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The thundering of hard soles against my parents’ flagstone derails any questions.
For now.
“You’re still lost in so much pain, Laura.”
My mother understands agony in ways I wish she didn’t. I nod against her shoulder. “I thought I was healing. Then today happened.” The process of healing, whether physical or emotional, is long and arduous. Much like a major surgery with multiple incisions, grafts, and transfusions, my recovery from my own guilt has been slow.
I have been assured I’ll make a full recovery. Eventually, whenever that nebulous date is.
My father murmurs, “Sweetheart, I hope you know we’ll always be here. Whether for as long as it takes for your nightmares to fade back into dreams or just because you need the comfort of home.”
Knowing I can say anything to either of them, I rasp, “But what if my dreams change?” What if they get worse?
Mama’s wise voice resonates through me, reminding me that the flip side of pain isn’t always pleasure but peace. “They’re supposed to. Eventually, they’ll shift and ease. The pain will drain away. You may not recognize it at first, Laura.”
I lift my head off her shoulder and stare into eyes that mirror my own. “When did yours change?”
Her eyes drift past my face and lock onto my father’s. Without words, I know the answer—when she had the courage to open herself to love.
When her eyes catch mine again, they’re filled with a protective determination to see me through this latest trauma. As if she can see into my soul, she reprimands me. “Stop punishing yourself for something you couldn’t control.”
I protest weakly, “I’m not.”
“You are,” my father corrects angrily.
“I can’t stand if anyone else gets hurt because of me,” I admit.
My father sets me straight on a few facts about the mob. “Laura, regardless of if Aldo Tiberi survived, the same outcome may have happened.”
“Wha . . . what?”
“I doubt you’ve given thought to the fact Paulie Tiberi would have had the same reaction by saving his father’s life?”
I suck in a breath, my father’s blunt words stealing what air I was able to consume. I manage a hoarse “No.”
“What about if another doctor worked on him? Would you have blamed them for the shooting?”
“Of course not,” I snap.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. I feel how charged he is, even if his words are perfectly calm. “You can’t control the actions of others.”
My mother chimes in, “You can only control how you react to the fear of it.”
The words cause a torrent of tears I can’t hold back. Angrily, I swipe them away. “It’s true.”
“What is?” my mother asks as she brushes more than a few drops of moisture off my cheek.
“I’ve been letting him control my actions and reactions. No more,” I declare resolutely.
My father murmurs something harsh under his breath I can’t make out. My mother hushes him. She clearly states, “If only the ebb and flow of our pain were that simple. You’re going to have good days. You’re going to have days like today. Just know we’re here.”
She opens her arms and I fall back into them.
I let loose a torrent of tears for my mother’s past—a past that taught her such wisdom. I cry for the loss of so many due to a soulless monster. And I cry for the last victim, for myself.
This time, I give myself grace knowing I wasn’t at fault, but I know I’m not ready to return to work.
Not yet anyway.