Chapter 6 - The Long Winter
The months that followed were an arduous test of endurance. I moved into an apartment forty miles away, near my own family, changing my locks, installing motion-activated security systems, and establishing a fortress of routine around my daughter.
Lily grew. The marks on her cheeks softened into light, warm petal-shaped patches that flushed only when she laughed or cried. She took her first steps in late November, wobbling across the hardwood floor toward my outstretched arms, her laughter bright and completely unshadowed by the terror of her first week of life.
Every Tuesday, I visited Michael at the residential care facility where he had been transferred.
The transformation was slow, almost painful to watch, but miraculous. With specialized nutritional therapy, speech rehabilitation, and physical therapy, Michael began to regain muscle mass and color. His hair was trimmed neatly; he learned to use a computer, to read novels, to prepare simple meals.
He became fascinated by gardening. The facility gave him a small greenhouse plot, and for the first time in his thirty-four years, he put his hands into the earth not to hide, but to nurture life.
“Clara,” he said one crisp afternoon as we sat on the facility’s patio. He handed me a small, carefully sketched watercolor painting.
I looked at it. It was a depiction of a blooming morning glory, vibrant and blue, painted with extraordinary delicacy.
“The doctor said the colors on my face are just blood vessels,” Michael said, his speech now clear and deliberate. “Like petals on a flower. Not a target.”
“Exactly like petals,” I told him, placing my hand over his scarred fingers.
“How is Daniel?” he asked softly.
“He is in a treatment center upstate,” I answered honestly. “He’s working through what happened. He writes me letters, Michael. But I haven't answered them yet.”
May you like
Michael nodded slowly, looking out over the green lawn. “Danny was just a boy. When Dad was angry, Danny used to slide graham crackers under the basement door for me. He was scared to death. Don't hate him forever, Clara. Hate makes you build cellars inside your head.”
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