Page 124 of Dark Ugly Places

It was Emmy who found me, pulled the knife from my grasp, and called 911. I don’t remember much of anything after staring at myself in the Redferns’ mirror. Not Emmy’s tears or the ambulance and the flashing lights. I was in the hospital for just a few short days. The darkness of the coma was different. It was quieter— much quieter—and in the moments before I came to, it was Emmy’s voice I heard first, muffled and sad. She was talking to someone nearby, but when I finally opened my eyes, I saw that the room was empty.

Later on, Nubia came to the hospital to visit. She brought a bright-yellow collection of daisies and a box of Russell Stover chocolates.

“Ay, Dios mío,” she said when she saw me, her face concerned but also disappointed. When we embraced, I felt the softness of her hair brush my cheek and remembered how much I adored her.

“You didn’t have to come.”

Nubia tsk-tsked and pulled a chair to sit beside me. She opened the box of chocolates and fed one into my mouth. “Don’t tell the nurses,” she whispered conspiratorially, then ate one herself.

We were silent for a moment before Nubia leaned toward me and took my hand. “You could have called me, but you didn’t.” Her voice sounds genuinely hurt.

“I know, but it’s not what you think,” I tried to explain. But how could I have told her that everything that happened was because of a terrible illness, one that kept showing up in our family? First, my father. Then me.

“Let Emmy and Scotch come stay with me for a couple of days, just while you get back on your feet, okay?”

I paused for just a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

Nubia seemed pleased, and I could tell when I told Emmy later that she was, too. A flash of relief registered across her eyes, and I pictured her thinking that she’d be safe with Nubia. No more sick Mom. No more crazy Martha. At least for a little while.

Now Emmy and Scotch are back with me, and we’ve fallen into our regular routine. But today, things feel off somehow, as though we’ve regressed just a little. Even the weather, with its patchy gray skies, seems to know how we feel.

We meet Bambi at the steps of the church for the memorial service.

“You made it,” she says, and her eyes warm. We have an understanding, the three of us, and everything is different now. I take her hand and squeeze it for a quick moment, her flesh warm in my fingers. I can tell she wants to say something, that maybe some part of her still feels the connection she and Martha had, the connection I can’t remember.

“What about the reception?” Bambi asks, looking between us. “Are you coming?”

I look to Emmy, who seems nonplussed by the thought. “We can if you’d like us to …”

“I would,” she says simply. We head inside the cold church, the darkness encircling. The ceremony is quick and efficient, with no paparazzi in sight. They’ve managed to keep them out, behind the gated walls of the grounds. Bambi does not speak. She sits next to Lucita, who is crying quietly in the front pew. But Bambi, I notice, is stoic.

Afterwards, we wait outside the church underneath a leafless tree.

Bambi comes out to meet us and releases a long sigh. “It’s done now.”

I nod, unsure what to say. I know Bambi doesn’t blame me for his death, that she knows now about Martha and the rest of it.

“Are you going to be okay?” she says, looking Emmy and me over. “I mean, she isn’t coming back, is she?” There’s something hopeful in her voice that makes me sad. Sad because I know, despite what happened, Bambi cared for Martha. And who knows? Perhaps Martha even cared for her, too.

Emmy looks at me, her face screwed up with concern. She’s watchful these days, staying close by my side, just in case. Even Scotch sniffs me from time to time, as if to be sure it’s really me. But I don’t know how to make them understand that Martha is gone. The darkness is empty. Something happened when I was in the coma. I can’t explain how, but I know she isn’t with me anymore. I have the light. At least for now. And now is good enough for me.

“We’ll be fine,” I tell her. Overhead, a crow lands in the tree and makes a dull screeching sound. I look up, but no one else seems to hear it.

“How’s the baby?” Emmy asks, interrupting the sound.

“Due in the summer,” Bambi answers. She takes Emmy’s hand. “What you did that day …” she starts. “It was very brave.”

“I had no choice,” she answers, her voice firm. Her eyes harden a little, remembering that moment.

Only afterwards did I realize how much Emmy played a role in saving both of our lives. She called 911, of course, stayed next to me with a tourniquet held at my neck the whole time, then told the paramedics exactly what she saw Jason do and what we had to do in self-defense.

Sometimes I think I can see it—the aftermath of what I did to try and save her—taking its toll. It must have looked quite bad, me with the knife, the blood in the sink. I wish she hadn’t seen it—any of it. Trauma in our family comes out in peculiar ways.

Later, I find Emmy sitting on a swing set in the churchyard, her head hanging low, whispers emanating from her lips.

I hesitate for a moment, a knot in my stomach, then walk up behind her and place a hand on her shoulder. “Ready to go home?”

Emmy nods, and I shift around to see her face. Her eyes are swollen, cheeks puffy from crying.