Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
VIC
It’s Friday, and my day off is a single reprieve from the relentless week’s burden of operating with minimal rest. With no obligations holding me down, I intend to lose myself in small indulgences.
The kind of solitary activities that pieced me back together after calling it quits on dating and parties, things other people were doing at my age.
The streets, still damp from the morning mist, brought a chill to the air, but my sanctuary awaits.
My favorite, dimly-lit corner of the café, where I can people-watch out the window, and remain hidden from the world, here in the shadows of this recessed nook.
Determined to finish my new novel, I set my things down.
A scarf that I didn’t forget this time and my freshly brewed café Americano, along with my psychological thriller that promises blood at the hand of a complex serial killer, litter the table as I sit enjoying the peace this morning brings.
Just as I turn the page on the chapter that is sure to unmask the identity of the killer, a flicker at the edge of my vision causes me to look up.
A child’s stuffed rabbit swings off the arm of a little girl.
Its long, brown ears droop downward, skittering the surface of the cobbled stone walkway.
Lifting my hand in greeting, she stills until recognition hits, and she tugs at her mother’s sleeve to get her attention.
The woman’s eyes follow her daughter's pleading ones. Yet, it wasn’t I who caught her longing gaze, but the food that was just brought over to my table.
The untouched scone and the steaming cup of coffee sit before me as she clutches her daughter tighter.
I rise from my seat, beckoning them to come in, but the mom looks apprehensive, mistrust emanating from her stiffened, protective stance.
The little girl couldn’t be more than five years old.
Her smile is bright despite her situation, but she is nervous, her body swaying with restless energy.
At her side, her mother stays silent, her eyes track my movements, watching for any sign of danger.
She’s skittish, and I’m afraid to scare them off, so I approach her with caution, hoping to gain her trust.
I offer a faint smile, steadying my voice as I formally introduce myself.
“Hi. I’m Victor.” I give a little wave. “We met at the kitchen where I volunteer.” Her gaze flicks up to me, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion and deep purple shadows beneath them.
I wonder if it’s from not sleeping at the shelter or from something far worse.
Sometimes it’s the haunting memories you can’t escape instead of the live monsters nearby. I’d know.
She looks ready to flee, clutching her daughter as though I am one more obstacle the world has placed in her path. I don’t extend my hand in greeting, so I decide to extend them a little offering of food and a warm place to rest instead.
Before she can turn away, I temper my words into something gentler, almost pleading, because I don’t want them to go.
“Will you sit with me? Just for a little while?” I lift my hand toward the table I just left, attempting to coax them toward the warmth of the café.
“That way, I can get you guys a little something to eat. Maybe a warm beverage until the shelter opens up.”
I know too well what awaits her otherwise.
Cast out into the streets at an ungodly hour with a child, she’s left to wander until the shelter reopens.
The staff is forced to kick everyone out at dawn, and they can return around lunch service.
The door remains closed, allowing the staff time to strip the cots, sanitize all surfaces, and redress the beds with fresh linen.
It is a preventive measure to keep the environment free of germs, especially as flu season approaches—a necessary act, but one that is nonetheless cruel.
The little girl tugs on her mom’s frayed sweater.
“Can we? Mama, please?” she asks, with more plea in her words than a question.
A tremor passes through her already thin frame, and that little shiver was enough to shatter her mother’s resolve.
Enough to have the mom agreeing to it, she gives a low, reluctant nod. Her head bowed and broken with shame.
I step ahead to the door and pull it open, and at once a rush of warm air escapes from the vents above, rolling over us.
The little girl releases a soft sigh as they walk through, and I know I’ve made the right choice.
I gently guide them to the counter. The mom’s voice is soft and unsure as she orders a hot tea and the little girl a hot chocolate with whipped cream.
I know she’s trying to be grateful and not order anything else, so I step up to the counter beside them, adding to their order.
I get two bagel breakfast sandwiches and muffins for them, along with a new drink for myself, and gather it all into a single tray.
Carrying it back to my corner table, I set it down beside my neglected items, where the coffee had grown cold, and the scone remained untouched.
The little girl’s gaze lingers longingly on the tray until I slide the items toward her.
She blinks as if in a trance. She looks up to me in silent permission as I nod once.
Her little hand extends outward to reach for the hot chocolate.
She wraps her hand around the cup, holding it as if it were something magical.
She bites into the sandwich urgently, then quickly abandons it for the muffin.
The sight breaks my heart, and my chest aches with the urge to tell her to slow down.
To promise her that the food won't vanish, but maybe it’s something she’s used to, and I don’t want to lie to her.
I just want her to know that this time it’s okay.
This time, she is safe. I don’t do any of that, because it’s best not to make promises you can’t keep.
