My mind spins. Who are they to him? A lover?
I spot the small, thin wedding band around her ring finger that tells a different tale. Vic doesn’t have one. I know he isn’t married, so there is more to the story here.
They rise to leave. That’s when I notice some obvious things. Their clothes are clean, but worn. It’s the kind of careful presentation that attempts to mask hardship. The little girl echoes her mother’s words as she holds a stuffed animal firmly with one hand and her mother’s hand in the other. Once they get to the door, she breaks free, rushing back to Vic. She presses her arms around his waist in a quick embrace. For an instant, he looks rigid, unprepared for her touch.
The mother’s expression shifts from sorrow to a glimmer of hope, as she sees her daughter latch onto Vic, someone whose kindness offers a brief comfort in a life that has shown little compassion. Before Vic can react, she returns to her mother, grabbing hold of her hand once again. She gives him a small smile and wordless wave, nothing else to be said, before leading her daughter back onto the unforgiving streets.
I shrink back, not wanting him to see me, at least not like this. But then, as if drawn to one another, he turns toward me, eyes wide—my heart free-falls. I turn sharply, raising a hand in greeting to no one, and hurry off as though late. And I might if I don't leave here soon. The glass reflects his movements, and I walk off hurriedly around the corner and disappear, as my breath catches in my throat from nearly being found out this way. “Stupid,” I curse under my breath, the word rising bitterly into the crisp morning air. Being more reckless because at this point, I’ve lost all common sense, I risk a glance back. Vic rushes outside, eyes searching the street with a frantic urgency, haunted as if he’d seen a ghost. Perhaps in some way he has.
I slip away quickly, vanishing down the alley and into the morning fog, just as suddenly as I had appeared. Stopping at a Starbucks instead, I steady myself and regain my composure with an espresso topped with thick non-dairy foam before continuing my walk toward the hospital, carrying more than this unit orientation on my mind.
My thoughts weigh heavily, burdened with questions about the man Vic has become. I always knew this softer side of him, the one he only revealed to me. So different from the figure I witnessed in the ER. His expression was cold, his steps precise, honed with clinical detachment. He walked those halls untouchable, yet I am the one who has tasted his tears. Who knows what he feels like when he places his long fingers around your neck, squeezing as you climax, all while whispering how much he loves you. This man is such a contradiction, but to me, he’s perfect. The memory stirs a deep ache and almost unbearable longing to turn back and find him. To let him know that I am here. That I have returned to him, and the future that I still believe to be ours. There has and will never be another man for me than Victor Flores.
The elevator carries me to the hospice unit, with its slow ascent, taking in and spitting out people on each floor. I step out and follow the signs leading to the unit, where Mrs. Meyer is waiting for me in her office. Her door stands half open, and I rasp my knuckles softly against it. She stands from her desk with graceful movement, and a radiant smile greets me as she opens the door wide. I love this woman at first glance. Although she is about to retire, nothing about her says retirement. She wears a bright, patterned dress beneath a white coat, name stitched in blue embroidery along the front lapel. The color suits her dark complexion and warmly contrasts the unit's grey, dreary color.
I extend my hand. “Hi, Mrs. Meyer, I’m Daniella. It’s so nice to meet you.”
Her grip is firm, and her smile tilts at one corner. She takes my hand in hers, a firm shake and a tilt of her lip. “Please,” she says, gesturing toward the chair, “call me Samantha. Have a seat so we can get the boring stuff out of the way first.”
I nod and settle in as she returns to her desk. Along the wall, I notice a stack of boxes that catches my eye. Her career is in boxes that wait to be carried out, and mine is to be carried in on Monday. Today must be her last day. She opens a drawer, retrieves my new badge, and hands it over to me. I reach for it, seeing my picture dangling from the lanyard, pride evident in my eyes as I achieve my goal.
“This will get you into most departments in the hospital. As a hospice case manager, you will navigate various areas of the hospital, depending on your patient's caseload. You’ll report directly to Mrs. Nolan, the director. She oversees the unit but is less involved in direct patient care, instead focusing on the business side. Insurance, reimbursements…” She trails off. She waves a hand, dismissing the thought with a soft chuckle. “That part is complicated. I don’t want to think about it.”
I offer her a tentative smile. “Mrs. Nolan must have really been impressed to bring you on with so little experience, although you do have the certification. That definitely helps,” Samantha says warmly, rising from her chair. “But she assures me you’ll be a perfect fit. And that’s good enough for me.” She crosses to the door as she gestures for me to follow her. “Come on, let’s get you around so you can introduce yourself to everyone before you start on Monday.”
I trail behind her, the sight of her stacked boxes still lingering in my mind. My thoughts drift involuntarily to Vic, his secrets, his shadows, the complexities of a man only I’ve seen. All of our memories reside in similar stacked boxes, brought with me, quietly waiting until the right moment to be uncovered. Full of truths I ache to touch, and almost within reach.
TWENTY-SIX
VIC
I’ve been at the hospital all night. Being on call offers no promise of rest. Of course, my pager went off at seven p.m. yesterday evening, as soon as my call shift started, and I have lost count of the hours since then. I’d hoped to see Sonya and her daughter, Rose, at the soup kitchen, but I missed my volunteer lunch service there. The staff knows I am sometimes on call, and while they need all hands on deck during those times, the volunteer pool is small. When I do show up, they are appreciative, but they understand that if I’m not there, it’s because I am working or have been called in for surgery.
Instead, lost in a sea of blue sterile drapes and arctic temperatures that make up the sterile rooms of the OR and its inner core. The hum of the machines and beeps of the heart monitors have been on a constant loop through my fourth case as I stand here suspended in time until each suture is tied and our end sign-out is completed. The music is cut off abruptly as the circulating nurse performs the final count of all instruments, and I provide my estimated blood loss for the record.
