“Markie, I loved you, and I’d never do anything to hurt you. My diaries are my private thoughts. But if their existence bothers you, good. Consider them an insurance policy that says you’re gonna leave me and my family in peace. They’re not at my mom’s, or my sister’s, or my dad’s. They’re in the same place where I keep the first corsage you bought me, the charm bracelet my dad got me, and the key to the hotel suite from our first trip to Mexico. They’re with my personal, private treasures. And that’s what they are, private!”
He looked at her for a moment as if he might understand, but then had to switch gears as Goldie’s mother, Carla, arrived. She was forty-seven, was once a looker like Goldie, but had been worn down by a lack of education that never went beyond two semesters of junior college, a failed marriage, and a series of jobs that never paid more than thirty thousand dollars a year. She was a gigantic contradiction about her daughter’s relationship with Markie. On the one hand, she knew he was involved in criminal activities. She didn’t know specifics, but she knew they were bad, and this went against her Catholicism and sense of right and wrong. On the other hand, she liked that Goldie lived in a seven-figure condo, wore fine clothing and jewelry, and had been able to enjoy a more comfortable lifestyle than she’d ever had. So, she treated Markie respectfully. Like a mother-in-law who didn’t approve of her son-in-law, but acknowledged that he made her daughter happy.
Markie and Carla chatted pleasantly for a few minutes, mostly about how relieved they were that Goldie was awake, then he excused himself so mother and daughter could catch up. He promised to visit Goldie again soon, but in the meantime, told her not to worry about anything for a third time. Once he and his two bodyguards were gone, Goldie briefly told her mother that she and Markie were on the outs, then apologized, saying she had to rest, which she did. She fell asleep, and Carla stayed in her room for the next several hours. She also spoke to Doctor Zawicki about Goldie beginning a physical therapy regimen to get her muscles back in good working order.
Thirty-Three
DECISION
On Monday, December 16th, Goldie was downstairs in the physical therapy department of St. Vincent’s and walking briskly on a motorized treadmill. She wasn’t quite up to jogging yet, but she’d been eating regular food for a couple of days, the scabs on her face were getting smaller, and her physical strength was improving. She was still going to have to wear a cast on her arm for four more weeks, but Dr. Zawicki had said he would probably release her that afternoon. Markie had come for a second visit on Saturday and brought her purse, cell phone, and the address and keys to her new apartment. He also gave her five hundred dollars for walking around money because he had canceled her credit cards since they were no longer together. But he reminded her that she also had a new bank account with fifty thousand dollars in it. During the visit, he asked again for her diaries, and she replied she’d think about handing them over once she was settled into her new place. He didn’t particularly like being put off, but Goldie knew how to handle her former boyfriend with just the right combination of humor, sass, and ego gratification. He reluctantly agreed to postpone the subject, or so she thought.
She was in sweat clothes her mother had brought her, looking down at the step counter on the treadmill, when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Are you outta your damn mind?”
Still walking, she turned around to see her sister, Ellen, standing behind her a few feet away with her winter overcoat open and her hands impatiently on her hips. She was twenty-eight, three years older than Goldie, lived in Upper Montclair, New Jersey, and was married to a nice guy named Levi who managed a Verizon store. She worked part-time as a receptionist and had two kids: a three-year-old named Austin and a six-year-old named Trevor. She was good-looking like her sister, but with brown hair and a little heavier. She was also even more quick-tempered than Goldie.
“Ay, sis, nice to see you, too,” the younger replied, a little sarcastically.
“Are you outta your damn mind?” Ellen repeated.
“Can you talk a little louder? I don’t think the therapists and patients over in the corner heard you.”
Goldie switched off the treadmill, then turned and stepped off the machine to face her sibling.
“What?”
“When I dropped Trevor off at school today, you know who was there? Bruno Carmichael!”
She was referring to the thick-necked, large-chested enforcer who worked for Markie.
“What was Bruno doin’ at Trevor’s school?”
“That’s whatIasked,” Ellen replied. “He said he was payin’ me a courtesy visit since we went to school together. He said that you and Markie are history, Markie’s gonna marry some bimbo from Chicago, and that he set ya up in a nice apartment as part of a consolation prize. But healsosaid you’ve been keepin’ diaries while you two were together, and Markie wants ‘em. All of ‘em!”
She looked at Goldie with open hands, perplexed. “You been keepin’ diaries?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you? Twelve?”
“Hey, Lady Gaga keeps a diary. So did the Queen of England.”
“But they didn’t live with Sonny Corleone! You’re endangering my family.”
“Did Bruno threaten you?” Goldie asked.
“Not exactly. He said it was a courtesy call. But he showed up at my kid’s school.”
“Markie isn’t gonna do anything against you, or your kids, or Mom, or Dad. The family doesn’t operate that way. I mean, theydo,but not with people who aren’t in the business.” She shook her head. “Never in a million years did I think those diaries would be a stickin’ point with me and Markie.”
“Why did you even write them?” Ellen asked.
“Well, at first, it was because Iwastwelve. Then, it became a habit. Later, I started to like writing. After that, I didn’t want to forget things, and some of the stuff I wrote down even helped Markie. Kinda like a stenographer.”
“Is there incriminatin’ stuff in them?”
Goldie grimaced as if embarrassed. “Wellll…”
