“Yes,” I say, stepping away from him. “It’s a miracle.”
“That’s what everyone’s saying,” he responds. I watch him, his movements, the way he speaks, all of it feeling familiar in a way that it shouldn’t, that makes no sense.
“She’s going to be all right?” I ask, afraid of the answer. If I were God, my first decree would be that once you have a miracle, nothing bad can happen. After a magic hand has touched you, after you have been deemed special, there is no going back. Forever after you are blessed. My second would be that everyone is worthy of their own miracle. “The cancer?”
“We think so,” David answers, somehow understanding my deeper question. “What happened, what she said, can only give us hope.”
Like a rainbow after a tornado, I think. I was in the Southwest for a photo shoot when a mile-wide tornado ravaged the community. I took shelter like everyone else, waiting for nature’s evil to pass. Sirens blared; thunder clapped around us as the winds screamed their power. For ten minutes, we stood frozen, waiting without any other option. When silence descended, everyone ran out, trying to calculate with their eyes the irreparable damage done. As people scattered, searching for loved ones, someone cried out, pointing toward the sky. Every face lifted in dread, sure it was another twister, but instead a multitude of colors spanned the horizon, offering beauty in the face of despair.
“Then it’s a good thing.” I search for a way out, anything to avoid a repeat of what happened with David. I can’t lose myself like that again, if only because I fear I might not find my way out twice. I start to walk away, the only thing I know how to do, when he stops me.
“I miss you.”
He says it where anyone can hear. I look around, fearing an audience. The hallway is quiet. “You can’t miss what’s not yours,” I say, lashing out, trying to hurt.
“You’re right,” he agrees. “Doesn’t seem to stop it, unfortunately.”
I look into his eyes and see in them the sadness we both feel.
“I was never supposed to be here.” I start to say more, to fight a battle that hasn’t begun, when a nurse moves past us to enter Tessa’s room. Using the excuse, I flee, the only answer I have.
MARIN
They are seated around the dinner table, each at an equal distance from the other. The meal completed, they stare, first at each other and then at anything that holds their interest. Raj is the first to speak, reaching across the table for Gia’s hand. “How are you doing, Beti?” he asks.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” Gia says, pulling her hand away after a second. “Everything is good.”
Her demeanor contradicts her words. Her hair lies limply around her shoulders. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, and her nails, usually painted and trimmed, have been bitten to the skin. “You don’t look fine,” Marin says, her voice harsher than she meant. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Gia says, not meeting Marin’s eyes. “Really appreciate it.”
Marin bites back a retort, her instinct screaming to tell Gia to get in line, to shape up. That her drama needs to come to an end now. Marin imagines telling Gia that if she dared to behave like Gia when she was a child, she would have been thrown against the wall in seconds without a chance to explain.
“You’re lucky that we—”
Before Marin can say the words she’s thinking, Raj interrupts. “Gia, I found this in your drawer the other day.” He looks defeated, like a father searching. “You can understand how worried we are.”
Gia reads the top line before letting the piece of paper slip from her fingers. “You went into my room? Searched through my things?” She drops her head. “How could you?”
“I am your father,” Raj says gently. “How could I not?” He comes around to her side, taking the seat next to her. “I have been so worried about you. What can we do, Beti?” Taking her hand once again in his, he says, “Tell us. Anything, just say the word.”