After she confirms that it’s correct, I strip the blue gown from my shoulders. The impermeable material feels stuffy, and my scrubs remain sweaty beneath it. I discard the two setsof bloodied gloves, snapping them off like a second skin and throwing them into the trash. My hands are white and wrinkled-looking from the long hours my skin has lain beneath. The patient is now stable, left in the physician assistant's capable care as the last layer of skin is sewn and glued before a dressing is applied to the incision. I step out of the cold tank and into the corridor beyond, where the skeleton crew is sparse. Only the call teams are present today to handle cases requiring immediate attention before the regularly scheduled cases come in on Monday. Carrying the weight of the night’s events and faceless patients hidden underneath the drapes with only the prepped skin visible for the scalpel I've been trained to use with precision, I walk out of the operating room to speak with the patients’ family members, who look just as weary as I feel.
It’s time to go. I need sleep after being awake all night. My car is parked in the on-call spot in the ER, so I have to cross the department to reach it. I’m so tired that the corridor seems to sway with each step. The fluorescent light emits a greenish hue, bringing the shadows to life. I blink, and the images fade. Fuck, I’m seeing things. Then…Dani? Or the shape of her standing at the nurses' station talking with Bethany, that woman who always gets under my skin. I halt mid-stride as Daniella walks away, and Bethany catches my double-take. She lights up, sure that I was looking at her. Nope. You’re still you, Bethany. She breaks away, moving toward me in long, steady strides. I move, but only in the opposite direction, hurrying away before she reaches me, disappearing across the hospital lawn.
“Dr. Flores,” she calls out, but I don’t stop. I’m too tired and too unhinged to be confronted by her. I practically sprint across the lot as I can see her searching for me in the ambulance bay. Fingers fumbling with my key fob until the car unlocks, I drop into the driver’s seat and pull out of the spot without letting the car warm up.
I must be more sleep deprived than I thought, because Dani’s face is everywhere tonight. I know it isn’t her, but still a small, stubborn part of me wants to believe that fate finally nudged her back into my path after all those years apart.
I pull into one of the most coveted spots at my building and take the elevator up to my high-rise. The door opens onto a silence that rings louder than any club or crowd. I drop my keys into the little ceramic dish by the entryway, strip off my clothes, and stand under the hot spray of the water until the exhaustion of the day leaves my body. Toweled off and half awake, I pull on joggers and a T-shirt. I can’t take it anymore. I have to know.
I pull up my socials and type in her name,Daniella Andrande.There’s nothing new. It's just her old account with no updates. The same photograph stares back at me, the one she took with her mother. Memories flood me with the sad look in her eyes, her brilliant light fading to low-burning embers. It’s similar to the photo of the last time I saw her, when I left her standing in her driveway, tears streaming down her face. I can’t unsee that, and every time I wake from a nightmare of my father, this feeling is a close second to remembering her that last time. The feed is covered with unanswered birthday wishes, each one a reminder of her continued silence. I take a sharp inhale when I see a memory she commented on.
“No. No.” I stand when I see the picture of her and her mom, with the caption: "Until we meet again." With a date set—wait, what? Her mom fucking died? I pace the room back and forth, my hand atop my head, as I try not to hyperventilate. “How did I not know this? Fuck!” I throw my fist into the desk, and it groans as if a sentient being, feeling the rage from my fist. Then it clicks. I stop pacing, envisioning the conversation I had with Brandon, the one he told me I had to hear about from her. That was the reason she sold the house. The dots began to connect. She knew her mom was sick. Did she not get into Dartmouth, or was that alie as well? I drop to the floor and sink to my knees, cupping my face in my hands. My selfless, selfless angel. She stayed behind to take care of her mom. I look up to the room’s ceiling, trying to stop the tears that threaten to spill from my eyes.
I stand, desperate to find out more, and eager to learn why she did this and anything else I can discover about her and her whereabouts. I continue to scroll. Then I see the tag. My pause hovers over the button. My pulse stutters as I finally click on the image. The enlarged picture takes my breath away. It’s a recent one of my Dani on the screen before me, seated on a velvet couch in a dimly-lit club in Houston.
“Wow!” I touch the photo reverently. She was stunning then and has grown into a more stunning woman. Her legs are crossed, with tight black, fitted jeans down her legs and hugging her thick thighs. Her black combat boot plopped heavily against the upholstered chair. A velvet rope glints in the picture’s corner, announcing that it must be a VIP section, roped off from the other customers. What catches my eye is that she isn’t posing. She isn’t smiling, but her interest is held by something on the floor below, and I can’t help but wonder what that interest is.
I pinch the screen, zooming in closer, greedy for every little detail I can find. She is so beautiful, and still mine. The friend who posted it, Liv Johnston or something like that, hardly matters. Only the information that might bring me closer to learning more about my girl.
I click on her profile, and the screen floods with photographs. Most of her friends are laughing, posing, crowded together under strobe lights. Dani is there, too, only in fragments. A shoulder at the edge of a frame. The curve of her face half turned into a smirk with her “fuck me” red lipstick. I groan at the memory of my dick streaked in red, and my full-mast erection becomes painfully hard. She is always present, but never meant to be seen. It’s as if she wants to stay hidden in the shadows. It’sprobably why her posts are not up to date. I scroll faster through the picture until I spot her.
There! I stop as my pulse quickens. Focusing on the picture before me, the image strikes me like I’ve been hit. Dani stands there, this time at the center of the photo, surrounded by friends. My body bolts upright, my chair scraping against the floor, and my box of belongings toppling off the bed. I lean closer until the screen illuminates my reflection in the window pane before me. My reflection stares back at me from a dark sky. How long have I been at this?
