Releasing me, he starts to walk away, the first time he is the one leaving. I watch him, convinced it is the right thing. But for the first time it does not feel acceptable. I don’t want him to go. I want to stop the hurt, to heal the wounds that have been ripped open for as long as I can remember.
One day I will ask my mom about why she did it. How could she have taken such a risk to free me only to chance being imprisoned herself? But I don’t know when that time will come—when I will be able to accept what she has offered me. Even after a wound heals, the skin has to rebuild, and even then the scar will always remain.
But until I can hold on to her love as my right, I will offer her what I can—my gratitude and my hope that one day, we will clasp our hands together and the only thing between us will be the knowledge that today is not defined by yesterday and tomorrow is truly another day.
Energy doesn’t stand still; it moves, shifts with time. I think maybe we are meant to do the same, to see the world not as we fear it is but as we hope for it to be—kinder, gentler, each lesson not meant to destroy but to enable. To learn that we are not stagnant, but rather move with those around us, each one of us melting into the other, becoming one though our bodies separate us. Our hurts and our joys are meant to be shared, the burden easier when another holds your hand.
“David,” I call out. Making my way toward him, I reach out, wanting to touch, to hold. “If we were going to . . .” I pause, unsure of the words to describe what we are about to embark on. “To be together, what would be your faults that I should know about?”
His smile fills the room, offers hope when I was sure there was none. “I snore. Really loud. Like a truck rumbling through the room,” he says, holding up his hand to count them down. “Horrible at directions. Can’t tell left from right or north from south. Which is why I was kicked out of the surgical program, by the way,” he admits. “They were scared I would do more damage to the patient than help. Worst part—I won’t ask for help.” He holds up another finger, “Third? I’ll burn down a kitchen if I dare to step in one. It’s a real problem. The fire department has my address on “Frequently Visited” in their GPS.” He starts on the fourth when I grab his hand.
“OK,” I say, laughing.
He wraps his hand around mine as we stand there, our fingers clasped together as if in prayer.
“OK.”
And somehow, for the first time, I know it will be.
EPILOGUE
RANEE
They arrive in India when it is still daylight. Ranee looks around at her native country, understanding what she never could before—that home is not a place or a lifestyle, but the state of your heart and all the people who take their place in it. Brent said that their arrival in America made him what he was, but it was just an excuse. The evil was always lurking, latent, and he allowed it to become his default. He used whatever rationalization he needed to absolve himself—but like a true tyrant, it mattered little to him whom he hurt or how. But now he can never hurt them again. She knows they are not completely free and may never be, but they stand together, each one of them trying to fill the emptiness in the others, offering one another support, knowing they will never stand alone again.