Restless, I begin to walk the halls of the hospital that have become so familiar to me in a short period of time. The corridors are already emptying out, the night staff not nearly as large as the day. Bored on one floor, I take the stairs to another and then another, walking until my feet are exhausted. At last I come to where I have been headed from the beginning, the hallway that houses David’s office. Each door is closed, shut for the night. I know I am foolish to seek him out and chide myself. Turning to leave, I hear his door open.
“Hey.” David says, shocked to see me. “What are you doing here?”
I was hoping to find you, a small voice whispers in my head. But a louder one, the one that dictates every move I make, refuses it an audience. “Gia forgot her necklace in Radiology,” I mumble. “I came back for it.” I pull it out of my purse, to prove to him that I wasn’t searching for him, that I wasn’t, for the first time in my life, hoping for a lighthouse in the storm. “I was just on my way home.”
He doesn’t mention that Radiology is three floors down. That there is no reason for me to be on this floor or that Radiology closed over an hour ago and if I were on my way home I should already be gone. He says none of this but instead, “Come with me.”
“Where?”
He motions for me to follow him into the elevator, where he uses his badge to swipe a security strip allowing him access to the roof. We stand a few feet apart, both silently watching the floor numbers light up until the doors open. He steps out first, reaching back with his hand for mine. I glance at it and then at him. His eyes, patient, unwavering, wait for my decision. I think of Gia, her pain, and feel helplessness wash over me. Slipping my hand into his, I cross the threshold of the elevator and onto the roof.
“Watch your step,” he says, leading me toward the edge of the roof where there are cement blocks to lean against. Keeping my hand tucked into his, he uses his other one to point toward the sky. “When I was little, my dad used to bring me up here. When he would lose a patient or had a bad day, we would sit in this very place and he would point out all the stars. He even knew their names.”
“Now you do the same,” I say, knowing without a doubt he does.
“Makes me remember I’m not all that.” He offers me a small smile, holding my gaze. “Sometimes things happen that don’t make sense.”
Tears fill my eyes, but I refuse them. Breaking his gaze, I tug my hand from his. I point to a cluster of stars. “Cassiopeia.”
“Her husband Cepheus,” he points out.
“There’s the Big Dipper.” I rotate, taking in as much as I can. “And Orion.”
“You know your constellations.” His voice holds admiration.
“Doesn’t everybody?” I ask, tongue in cheek. We both fall silent. I can feel his eyes on me, watching. “She’s fifteen,” I finally whisper. “Just a baby.”
“We have girls younger than her come into the Trauma Unit.” He offers me medical statistics to explain we are not at the end of the road, no matter what we believe. “The drama in the relationship, in the abuse, attracts them. A warped definition of love.” He bends down, holding my gaze. “Gia’s going to get through this. Your family will get her through this.”
He is sure as only someone so naive could be. I imagine telling him that it is impossible for us to get through this. That abuse is cyclical, in our genes. No matter how hard we fight, we can’t escape it. I know; I’ve tried. “Yes.”
“Sonya.” My name sounds torn from his lips, as if he’s absorbed my pain and made it his. “I’m sorry.” The physician is gone, replaced by a man. “Your father, Gia.” He reaches out, brushing an imaginary strand of hair off my face and over my ear. “No one deserves so much heartbreak.”
“What’s the worst thing that has ever happened to you?” I demand, still feeling his fingertips on my face. For just a minute I need to know we are not the only ones hurt, that others know the definition of pain.
His confusion is obvious, but he answers me nonetheless. “I lost my grandmother and grandfather when I was fifteen. One illness after the next.” He resists the details.
“You loved them?” I ask quietly.
“Completely.” He looks toward the sky, as if searching for them in the distance. “They took care of me when my parents worked. They were like second parents.”