- 10.
く
I didn’t see Mark for a long time after that.
With him gone, David and I grew closer. We
were young, full of life, pulling me out of the
darkness.
David’s documentary won an award. On
stage, photographers flashed.
Mark appeared, holding 999 blue roses.
Gasps rose from the audience.
“Congratulations.” He offered the flowers.
“Now David can stand beside you, and I can
only watch.”
I smiled. “Thank you. It could have been you,
Mark.”
But you clipped my wings, confining me for
eight years.
His eyes reddened. “Sarah Miller, can’t you
even hate me?”
He opened his arms. “Can I hug you one last
time?”
I thought that was the end. Then, Mark had a
<
car accident; ne mumbled my name. HIS WIII
to live was weak. Mark’s mother called,
pleading with me.
On his phone’s screen, our wedding photo
was the wallpaper. He wore a shirt I ironed, I
wore Grandma’s jade pendant, smiling at the
courthouse.
His fingers twitched. “Sarah… is that you?”
The nurse said, “He got his finger caught in
the car; it was mangled. We tried removing
the ring, but he wouldn’t let go.”
I reached out, then hesitated. Mark’s voice
trembled.
“Don’t… no…”
I withdrew my hand.
“Mark, take it off, or your finger will rot.” Like
our marriage.
The ring fell, a soft “clink.”
I smiled. “Get well soon. Your daughter’s
waiting.”
661
“Lily…”
His eyelids fluttered. He stopped. Lily. The
name I’d given the six–month–old I lost. She
was a girl.
David stood by the car with an umbrella.
“Where to?”
“Home.”
