Page 93 of Reckless Woman

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Page 93 of Reckless Woman

His absence is a bitter chill, but I can’t forgive, and I won’t forget. His words in the hospital made everything crystal clear to me. He doesn’t feel a thing about the child we lost, and the fact that I’ve had my choices mutilated is nothing but a bonus to us.

Each day passes in the same safe mundanity. Gabriela brings my meals up, and for the rest of the time I lie here and listen to the women beneath my window as they tend to the estate’s garden. I don’t speak Spanish, so I make up their conversations in my head. The nuances in their voices tell me when to add in the sad and funny parts, and everyone always has a happy ending.

Everyone, except me.

Gabriela founded this women’s sanctuary a few years ago. They come from all over Colombia for her shelter and protection. Some are older than me, some are younger, but all of them are seeking refuge from sexual violence and exploitation.

There’s a soft rap at the door.

“Come in,” I croak.

Gabriela enters the room with a tray of fresh fruit. Tall and willowy, with graying hair tied up in a neat bun, she moves like water—holding me captive in her gentle currents as she places the tray down on my nightstand.

“Morning,señora,” she says, handing me a glass of juice and a painkiller. “How are we feeling today?”

“Sore.” I grimace, swallowing dutifully. I take the bare minimum of these little white pills. I don’t feel the same manic urge to sink my problems into a pit of drink and drugs, this time around. Instead, I want to wallow in it, be consumed and defined by it. The jury’s out on which is the unhealthiest option.

“The pain will pass,señora,” she says wisely, and I know that she’s referring to the scars in my heart, not my stomach.

She told me once how she’d been beaten and raped by Santiago’s father when she’d worked as his housemaid. She’s so much stronger than me because she never allows herself to be defined by it. She wears her scars like a badge of hope for all the women here. If she can survive and thrive, then so can we.

“It’s a shame I can’t take meds for all of it,” I say with a sigh.

She smiles and sits down gracefully on the edge of the bed before glancing at the window. “Oh,” she cries, “you have another one.”

“Are you sure?”

“See for yourself.”

Every morning, someone leaves a painted rock on my windowsill. It’s never any bigger than the palm of my hand, and it’s always decorated with the most intricate scenes.

Sliding my bare legs out of bed, I stagger toward it, moving at the pace of a crippled snail. Today, my gift is a silver and blue wave design, like calm seas after the wildest night.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, picking it up and admiring it. “Do you reckon it’s bought from a shop?”

She rises from the bed to join me. “No. It’s from the estate.” She examines the stone carefully. “I recognize it from the front drive.”

“Maybe one of the women from the garden made this? I sometimes hear them talking and laughing above the cicadas and bellbirds.”

“Ach, don’t be kind.” She rolls her dark eyes in mock disapproval. “Those girls are always talking and laughing, and never weeding.”

“Anything’s better than silence.”

Her smile fades. “Yes,” she agrees. “Anything’s better than that.”

I catch a flash of her own sadness before she turns away.

“Have you heard from her?”

She shakes her head and moves toward the bed, picking up a discarded blanket from the floor. “Viviana’s deception is killing me as much as it’s killing you. When I heard what she did to Señor Grayson…” She clutches at her heart and shakes her head again. “I don’t even know who that girl is anymore, and I raised her from a small child. This hatred for Señor Santiago…” She sighs wearily. “Like I told Señor Grayson last night, it does not come from my heart. Señor Santiago has been good to me. This place was a gift, and I will always cherish it.”

“You saw Joseph?” I say, my heart stuttering.

“He and his men take their meals in the drawing room, away from the girls. He spends the rest of his evenings alone, outside by the pool.”

He does?

“I assumed he’d flown back to America.”




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