Behind The Hands That Kill

EIGHTEEN

I have thought about it a lot in the two hours I have spent in this car, parked outside near Dina Gregory’s newest residence: When have I ever sat alone, the way I am now, evaluating the events that have unfolded throughout my life? Never. Never have I bestowed upon myself such a luxury; I do not deserve it; I do not want it; I do not want it because it frightens me.

Evaluating one’s life leads to change in one’s life.

Change. The very thought of it sets my teeth on edge. But I can no longer pretend that I am forever immune to its inevitable purpose. No one is immune to change, especially those who fear it. It comes for us first, and it destroys us swiftly because we fight it the hardest. I have been fighting it since I met Izabel. I fought it relentlessly as it happened all around me; every single thing I have done, since Sarai in Mexico, has been me fighting the change she has stirred.

I was wrong before, when I told Izabel I cannot change for her—I must. I cannot fight it anymore. In the end, to continue fighting it would mean that Izabel would have to die.

But she lived.

Again, and again, and again—she survived. And although it was not me who ultimately saved her, it was I who spared her. And for me, there is no proof more compelling that I love this woman more than I have ever loved anyone or anything.

But I must find a balance in this change. I am still the same man I was yesterday—that will never change—but I must now also allow the part of me that Izabel created, to live equally alongside him.

I get out of my car and walk down the sidewalk toward Dina Gregory’s house, and for the first time in my life I look up at the stars with purpose, a hundred pinpricks in the fabric of a black sky, and I feel the change happening in real-time. I feel the pressure in my chest, a strange, warm light in my eyes, and, of all things, I welcome it. Maybe that is the key to surviving change: embracing it, however cumbersomely, or gracefully, one can.

Bugs swirl around the blazing porch light near the front door; I hear a dog barking in the distance, the night breeze combing through the trees, a truck engine revving in the driveway of a house nearby, and my heart beating in my ears and in my head. I knock lightly. And I swallow.

Izabel has been staying with Dina since she was released from the hospital, and I have not spoken to her since the night Artemis slit her throat. I was there with her, nearly every hour of every day at her bedside, and when she was awake and able to talk, I tried, but she would not talk to me. Or anyone for that matter. Only the nurses. I have been patient, as I will continue to be. But I cannot deny the anxiety I feel inside, not knowing what she is thinking, or if she can ever forgive me for what happened to her.

I hear movement on the other side of the door, and then the clicking of a lock. My hands are sweating; I unfold them from one another to allow in some air.

“I wondered how long you’d sit outside,” Izabel says, standing in the doorway.

She gestures me in.

“You knew?” I ask.

Izabel makes a noise with her breath, and shakes her head as if she cannot believe I even asked. I cannot believe it, either. Love makes a man undeniably stupid.

My gaze sweeps the living room. A basket of folded laundry sits on the floor beside the sofa; lemon-scented furniture polish and powdered carpet freshener is distinct in the air.

“You have been cleaning,” I say, feeling awkward about my poor attempt to spark conversation. I am not used to this sort of thing; I want to talk with Izabel about what happened, but I certainly do not want to lead with it.

“Yeah, I’ve been cleaning,” she says.

She walks into the kitchen, and I follow.

“Want some coffee?” she asks, turning her back to me and sifting through a cabinet.

“No thank you.”

Withdrawing her hand, it comes out empty, and she closes the cabinet door.

Then her shoulders rise and fall heavily, and still with her back to me she says, “Then what do you want, Victor?”

“Thank you, but I do not want anything,” I tell her kindly. “I could not eat or drink anything if—”

She turns, and looks at me from across the bar. “I mean, what do you want?”

Oh.

I sigh, and glance at a kitchen chair.

“May I sit?”

She nods.

“I will understand if you do not want to see me—”

“If I didn’t want to see you, Victor, I wouldn’t have opened the door and let you inside.”

She is waiting for something. An apology? I will gladly give it to her. I do not know how many times I told her I was sorry while she was in the hospital, but I will apologize every day for the rest of my life if that is what she needs. An explanation? I have been desperate to give her one of those as well, and I intended to do that also while she was hospitalized, but considering she would not talk to me, I did not feel it the right time.

I decide to go with something different, something she would likely never expect of me—something I never expected of myself.

“It would make me very happy if you would marry me, Izabel.”

She just stares at me, unblinking, and although the expression on her face has not changed much from the emotionless one, I see evidence of something different in her eyes. But I haven’t the faintest clue as to what it is.

