Behind the Hands That Kill

Then he walks down the steps, and I watch him go, his tall, athletic figure disappearing in the shadows covering the sidewalk cast by the trees.

And then he’s gone.

He asked me to marry him…No, I can’t think about that right now; I can’t carry that possibility in my heart yet when I have so much else I need to do and become and resolve and accept, first.

I look up from my thoughts, hoping to catch one last glimpse of him before the darkness swallows him completely, but he’s not there and I knew he wouldn’t be.

A time ago, I would’ve stopped him, I would’ve made sure that Victor knew this wasn’t goodbye. But things have changed. My love for him hasn’t, but everything else around me has. Everything else inside of me has. And in Victor, I see the same—he is changed; he is still changing. Can our love for each other evolve with the changes? Can our bond stand the test of time and we still come out together at the end, stronger, unbreakable? The odds are that we may never know, because we might not live long enough to find out.

I have so many questions that I could’ve asked him, that most people in my shoes would have. Questions about exactly what happened that night, about who saved me, why I was saved, why I’m still free. I want to know these things. But not yet. I have something more important I need to do before I can even begin to start thinking about any of that. Someone more important.

My gaze remains fixed on the dark sidewalk, my memory capturing the moment he traveled it, savoring every detail of the man I would die and kill for. The man I would kill, if that’s what I needed to do to take away his pain.

Shutting my eyes, shutting out the memory of his face and replacing it with that of my mother’s, I move slowly up the steps and go back inside the house. With a heavy heart. With a heavy purpose.

“I thought you left me,” Dina says, as I enter her bedroom.

The sheet she lays on has been soiled; she can barely move her arms anymore, and walking herself to the restroom has been out of the realm of possible since about a month ago, according to her doctor. She had been hiding it from me for over a year, not wanting me to worry. The last time I saw her she seemed fine; she could do just about anything I could do, but the disease recently took the inevitable turn for the worse, and with ALS there is no turning it back.

“I’m here,” I tell her softly, lifting her head with one hand and readjusting the pillow beneath it.

With difficulty, I manage to change the sheets and clean her up, without moving her from the bed.

“I’m sorry you have to do this for me, baby girl.”

“None of that,” I tell her sternly, covering her from the waist down with a clean sheet. “And I’ll never leave you again. I’m staying right here to take care of you.”

“Nah!” she argues. “You can’t be staying here, wiping my butt every day, Sarai—I won’t let you.”

“How are you gonna stop me?”

She frowns. For a second, I think I chose the worst words I could say to someone with this particular disease, but she eases my mind with a weak smile.

“You’ve had such a hard life, baby girl; it hurts my heart to think about what you’ve been through.”

“Nothing compared to other people,” I say; I wipe her forehead and face with a warm, wet cloth.

“And none of that,” she argues in return; I know she wants to shake her finger at me but she can’t raise her hand. “You’ve suffered a lot more than most, Sarai, so don’t do that. You’ve got every right to be mad as hell at the world.”

“Of course I’m mad,” I say, “but I’m doing something about it, Dina. There are women in those fucked-up countries who get stoned to death for getting raped; shot or hung for showing too much skin; eight-year-old girls murdered by their forty-year-old husbands during sex—they can’t do anything about it. But I can…”

“You’ve got that look in your eye, baby girl.”

I blink back into focus, and look at my hand holding the wash cloth near her face; my knuckles are white from gripping it so harshly.

Relaxing my hand, I say, “What look?” pretending not to know, and I go back to swabbing her face.

Dina looks up at me through eyes framed by deep wrinkles and exhaustion; her curly gray-blonde hair is laying softly against the pillow, her hairline damp from the wash cloth. “The same one you had a long time ago, right after I got you back. I’ll never forget it, that day you sat at the table, watching that news broadcast about that billionaire, Arthur Hamburg—thought you were gonna go after him right then.”

I shoot her a look of surprise. “You knew about that?”

Dina smiles weakly. “Well, you admitted to me that you’d killed a man in Los Angeles. And I never forgot the way you looked at that man on the news. Eventually I figured it out, or at least I thought I did—I had my hunches. Didn’t know for sure until just now.”

I nod, and then set the wash cloth on the nightstand. I take her hand into both of mine and I caress it because I sense this is a moment in which, if she could, she’d want to hold my hand.

“What are you planning to do?” she asks. “I know, honey, that I can’t be asking you too much about what you do, but I—”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know, Dina.” Gently I squeeze her hand.

She thanks me with the tender look in her eyes.

“I have a feelin’ you’re gonna be makin’ me roll around in my grave,” she says. “Look, I know you live a dangerous life, that every day you step out a door that it could be your last, and I know better than to ask you to stop doing it—I know you’ll never stop. But there are some things I never want you to do, and that look in your eye just a few seconds ago when you were talkin’ about those fucked-up countries, well, baby, it really scares me something awful. Promise me you won’t go over there. I see it all the time on the news: innocent people kidnapped by those extremist bastards; the beheadings—Sarai, I just can’t be at peace knowing that the next time it could be you.”