Chapter 13
Six months after sentencing, I stood in my new apartment — actually new this time, a place I'd chosen myself, in a city where no one knew my face.
The nightmares still came. Some nights I woke up clutching my side where the kidney scar lived, gasping, certain I was back on that operating table. Those nights, I'd turn on every light and sit in the brightness until dawn.
But the nightmares came less often now.
Dr. Chen monitored my health quarterly. My bone marrow was recovering — slowly, imperfectly, but recovering. She called me her miracle patient. I told her miracles had nothing to do with it.
Nadia visited every other weekend. She'd brought her cat to my apartment after what Roman did to hers — new locks, security cameras, a fresh start.
Margot and I spoke on the phone sometimes. Not often. We didn't need to explain things to each other. She'd say "bad day" and I'd say "me too" and that was enough.
One afternoon, I received a thick envelope. No return address. I almost threw it away — I'd become cautious about mysterious mail.
But something made me open it.
Inside was a handwritten letter from Elise Montague.
*Dear Camille,*
*I've written this letter eleven times and thrown away each attempt. There's nothing I can say that's adequate. There's no apology large enough.*
*I'm in remission. Not from your marrow — from a legitimate donor match found after the trial. I will live, and I will live knowing that a man who claimed to love me destroyed two women to save me without my full knowledge or consent.*
*I should have questioned more. I should have demanded to meet you. I should have seen who Roman really was. Instead, I believed his beautiful lies because they meant I got to survive.*
*I'm donating everything Roman ever gave me to a fund for survivors of medical abuse. It's being set up in your name and Margot's. I know money means nothing compared to what was taken. But it's all I have.*
*I don't expect your forgiveness. I don't deserve it.*
*I just need you to know: I see you. What was done to you was monstrous. And I am so deeply sorry I was the reason.*
*Elise*
I sat with that letter for a long time.
I didn't know if I forgave her. I didn't know if forgiveness was even the right framework. She was dying, and a man she trusted lied to her about where her survival was coming from. She was complicit, but she was also deceived.
Just like me.
I folded the letter and put it in a drawer. Someday I might write back. Today wasn't that day.
That evening, I played piano for the first time since leaving Roman. I'd avoided it — music was tangled up with those years. He used to play classical pieces in our living room while I recovered from procedures I didn't know had happened, and the sound of piano became the sound of something beautiful hiding something terrible.
But today, I sat at the small upright I'd bought at a thrift store, and I played something simple. Something that belonged only to me.
The notes filled my apartment — imperfect, rusty, alive.
And for the first time in longer than I could measure, I felt like I belonged to myself again.
The nightmares still came. Some nights I woke up clutching my side where the kidney scar lived, gasping, certain I was back on that operating table. Those nights, I'd turn on every light and sit in the brightness until dawn.
But the nightmares came less often now.
Dr. Chen monitored my health quarterly. My bone marrow was recovering — slowly, imperfectly, but recovering. She called me her miracle patient. I told her miracles had nothing to do with it.
Nadia visited every other weekend. She'd brought her cat to my apartment after what Roman did to hers — new locks, security cameras, a fresh start.
Margot and I spoke on the phone sometimes. Not often. We didn't need to explain things to each other. She'd say "bad day" and I'd say "me too" and that was enough.
One afternoon, I received a thick envelope. No return address. I almost threw it away — I'd become cautious about mysterious mail.
But something made me open it.
Inside was a handwritten letter from Elise Montague.
*Dear Camille,*
*I've written this letter eleven times and thrown away each attempt. There's nothing I can say that's adequate. There's no apology large enough.*
*I'm in remission. Not from your marrow — from a legitimate donor match found after the trial. I will live, and I will live knowing that a man who claimed to love me destroyed two women to save me without my full knowledge or consent.*
*I should have questioned more. I should have demanded to meet you. I should have seen who Roman really was. Instead, I believed his beautiful lies because they meant I got to survive.*
*I'm donating everything Roman ever gave me to a fund for survivors of medical abuse. It's being set up in your name and Margot's. I know money means nothing compared to what was taken. But it's all I have.*
*I don't expect your forgiveness. I don't deserve it.*
*I just need you to know: I see you. What was done to you was monstrous. And I am so deeply sorry I was the reason.*
*Elise*
I sat with that letter for a long time.
I didn't know if I forgave her. I didn't know if forgiveness was even the right framework. She was dying, and a man she trusted lied to her about where her survival was coming from. She was complicit, but she was also deceived.
Just like me.
I folded the letter and put it in a drawer. Someday I might write back. Today wasn't that day.
That evening, I played piano for the first time since leaving Roman. I'd avoided it — music was tangled up with those years. He used to play classical pieces in our living room while I recovered from procedures I didn't know had happened, and the sound of piano became the sound of something beautiful hiding something terrible.
But today, I sat at the small upright I'd bought at a thrift store, and I played something simple. Something that belonged only to me.
The notes filled my apartment — imperfect, rusty, alive.
And for the first time in longer than I could measure, I felt like I belonged to myself again.