Lily
As I stand at Carol’s grave, the August sun bathing the cemetery and flowers blooming all around, pinks and yellows and reds making it look like a botanical garden, a place of life, instead of a place of death, I think about the past few months. With my hand on my belly—a habit I still can’t kick, even though my belly is now much flatter than it once was—I think about Carol, and Darius, and Roman, and I think about Isaac, too. Isaac will be old enough to go to daycare soon, and so I’ll go back to work, back to the nursing world, back to the rush and the madness of it all. Vegas has welcomed me back, with its flashing lights and the constant ringing of the slot machines. I’ve met with the nursing staff at the hospital, and the police, and all the officials, and I’ve lied through my teeth. Claiming amnesia, I’ve made them all believe I was in a superlative fugue state for the duration of my kidnapping, that I don’t remember any of it. I play the part perfectly, as perfectly as a sociopathic Sherlock Holmes, in fact.
But I’m not here to ponder that. I’m here for Carol. I kneel down and lay the flowers on her grave. Tears slide down my cheeks as they always do when I come and visit her grave. I can’t shake the feeling that it was my fault. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake that feeling. But it’s good to come here and pay my respects, to let her know that I love her and I’m sorry. After I lay the flowers down, I sit down on the foldout chair I bring every visit, beside her grave, and place my hand on the gravestone. For the next half hour, I reminisce with her. We talk about the time she got so drunk on vodka shots I had to carry her home, about the time we stayed up all night at my place playing scrabble just because. I tell her that everyone at the hospital is missing her, except Sissy, who is as ferocious as ever. The tears stop after a while, the reminiscence becoming a good thing, warm, welcome, instead of bitter.
As I pack away the chair, I think about Darius. When the ambulance arrived, Roman fled the scene, and I claimed to have been kidnapped by Darius, not Roman. This could be easily disproved by anyone who had a mind to investigate it, but the people who’d have a mind to investigate it were too busy rushing around to cover their own asses when, later the same day, Roman busted Darius from the hospital and took him to a contact he trusted, who in turn presented him to the world stage. Darius has been sentenced to life in a maximum security prison, living in solitary confinement for twenty out of twenty-four hours, and his contacts in police and government have been rooted out. There won’t be any police clearing out hospital wings any time soon, nor shooting up suburban homes.
When I turn around, Roman is there, arms folded, leaning against the wall. My chest aches when I see him, as it does every time. He’s living in an apartment in the same building as me, but we’re yet to move in together. We make love, and go to the movies, and go on dates, but we’re yet to take that next step, though I want to. I think he wants to, as well, but he’s scared. Scared of himself, perhaps.
“Are you okay?” he asks when I reach him, as he does every time.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Do you think he’s okay?”
“The babysitter is with him, and so am I.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, showing me the screen he carries around which shows a view of my apartment. At the moment, he’s sleeping and the babysitter is watching TV.
“I should never have let you install that thing.” But truly I’m glad he did.
“Really, though, you alright?”
“Yeah. I mean . . .” Roman wipes the tears from my cheek. I clasp his hand, kiss it, glad for the closeness. “Carol tried to save my life without even knowing it. I miss her, I miss her more than I can sometimes handle, but I’m okay. I have a lot to live for.”
“You do,” he says, nodding.
He puts the emphasis on you; I don’t think he does it in purpose.
“We do,” I say, stepping into his arms. I look up at him, loving the way his hands feel on me, safe and secure, loving that I am Lily now with my man’s arms around me, not Betty with Markus grabbing at me and OBYGN hens clucking at me. I love how safe I can finally feel. I kiss him on the cheek. “Your mom would’ve been so proud of you, Roman. So proud.”
He laughs, trying to dismiss it, but I push on anyway.
“Getting out of the life, getting a job, going straight, saving innocent lives—mine and others, by turning Darius over. And just being with me, with us.”
“But you want more. You want the picket fence.”
“I want a family,” I say. “But I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to do. You know that.”
“I know,” he says quietly, stroking the back of my head. “I know, Lily. I just—sometimes I don’t feel worthy of your love. Yours or Isaac’s.”
“You’re very worthy of our love, Roman. You’re the only person I’d ever dream of giving it to now. Your Isaac’s father and he adores you. I adore you.”
Roman swallows, and then kisses me on the forehead. “And I love the two of you,” he says. “Of course I do. After everything, how couldn’t I? It’s just—it’s hard for me to believe sometimes.” He disentangles himself, and then smirks down at me. I still love that smirk; it still takes me to dark, heated places. “Do you think the sitter will watch Isaac for a little while tonight?”
“Why? What do you have in mind?”
“I want you to meet me at that restaurant, you know the one . . .” His smirk gets wider. “Seven work for you?”
“Of course I know the one,” I say. “I’ll be there.”