Page 76 of Wild Card

Catriona

It’s been a few weeks since I left the hospital. It was uncomfortable, but I did a series of videos about my abduction. Not the gory details people probably wanted, but just a brief overview about what happened given the videos Lorenzo forced me to make. I wanted to tell my story in a way that didn’t revictimize me.

It was hard leaving my father out. I want to air all of his dirty laundry, but while it’d feel good in the moment, he’d hit me back twice as hard.

It’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

I’d told Callan about Gio’s recording, and what our father had said. He’d thanked me for the information, and asked if I had Gio’s contact details, but I don’t.

I hadn’t thought to ask for his phone number.

But I’m sure that won’t stop Callan.

I left Gio out of my videos for the most part too. I’ve thought about him a lot these past weeks. I miss him, and I wish things were different. I wish we’d met in some romantic way we could tell our future children about. He never treated me like I was wrong or obscene just for being myself.

And I’ll never forget my father’s face, pinned up against that window in the hospital.

Finn made me describe it to him in excruciating detail, and every once in a while, he’ll text me how purple did his face get, again?

Would anyone ever stand up for me again like Gio did? My siblings can’t, not directly, not yet. I believe that Gio meant what he said about dispatching my father. It’s a bizarre thing to feel that, even now, I could find him and ask him to do it and I know he would.

But I don’t want that on Gio’s conscience, and I don’t want him ending up in prison. I couldn’t live with that.

It’s lucky enough that the police weren’t compelled to investigate what happened at Freddie’s, chalking it up to run of the mill maneuverings of organized crime. When they talked to me, they painted Lorenzo as a petty player on the fringes, which would’ve infuriated him, I’m sure.

“Lorenzo’s nothing more than a pawn, Ms. Carney, part of a rival family’s plan to get access to Freddie DeBaggis and take him out, most likely. Your brothers are lucky Freddie’s soldiers had already been killed before they got there or they would be dead, and you too I’m afraid.”

Not exactly. But better the police think that.

I did another video series about my recovery, slow as it’s been. I’ve been going to physical therapy, and therapy for my mental health too. My parents must be so ashamed. Mental health isn’t something we’re supposed to talk about, ever, but I needed help, and I wasn’t going to let their antiquated ideas of what’s seemly keep me from getting better.

It’s made a huge difference. I feel happier than I have since I can remember.

And I’ll never forget the look on my therapist’s face when I told her my father would’ve been happier if I’d died.

And now it’s May first—mine and Callan’s birthday. I picked a better passcode for my new phone, and now I tap it in to see where he wants to go for dinner.

I picked the restaurant last year.

He chooses some gastro pub not too far from where I live in the South End, in the up-and-coming Ink Block District, so named because it’s the former site of one of the two big Boston newspapers. I decide to check it out while it’s still light. Callan will walk with me tonight, of course, but I just feel better getting the lay of the land. Plus, I’d like to do a short video about it.

Naturally.

Besides, I want to see what’s happening in the building two doors down from mine. It used to be a candy factory, but it’d been bought a few weeks ago and gutted. I’m hoping for some kind of wellness center that does yoga and Pilates. Those Himalayan salt caves are all the rage now, too.

It’s warm, and I change into a ruffled wrap dress and sandals for the walk. I leave my hair down, and let it be wild.

It makes me think of Gio when I do.

I head outside, letting the sun heat my skin. My mother always wanted us to keep covered since we freckle so easily, and while I always make sure to put sunblock on, I like my freckles.

I don’t think the things that make me unique are imperfections. Not anymore.

When I get closer to the empty space, I see some heavy equipment being moved in by two burly men who swear at each other the whole time over the banging of the dolly being shoved onto the metal ramp. It looks like some kind of industrial oven, but it’s hard to tell exactly since it’s wrapped in plastic. Another restaurant, then?

I have to stop to let them pass from the truck, across the sidewalk, and into the building.

“Excuse me, miss. But do you live around here? I’m new in town and it’s important for any small business owner to get to know the neighbors.”

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