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Lindy insisted that the kitten keep my father company. The little cat is funny—she never leaves her basket if Lindy doesn’t pluck her out of it, so we know she’s settled for the duration of the trip.
Arie comes by, sliding the door open quietly. I ask her to check on the kitten. She does, reporting back moments later to tell me that all the other passengers on the flight are soundly sleeping.
I allow myself to rest. I must fall asleep because closing my eyes is the last thing I remember. I hear Lindy talking over me as she squeezes my forearm. “It’s alright, Damian. It’s a dream. You were dreaming.”
“What?” I blink, hard. I pinch the bridge of my nose, rubbing my eyes with a thumb and forefinger, trying to wake up.
“You were moaning in your sleep.” She looks me over, clearly worried. “You seemed distressed, otherwise I wouldn’t have woken you.”
The heat of shame floods me.
Instantly, I know what I was dreaming about. It’s the same thing every night. The exact same nightmare, played on repeat.
The last few moments of my mother’s life.
The pain is horrific, the memory, abhorrent. And I get the pleasure of reliving it every night.
I could go to a doctor for help, take medication to get some peaceful sleep, but I can’t. I don’t deserve them. My mother died because of me and so, I’ll take my punishment. I deserve the pain and so much more for what I’ve done.
For what I failed to do.
twenty-one
Lindy
He must dream about her often. Or have nightmares. Judging by his moans, his mumbled words, he sounded terrified.
“Tell me,” I say, squeezing his arm harder. “I know she died. Tell me what happened.”
He looks down at his hands, tugging at the place where his thumb meets his hand. “It was last summer. I was visiting my parents at the Parrish. She wanted to take the kayaks out. Into the ocean.”
My heart stops.
He was alone with her when she died.
I encourage him to keep going. “What happened?”
“I—I couldn’t say no. Never could say no to Mom. She was the sweetest woman you’d ever meet—” His voice breaks. “So, I paddled out with her from the docks even though I was terrified.”
This colossal man with the massive muscles, well over six feet tall, a mafia man, seemingly fearless of everything?
I keep my tone gentle. “Why were you terrified?”
He heaves a huge sigh. Tugs on his hand. Finally, his gaze locks on mine. “I can’t swim.”
“You can’t swim?” I repeat.
He shakes his head, shame etched into his facial features. “No. I can’t.”
“Why not?” The words are out before I can catch them. Is that rude? Am I adding to his pain? Still, it makes no sense to me. I quickly correct myself. “Sorry, I just mean, you were raised on an island—”
He says, “We spent time here and in New York. We stayed in the Village a lot, especially when I was older and competing in martial arts.”
Okay… but…
“Still, the Parrish is surrounded by water. How is it that no one ever taught you to swim?” I shake my head, hating myself for pushing but needing to know. “That seems impossible.”
“I was afraid of the water, terrified to go near it. My parents chalked it up to a childhood thing. Kept a close eye on me and decided to wait until I was older to address it.” He shrugs. “I guess they thought I’d get over it.”
