The night of Sonya’s birthday, when Brent said Ranee and Sonya were alike, he meant it as an insult, but Ranee wanted it to be true. She wanted to have the strength Sonya exhibited—to take control and refuse Brent the permission to continue destroying.
Looking up, she sees the shock on David’s face. She feels a moment of shame, of remorse for having revealed the truth to the man Sonya loves, but as with so much of their life, their choices are limited. For the daughter who refused to let anyone in, David may be the only person she will love. Ranee had tried to tell Sonya she loved her but accepted it was too late. Sonya didn’t trust her enough to believe. But she trusted David, and maybe, if the news came from him, she would finally accept the truth that she was loved.
“But tell Sonya this. It is important she knows. You see, my daughter believes everything I do, I do for Trisha. This I did for Sonya. Because I love her. Because I missed her and wanted her to come back to a safe home.”
Ranee turns away, accepting what she has done and the consequences that will follow. She knows David will have to report her, that the world will soon know her crime. She has left one prison only to be headed for another. But it is the only way she knows how to free Sonya. The only gift she has to give to the daughter she has previously given nothing.
“And one more thing,” Ranee says before leaving. “Make sure my daughter understands it was before I learned the truth of what Brent did to Trisha, not after. It was long before.”
SONYA
I left the hospital room as soon as possible. I want the decision done, the life support turned off. I will never be sure if I am ready for him to die, but after hearing Marin’s and Trisha’s unequivocal yeses, I knew it was past time. But with Gia’s refusal, we are back to limbo. Waiting indefinitely for something other than what we have now.
“How’s Will?” I ask the attending nurse. “Any updates?”
“Discharged last night,” she says. “Diagnosed with epilepsy. Sent him home with meds to take if the seizures continue.”
“What type?” I ask. I know there are all types of epilepsy, some that can last a lifetime, others intermittent.
“Benign rolandic,” she says. “He should grow out of it by eighteen.” She pauses to answer a patient’s call before continuing. “Late onset is a good sign. He’ll only have a few years to deal with it.”
“What about the soccer?” I ask.
Swiveling her chair toward me, she says, “As they were leaving I overheard him tell his father he didn’t want to play anymore. His dad hugged him, said all that mattered was that he get better.”
I watch her leave to attend to a patient. Will and his family had no choice with the epilepsy, but how they handled it was their decision. I think about my own reaction to the events that shaped my life. How many times have I hurt myself, by my actions, my running, because it was the only way I knew how to handle the situation.
What if there was another way to right the wrongs? What if happiness was the trajectory, and not sadness? I see David coming down the hallway, his face looking tight with worry. He sees me just as I start to turn away; our gazes lock. With a simple nod, we acknowledge one another and then both, as if in agreement, turn away, accepting what cannot be. I dismiss my thoughts, accepting the choices I have no option but to make.
MARIN