on to the back of the couch, telling myself to move slowly—as if I had a choice. Clutching on to furniture and then the wall, I made my way into the kitchen and retrieved two plastic garbage bags. I groped my way into Juleen’s bedroom using the hallway for support. We shared a closet, although neither one of us had much in the way of clothing. I began to throw dresses, pants and shirts, shoes, socks, and underwear into the sacks: enough to get us through three or four days without doing a wash, but still light enough to carry.

I didn’t bother with my son’s things.

More tears.

Not now, Terry, not now.