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What I do know is that I don’t want him to become some softer, harmless version of himself just so I can understand him better. Because the same man who had Greg beaten bloody is the one who held me afterward.
Who apologized and did what he said he would: changing access to the penthouse and holding more meetings away from his—our—home for me. I can’t separate those parts of him just because one is easier for me to accept.
I once overheard Father Joseph counseling a couple who needed help because they were so different. He told them to embrace those differences instead of focusing on them. And he warned them never to make changing each other the goal, because once you start doing that, marriage and love become a scoreboard.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing without realizing it. Looking at Domenico and mentally sorting him into things that scare me and things that make me feel safe. Things I wish were different and things I’m beginning to…
I stop that thought before I can finish it. God, I’m so screwed. Because I don’t want Domenico to be less dangerous. I just want to know I’ll never be the one he turns that danger on—that I’ll never end up like his ex-wife.
With everything off my chest, the room feels different. Lighter, or maybe I’m just exhausted. I reach for my bag and pull out the laptop that was waiting for me near the elevator this morning. It was still in the packaging, and there was a note attached to it.
Vinny told me you’ve been watching movies on your phone with your mom. -D
Even with all the thoughts running through my head, I can’t help smiling at the thoughtful present. This is so much better than the expensive clothes that turn up almost daily. Apparently Carly’s meant to take me shopping, but she hasn’t been around to do so yet.
So, in typical Domenico fashion, he just buys stuff for me and tells me to wear it. In typical me fashion, I do it without arguing. But while the clothes are nice, really nice, actually, it’s nothing compared to a laptop so Mom and I can better watch our movies and shows.
I know it doesn’t make any sense when I never know if she’s awake or not. Mom isn’t in a coma anymore. She was for the first three months after the accident. Now, she’s in what the medical staff call a minimally conscious state. Also known as MCS.
People online compare MCS to a flickering lightbulb. Mom’s mostly unresponsive, but she does have brief, fleeting moments where she shows real awareness before fading away again.
“Domenico bought this for us,” I tell Mom as I open the laptop on the rolling table the nurses bring in for meals, angling the screen so she can see it if her eyes open.
I find the streaming service and pull up the next episode in the series we’re currently watching. I set the volume low enough that it won’t disturb the other rooms, but still loud enough for us to hear.
The nurses say she might still be able to hear me. I choose to believe that.
The opening credits roll to the tune of soft piano music. The protagonist walks too fast down a sidewalk while the voice-over explains everything wrong with her life. Mom would’ve made a comment about the actress’ haircut by now.
Too severe, she’d say.
I settle into the rhythm of the show. The jokes land where they’re supposed to. There’s a meet-cute that happens in a bookstore, which Mom would’ve approved of. She always said the best relationships start with shared shelves.
Halfway through, my eyes drift to the fake wildflowers on the side table. The plastic stems catch the light from the screen, throwing small, artificial shadows across the table. The flowers are all in Mom’s favorite colors, which means whoever brought them either knows her well or got lucky.
Then it hits me: it has to be Dad. Who else would bother bringing her flowers? The church usually writes cards and gives them to me, so it’s not from them.
As I dig my phone out of my pocket, the screen lights up with no notifications. I open a new message to Dad’s number and type.
Me
Did you bring flowers to Mom’s room? Also, this is my new number. -Kira
I press send and set the phone face-down on the table.
The show continues, and when we’ve watched two episodes, the protagonists are arguing over something stupid in the rain outside a restaurant. The woman’s crying while the man’s yelling.
I watch the raindrops slide down the actress’ face and think about Domenico’s hands and what they’re capable of.
Yes, I’ve been—and maybe I still am—terrified because I’ve seen exactly what those hands can do to someone. But the more I think about it, the harder it becomes to ignore who his violence has actually been aimed at.
Dad and Greg.
Not a single time has it been aimed at me. Which would have been so easy for him to do. After all, if he hadn’t allowed me to return to Saint Benedict’s, who would even know if I was hurt?
And in the beginning, when I practically threw myself at him, he stopped me. He could’ve taken what I was offering without ever questioning why I was offering it. Instead, he held back.
No, he did more than hold back. He gave me pleasure and taught me how to give it to myself. That’s something he could have… I don’t know, used against me. And he didn’t.