I stand up. Because it feels right not to be sitting.

“I…I do not expect it soon,” I begin, nervously, “but I hope that someday you will be my wife, because I—”

“Stop, Victor.” She puts up a hand.

Maybe I should have stuck with the apologies and explanations.

“I am sorry,” I say.

“I said stop.”

She drops her hand at her side and comes toward me; I get the feeling I am about to be lectured in the calmest of ways.

Her hands touch my shoulders lightly, and the next thing I know, I am sitting down again. She pulls out the empty chair next to me and sits, drawing her legs up and crossing them with her feet tucked beneath her bare thighs; she rests her hands in her lap. I try so hard not to look at the still-healing four-inch-long scar running upward along the side of her throat; the many stitches, like a freakishly-large centipede with wiry black legs; the glistening medicated lubricant—I tear my eyes away, swallow hard, and look at her beautiful face instead. I feel the stiches across the palm of my hand, but mine are nothing compared to hers.

She hesitates, as if gathering the appropriate words, and then says, “I love you fiercely, Victor. I can’t control that, and I can’t change it. But unlike you”—she pauses, holding my gaze—“unlike you, I’m not trying to.”

I start to speak, but she is not finished.

“It’s all you’ve ever done,” she says. “Since you met me, you’ve tried to push me away, tried to control something no man or woman can ever control, instead of accepting it, and letting life happen—please look at me, Victor.”

I had not realized my eyes had strayed from hers. Out of shame. Out of regret. Out of knowing that everything she is saying is right.

“I can forgive a lot of things,” she goes on. “I can forgive and forget. But what you did—what you tried to do—with Niklas, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get past that.”

“Izabel—”

She leans forward a little, and begins to whisper harshly. “You tried to pass me off to your brother”—her hands squeeze into fists within her lap—“do you have any idea how that feels to me?”

“No,” I say. “I can never understand fully how you feel, but I do know how much I regret it, and if how much I regret it is any indication of how you might feel, then I know the intensity of the pain, at least. I cannot take it back, but I know I could never do anything like that again.”

“But you did it once,” she says, shaking her head. “You didn’t want me…”

I shake my head, too, more vigorously, in advance of hoping to get my point across. “That is the furthest thing from the truth,” I say. “Because I wanted you, because I love you, that is why I tried to push you away—it makes no sense, I know. It is why I tried to put you with the only person other than you in this world who I trust. It was a mistake, one I do not ever expect to be forgiven for, but one I hope you can at least understand.”

“I do understand,” she comes back. “I understand why you did it; I understand that what you did wasn’t bad—it was just wrong. So very wrong, Victor. But I’m right when I say you did it because you didn’t want me—please let me finish.”

I drop my hand and close my mouth.

“You were willing to give me up to somebody else,” she says. “That fact remains, and can’t be argued—no matter what your reasons were, you still wanted to give me up.”

“But I do not want that anymore,” I say quickly. “And in my heart…I never really did.”

I try to reach out and take her hands into mine, but she gets up from the chair, refusing me, and begins to pace. Then with her arms crossed and her back to me, she stops near the counter.

I stand as well. But I say nothing. I feel everything like a heavy weight in my chest but I say nothing because I cannot. I am afraid—no, I am terrified of losing her.

“I didn’t talk to you in the hospital, because I was afraid of saying things I’d regret.” She turns around. “I needed time to think, time to heal, not just my injury, but my heart as well—time to…decide.”

My heart drops.

“To decide what?” I ask in a quieter voice than I expected; my hands are sweating again.

Her eyes find mine and she answers, “I want to live on my own, Victor. I want my own house, my own address, my own…bed.”

“Why? What are you saying?” This cannot be happening—I will not let it.

Izabel leaves the counter, steps up closer, and looks into my eyes. “I’m saying that I love you,” she answers, “but I don’t want to live with you anymore. At least for a little while.”

I do not feel good or bad about her announcement; it confuses me more than anything.

“I need you to listen to me for a moment,” she says. “I need you to understand something that I realized during the time I’ve been away from you.”

I nod. “I am listening.”

She crosses her arms and walks back toward the counter, taking the weight on her shoulders with her, and preparing to release it.

