Something flickered between them.
“I wanted to check on your progress.”
It wasn’t entirely untrue.
Randi studied him for a moment longer.
Then -
“Elena said people were calling,” she murmured. “Asking about me.”
Brew nodded.
“That’s normal.”
“You’re not going to allow visitation, are you? You didn’t respond when I said I would like to,” she said.
“I’d rather not yet. It’s only been two days. Your wounds aren’t healed. Any jarring could easily split open your stitches. I’d rather not risk that. Let’s wait a full week for friends and associates at least.”
Silence settled between them mere moments.
“You … asked me about family yesterday,” she said.
He held her gaze.
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
“There isn’t any.”
The words landed differently coming from her.
Brew didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t want to offer empty comfort. He knew there wasn’t any. The Center’s administrative nursing staff was very thorough. He just didn’t know the story behind the why.
“They died when I was twelve,” she continued, her voicequiet but steady. “A tornado ripped through our home. Both my parents were lifted away and their bodies smashed when it released its hold on them and they plummeted to the ground. It destroyed everything. Nothing was left. I was located partially buried under the rubble.”
A beat of silence seemed longer. This was her time to share, to open up.
“I was sent to a Group Home after that,” she added. “No in or out for me. I was confined there for six years. I just existed, not lived.”
Brew felt something shift deep in his chest. Was it a paralyzing grief he was feeling, a profound, unexpected ache despite the lack of a deep, daily connection. He felt a sense of surrealness. She had a familiar, stable, loving beginning, and then, a ‘gut-punching’ loss that probably as a child left her numb anddisassociated with the rest of the world. He could only imagine the sorrow, the deep hollowness, and lingering absence of loss she must have felt, especially with no one to turn to, love and protect her at such a young age.
He had a newfound respect and was awed by her tenacity, strength, and resilience.
“You built a wonderful life and career on your own,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Randi gave the smallest nod.
“I credit that to the two teachers who nurtured and supported my talent until I could transition from the group home. I also had a trust fund created by the court to protect my parents assets. It had amassed a tidy amount over six years and was awarded to me at eighteen along with a four-year scholarship to Art School. Without all that, I would’ve ended uphomeless. In the beginning I didn’t want to live. I just wanted to die.”
He understood.
Silence settled between them again. It didn’t seem empty. It was something else, he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“Is there anyone you want contacted,” he said after a moment, “I can arrange that.”
