Page 10 of The Doctor's Twins

“I’m sorry about that, Peyton. I lost my cool. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re sorry? Really? Is that all you’re going to say?”

“I mean it, Peyton. I’m truly sorry.”

It suddenly became clear to me that I was attempting to flog a dead horse.

He looked at me with a strange expression.

“I know what you’re thinking, Peyton, and I must warn you that it’s in your best interest to stay. I will not allow you to leave me. Ever. I love you too much.”

My husband smiled and then left the room without pomp and ceremony, leaving me agog and shaky. I knew what he was hinting at. His veiled threat hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.

You’ve made up your Egyptian cotton bed sheets, Peyton.

* * *

My interview with the head of the medical residency at the hospital went well. He offered me the position and I took it. I figured the less time I spent around Mateo, the better. It would give me time to consider my options.

I made a friend too, which was much needed as I was a stranger in a foreign land—and not just literally speaking. Lula was a fellow doctor doing her residency too. She was a year ahead of me, but we got along well and spent a lot of time together at the hospital.

She was a sweet, bright woman, born in Todos Santos, a small village in Mexico with a population of roughly six-and-a-half-thousand people. Her small stature belied her feisty nature.

We were getting dressed into our scrubs one morning as we were about to join a surgeon in the theater. I was always careful to hide my bruises, but I must have been careless that morning.

“What the hell are those?” Lula asked and pointed to my ribcage.

“Oh,” I said and covered my torso as quickly as I could. “I bumped myself on the fridge when we were moving it,” I lied.

“Mierda! Try again.”

“It’s not bullshit. I’m telling you. I can be a clumsy dunce.”

“Peyton, in the six months I’ve known you and worked alongside you, you have never once acted like a clumsy dunce. It’s your husband, isn’t it?”

This was my chance. My one and only chance to share my grief and pain with someone. The question was, was I brave enough?

“You can talk to me, Peyton. Whatever you tell me stays between us.”

“He’s clever, Lula. He never hits me in places where it will show,” I sighed and sank onto the bench in front of the locker. “You know, I never imagined I’d be one of those women who’d allow a man to abuse me.”

“No woman ever imagines that, Peyton. Abuse is a process—it’s gradual. The bastards start slowly and before you know it, you’re forgiving all sorts of things in the name of love and saving face.”

“Sounds like you know a thing or two about it.”

“Oh, yes. Too much.”

“What did you do, Lula?”

“I got the hell out of there and moved as far away as I could.”

“I wish I could do that.”

“What’s stopping you? Apart from you, of course.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Fuck. That does change things a tad.”

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