Page 84 of Finally Mine
Beautiful flowers for (and by) a beautiful woman.
Love,
Aldo
“You sneaky, underhanded…” But Gloria was out of adjectives. It was lovely and perfect and so very thoughtful.
“He signed it ‘Love, Aldo,’” Claire pointed out in case Gloria had missed that.
“I see that. I should be annoyed that he made me work for these,” Gloria said.
“But you’re not,” Claire teased.
She wasn’t. It was simply perfect.
“He snuck the card while you were working on Jamilah’s arrangement today and hid it on a shelf then texted me.”
“Diabolical,” Gloria said, fussing with an aster. “Absolutely diabolical.” The smile on her face couldn’t get any wider.
46
I planned the entire Fourth of July celebration for my town. Everything down to what color the trash can buntings were. I made sure there were enough properly located porta-potties. I helped with the permits for the food stands and vendors. Laid out the entire carnival map. Organized the parade order so there wouldn’t be any fighting between the Kiwanis and the Lions Club.
I did a damn good job.
And what’s everyone talking about? Glenn’s mother calling me a whore.
I can’t help asking: Am I ever going to get away from this? Am I always going to be tied to that situation, that family? Should I have moved to a new town where no one knows me? Or is there some value to living through this humiliation over and over again?
She called Aldo a cripple. I think that was the moment when I realized just how diseased this woman’s perception is.
Diseased.
I used to be as sick as she is. But I’m not now. I may not be normal yet. But I’m not where she is.
Yes, I felt ashamed. Yes, I was embarrassed. But if she could stand there and call Aldo Moretta, a man who fights for his country and has a heart bigger than the moon, a cripple then maybe she didn’t really see me either. Maybe I’m more than the ungrateful whore that she sees.
I know. Her opinion of me shouldn’t have any bearing on my own. But being embarrassed like that in front of everyone I’d tried so hard to prove myself to… It was like being stripped naked. It was a reminder that I can’t outrun this shadow of shame. I have to face it. Live with it. Walk through it.
Maybe then I’ll think more of myself, and eventually everyone else will follow suit. Or they’ll keep whispering behind my back for all of eternity. Won’t that be fun? Me in a rocking chair in the old folks’ home with a bunch of white-haired gossips talking about how sixty years ago I had an asshole boyfriend.
Aldo came home with me last night. Held my hand while I blurted out my life’s story and didn’t call me an idiot for staying. He held me while I slept. Made me feel safe.
And I know what you’re going to say. It’s too soon. I know it is. But he’s waking up feelings that I didn’t know I was capable of. Feelings I don’t know if it’s smart to feel. But I feel…good. I know everyone’s going to be talking about Mrs. Diller. I know they’re going to be rehashing every time they saw me in town with bruises. A few of the early birds in town are going to mention they saw Aldo leaving my apartment this morning. I have to be okay with it. I have to know my truth and believe in myself.
Aldo has his own scars. We haven’t talked much about those.
Maybe he doesn’t trust me yet. Or maybe he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. But he’s my friend—my boyfriend—and I’ll listen when he’s ready to talk.
He sent me flowers. Actually, he did better than that. He ordered flowers, and I made the arrangement. He knew I’d get more out of it if I was trying to make something beautiful for someone else. He really seems to get me. Is that even possible? Can he really see beneath my scars? Can I see beneath my scars? I want to.
The letters? They’re still coming. And I think he’s feeding some of those threats to his mother. She came at me with a “he’ll make you pay” threat. I don’t doubt that he’ll try to hurt me again if he gets out. He will. The only thing that’s keeping me safe right now is the fact that he has no one to pay his bail.
That doesn’t give me a sense of security. It feels like something big and dark hanging over my head ready to drop at any second.
But I can’t live my life tensing for the next blow-up, the next punch or slap. I have to move forward.
47
