“My daughter bought them. Won’t be happy if she sees that.”
He turns on the television, trying to ignore me. Unperturbed, I bend down to smell them, inhaling their fragrance, a contrast to the sterile smell of the room. “Nice of her. They’re quite beautiful,” I say, aware he’s watching me. “Your daughter doesn’t know you hate carnations?”
“They were her mother’s favorite.” He drops the remote. “Guess she thinks it’ll help me to remember my wife.”
“Your wife . . . ?” I leave the question hanging, wondering.
“Died a year ago.” He is angry, at me, at everything, from what I can gather.
“I’m sorry.” This is my cue to leave, to drop the subject. Nothing is gained from getting too close to people. From sharing secrets, dreams, and hopes. When you give a piece of yourself to someone, count on them to hold it safe, you become vulnerable. You depend on them, but they may not be the person you expected, the one you were sure could carry you. Then the disappointment becomes a burden to bear. It is better to keep yourself at a distance, never getting too close. I retrace my steps toward the door, ready to leave.
“Never thought I’d find love like that,” he says, challenging me. “When you do, you don’t ever want to lose it.” He turns off the television and turns away from me. “Thanks for the pictures.”
I shut the door quietly behind me. Nurses and doctors fill the hallway as they move in and out of patients’ rooms. Families come and go, some with balloons in hand, while others, weary from months of visiting, simply come as they are. I watch them, wondering about the love that binds. In the name of love, people do extraordinary things. Sacrifice their time, money, even themselves for another. Parents dedicate their lives to raising children, work endless hours to provide; siblings love their sister or brother as if they were one instead of two. Here in the hospital, I see love displayed every day. Family members offering whatever they have in the hopes it is enough to heal.
I always wonder how one gets lucky enough to find unconditional love. Perhaps I drew the short straw and came to my father so he had someone on whom to inflict damage. Or maybe, given the secret I hold deep within me, I am no different than he is. My soul must be as dark, if not darker, to be who I am. A woman who, though no longer beaten, needs the memory of the beatings to survive.
MARIN
She plans and then executes. It’s what she does best and the only means to maintain control. She has not shared her revelation with Raj or Gia. If she needed help, maybe she’d run the options by Raj, but she’s confident enough in herself not to bother. She fears he would slow her down, question each decision. Gia’s life is at stake, and for Marin that is enough reason to follow through.
Her first step was to hire a private investigator. She couldn’t take the chance of Gia spotting her or learning of her intentions. The investigator was easily able to take the pictures Marin needed for proof. Almost daily, Gia went to Adam’s house after school. When it was time for her to come home, he’d drop her off a few houses down, guaranteeing they avoided discovery. The game Gia professed they were playing wasn’t happening. None of her friends were hitting her for fun. Gia was being abused, and worse, she was going back for more.
The PI performed a background check. The information he garnered was what put the next step of Marin’s plan in motion. “He was charged as a juvenile for assault,” he said when they met.
“On whom?” Marin had set up the meeting at a coffee shop in San Francisco, away from any prying eyes.
“A former girlfriend.” The investigator slid a sheet of paper toward Marin. “The victim’s name has been redacted, but all relevant information is there. Your boy likes to punch girls.”