Page 66 of Skin Deep

Dr. Sala met me in the almost empty ER. Before I could open my mouth, he said, “Sit.” Then he nodded to a plastic chair.

The man was much smaller than me, but he had a commanding voice. His eyes, too, were in total control. He was someone a man could trust with his wounded flesh. I took the seat, and that was when I noticed her, the woman I’d stolen the bike from in Modica. Her hair was pulled back, and her eyes were tired and red rimmed. An empty coffee cup was in her hands. She was almost squeezing it.

She was staring at me.

Dr. Sala came back, standing between me and her. I hadn’t even noticed that he left. “Let me look at that,” he said.

“While I get answers,” I said.

“Stella wants to talk to you after I finish up.”

“Who’s Stella?”

“Georgina’s mamma. She is one of Pasquale’s daughters. Georgina is stable now.”

Georgina is stable nowpaired with the letter Pasquale left for me made me feel like I was coming out of my skin.

Dr. Sala started asking me questions, dabbing the wound with a cleaner. He told me it bled worse than it was. I didn’t even need stitches. Then he stood, bloody stuff in his gloved hand, and nodded to Stella.

She moved slowly toward me, like she was walking in a daze. She took the seat next to me and sighed. She didn’t look at me. She stared ahead. She smelled like chocolate.

“We’ve never officially met,” I said. “I’m Harrison—”

“I know who you are. My daughter gave instructions that you should be called—” Her lips pinched, but I couldn’t tell if it was in disbelief or because she wanted to stop herself from crying. “You did not answer.”

“I didn’t know,” I said. “I tried calling the number back, but no one answered. It was a general hospital line. I even came here when I found out where the number was connected to. No one knew anything.”

Dr. Sala appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, and handed me a cup of coffee. He walked off again.

“You're the one,” she said, just as I set the cup on a table with stacked magazines next to the chair. Her eyes were on me.

“The one what?”

“Meant for my daughter.”

Maybe because of the look on my face, she continued.

“I knew it the moment I watched you two dance at the wedding. I'm not saying all mammas get this feeling, but I did.”

“That's why you wanted to talk to me.”

She nodded. “My daughter is...special.”

“She is.”

“You do not understand. She is special. What I mean by that—” She looked toward the television mounted on the wall, taking a moment to get her thoughts together. “She suffers with depression. It runs in our family. My sister, she took her own life years ago.” She paused for a second. “Not long before the wedding, I got a call. Georgina had jumped off a yacht while it was still moving. They had a hard time bringing her back.”

She gazed into her empty cup, her eyes reflecting the dark liquid that had stained the inside of it. Her eyes seemed just as drained.

Her father. Her daughter.

The letter came back to me, and the words clicked into place. I refused to tell her about it, though. She had enough on her shoulders.

I cleared my throat. “Dr. Sala said she’s stable.”

I needed to hear the words from her.

“Physically, she is,” she said. “Mentally, she’s been struggling after my father… He would talk to her. He could get through to her most of the time. But this time.” She shook her head. “I could not get in touch with her. I knew something was wrong. She was in New York on business. Or so she said. I reached out to Tito. He was not close, so he sent some trusted medical people he knows. They found her in the tub. If I wouldn’t have—” She stopped talking, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

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