“I’ve never had anything that was just mine—not even my own space and freedom. My thoughts and actions and decisions have always been dictated by someone else—even you. I’ve barely even slept alone.” She leans against the counter. “But that’s going to change. No matter what you want, or how you feel about it, I’m going to do what I want, Victor, and if you have a problem with it, then we can end this relationship right now.” (I blink, stunned, and my heart feels like it just took a punch.) “I’m going to live in a place of my choosing, pay for it with the money I’ve worked hard for, and I’m going to do what I want, when I want, how I want, and without eyes at my back, or babysitters in my driveway.”

She uncrosses her arms, pushes herself away from the counter.

“Victor,” she says, changing the tone of the conversation to something more nurturing, “you need time away from me as much as I need it from you. You’re as messed up as I am—more, or less, who knows, but what difference does it make?—and I think it’s better for both of us if we take some time apart to figure out what we really want.”

“I know what I want, Izabel; I have never been more sure of anything in my life—I want you.”

“And you have me,” she says quickly, and moves closer, placing a hand on my chest, just above my heart. “You have me…” she whispers. “But I want you to make sure you want me forever. I already know what I want; I’ve known for a long time—you’re just figuring yours out. But despite knowing what I want for a long time now, I’m not even ready for it yet. I need to be my own person, my own love affair, my own everything, before I can truly be any of that for you. I don’t want to depend on you, or anyone else; I want to…live life on my own terms for once.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, getting anxious; the more she talks, the further away from her overall point I feel like I am getting. “What exactly do you want to do, Izabel? Tell me. I will help you with anything.”

“No. That’s just it—I don’t want your help.”

“Then what?” I ask, holding up my hands. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“I want you to let me do whatever I choose without refusal, without an argument, without your opinions. I just want you to let me go for a little while; set everything aside—your need to protect me, your love for me—and let me live my life the way I want to.”

I shake my head. “I cannot just ignore or forget that I love you, Izabel.”

“I didn’t say that,” she cuts in. “I said to set it aside; don’t let it get in the way of my choices, my wants, and my needs.”

Something about that I do not like, but I know I have to accept her wishes. Because deep down, I know that if I do not, she will walk away from me and never look back. This realization numbs me, because I have never felt it before. The Izabel I knew and fell in love with would have forgiven anything I did, and I know she would never have allowed herself to walk away. Not because she was clingy or desperate—Izabel has always been anything but clingy or desperate—but because she loved me more than she loved herself; she would have stayed by my side even if the Universe told her I was bad for her.

But Izabel is not that person anymore. She has grown. She has…changed. And, unlike me, she is gracefully embracing it.

“I will set it all aside,” I finally say. “And I will give you your space—I will give us our space.”

A small smile becomes barely visible in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says in a soft voice.

I look at the floor. Then at my hands. Then at the floor again. I am at a loss, about what to say or do next. So I just stand here in discomfort.

“Victor,” she says softly, and I raise my head. “I need to know if there’s anything else you’re hiding from me. We need to clear the air now before it becomes so polluted with lies that we can’t see each other for them.”

“There is nothing else, Izabel,” I say with truth. “You now know the real me; I have done unforgivable things to others for which I am sure I will answer for in death; I have lied to you, and manipulated you, and even used you for my own selfish needs—but what you now know is where it ends.”

She nods. I can only wonder if she believes me.

Then she looks at the floor.

“Do you still love her? Artemis?” Her eyes meet mine slowly.

“No,” I answer right away. “I did love her, but that was a long time ago.”

“What about the baby?” she asks, and I wish that she had not. “Is what you said true? Would you have killed her if she was pregnant with your baby? I just…Victor, I don’t believe you; I don’t care what you’ve done, or the secrets you’ve kept; I don’t care how savage your actions have been in the past—I don’t believe you would’ve killed your baby…I just can’t—”

“I was angry, Izabel,” I speak up. I want to crawl in a hole and be lost to the world.

I start to pace the kitchen now, my arms crossed. I cannot look at her, too focused on the truth to see anything but Artemis’s face, the face that betrayed me, no matter how much she claimed to love me—she murdered my child.

“Victor?”

“I said I was angry,” I repeat, staring at the wall. “She killed my child…and…” I sigh, clench my fists against my midsection. “And I can never forgive her for that.”

“So then you lied to her,” Izabel says, hopeful.

I turn and look at her. “Yes,” I answer. “I wanted to hurt her. But no, I would not have killed her if she was carrying my child.”

She lets out a breath, relieved.

What would she have said, or done, if I had answered any other way?