“It does,” Ranee pushed, fighting against the voice in her head that demanded she let it be. For her entire life she had let things go. Suddenly, a force greater than the beaten voice demanded she act. “Tell me or I swear on the mangalsutra I wear around my neck that I will leave you right now to die alone.”
“There are some things better left unsaid,” he said quietly, his breath ragged.
“For whom?” Ranee demanded, the room closing in on her. Taking a step toward him, she towered over him. “For the first time in a long time, I want to hear you speak.”
He glanced at her, seeming to gauge whether she was serious. Ranee watched as he opened his mouth, but no words came out. He wrung his hands together; hands that were once so powerful were now weak and frail. “Please,” he begged, the first time in his life. Ranee stared at him before making her decision. Knowing he could not follow, she reached for her keys and started to walk out of the house. “Ranee,” he called out.
Refusing to turn, she demanded, “Tell me.”
“I drank the liquor I brought home.”
“The bottles you threatened us with?” Ranee turned to stare at him. She still remembered the dozens of unopened bottles she would throw out. Stepping closer to him, she dropped her purse on the counter. “When?”
He struggled, something Ranee had never seen him do. “The night of Marin’s wedding.” Refolding the paper, he shifted in his seat. Rubbing his hand over his face, he refused to meet Ranee’s stare. “I drank all of it.”
Ranee racked her brain, trying to remember that night, but she couldn’t. Exhausted from the day’s events, she had fallen into a deep sleep. “Did you come to bed after?”
“Not ours, no,” Brent answered softly.
A slow buzzing started in her brain. From the base of her neck, rising to the top, drowning out every other noise. She felt the pounding between her eyes and at her temples like a bulldozer. The room began to spin. She clutched her mangalsutra, but it burned her fingers. Letting it go, she stared down at her hands. Small red hives started to pop up on her arms. Her vision began to blur, but she refused to let it—for the first time in her life, she had to keep her control. When her focus returned, the first thing she saw was the fire poker on the fireplace. For just a heartbeat she imagined walking over, pulling it out of the holder, and bashing him with it.
“Whose bed?” she demanded but already knew the answer. The only one he loved.
“Trisha’s.” He started to sob, the sound reverberating through the house. “I never meant to do that to her.”
“You raped her,” she said aloud, still in disbelief. Tears coursed down her face, drenching her neck and shirt. Everything in Ranee wanted him dead, but she knew he was already dying. Left with no other way to hurt him, she walked away, though she promised him she wouldn’t. Grabbing her purse, she left the house and drove around for hours, with no place to go. When she returned, she found him collapsed on the ground, his breathing erratic and his mind gone.
SONYA
“Do you believe in miracles?”
“Excuse me?” I am behind the nurses’ desk, storing the cameras for the evening.
“Divine intervention.” The nurse is inputting information about a patient into a computer. “An act from somewhere out there”—she waves her hand toward nothing—“making everything right.”
I have never thought of miracles, never believed they were mine to have. If there were such a thing, then I wouldn’t have had the childhood I did. “I don’t know,” I say honestly, leaning against the station. “Do you?”
“Didn’t used to,” she comments. “But after last night, I’m starting to wonder.”