These are the ones that break you. Instead, I bring my own cup to my lips, swallowing the bitter liquid going down hard along with the bitter fury boiling inside in a world full of indifference.
Her mom finally picks up her sandwich, her movement hesitant, expecting someone to rip it away at the last minute.
Through every careful, controlled bite, I can see her restraint in trying to maintain her composure.
To not seem too eager and appear too hungry.
Wanting to ease some of the heaviness I feel and the emotions that threaten to rise to the surface when I recall similar memories I’ve tried to suppress, I attempt to offer them a glimpse of my life, perhaps allowing them to feel a sense of safety in my presence.
“I started at the shelter about a year ago,” I tell them quietly as if I am remembering a story instead of chatting up conversation.
“I wish I could do more, but my hours are spent at the hospital where I work. I work as a surgeon at Boston Hospital, and my schedule is time-consuming.” I let the words hang in the air between us, hoping they can reassure them that I am somewhat trustworthy.
People often mistake my composure and distance for indifference, and perhaps they are not wrong.
More often than not, I appear tough, as if nothing touches me.
But this? This matters to me. I want them to know, for the first time in a long time, that beneath the mask of the emotionally detached surgeon, there is still a man who cares, although it’s been a while since it has been about anyone in particular.
Her eyes shift, softening. She clears her throat, the sound rough, like a voice without practice. Being silent or unseen can wear a soul down.
“Thank you for this.” She lifts her bagel, then tilts her chin toward the one clutched in her daughter’s hands.
“It’s nothing,” I answer quickly. I don’t want her gratitude. Not for something so simple as an act of kindness. Food and warmth should never require a thank you. Nor should compassion toward another fellow human, but here we are.
She hesitates, then offers, “I’m Sonya, and this is my daughter, Rose.” I incline my head in acknowledgement, committing the names to memory. Not Dani, Rose. Got it.
“Call me Vic. That’s what my friends call me.
” I offer a small smile. The little girl meets mine, whipped cream resting on the tip of her nose.
I tap my own, gesturing to my nose, making her look down.
Her eyes crossing most endearingly, she notices it, and before she can remove it, her mother reaches over and wipes it clean.
I didn’t dare reach over myself to clean it off. The bruises on her arm give me pause, and the last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable or remind her of it. She is just about to take another bite of her muffin when her mom motions for her to follow her to the bathroom.
“Can’t I stay here with Vic, Mom? I just want to eat my muffin,” she whispers hesitantly. Her mom’s eyes flick to mine, silently asking for permission before she gets up.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her, meeting Rose’s gaze. “I’ll be right here and watch over her. Go to the bathroom. Take your time.”
She nods once, placing a protective hand over her daughter's shoulder before walking toward the sign with the arrow pointing to the bathrooms.
Rose kicks her feet back and forth beneath the table, a small carefree motion that makes her look happy. Like a little girl her age on an ordinary day, without the worry of hunger or fear. Trying to engage her in conversation, I ask, “Will I see you tomorrow? I’ll be serving lunch on Saturday.”
She shrugs her shoulders, glancing toward the bathroom where her mom had just gone. Her hesitation bothers me. I lean a little closer. “Is everything alright?”
For a moment, I think she might look away, retreat behind her furry stuffed rabbit, but then she meets my stare. Worry flicks across her features. “What is it?” I press further.
Sparing one last glance at the bathroom, she turns to me, “My mom is thinking about taking us back to that house.”
I stiffen, a knot forming in my stomach. Carefully, I ask, my voice trying to be calm. “With your dad?”
She nods once. The shadow of a frown graces her lips.
“And that makes you scared…because you’re afraid he might hurt you?
Or your mom?” I ask, letting the words hang between us.
Another nod, followed by silence that speaks more than words, fills the room.
The tension is thick and suffocating. Her fear is palpable, and the fact that she trusts me with this secret makes me act before I can second-guess it.
I grab a business card with my information on it, scrawling my cell phone number on the back, and hand it to her discreetly.
“I’m going to give this to you. I want you to hide it, okay?
” She nods, the only sign she is listening as she continues to nibble on her muffin.
“My number is on the back,” I continue softly, “so you can reach me if you need to.” She takes the card, folds it in half, and tucks it inside her little stuffed toy, where there must be a tiny hole in the stuffing.
Once she rights it, she presses the toy under her arm again and sips her hot chocolate.
“You’ll help me?” she whispers, barely audible. But I hear her. Loud and fucking clear. Her gaze lifts to mine, and in those eyes, I see something I hadn’t seen there before–hope.
I bring my hand to my heart. “I promise,” I tell her. She smiles briefly before her expression turns to a thin line as her mom slides into her seat across from us.