Everyone wanted Pearl’s story, and she wasn’t ready to tell it yet.
But after four weeks, I had used up all my vacation, and it was time for me to return to work. With Pearl being by herself a lot more, we developed a new schedule. One where I popped in at least twice a shift to check on her and where I called every few hours.
Not only because it helped her, but it helped me too.
Even when she showed progress, I still worried. I just wanted to make sure she was getting everything she needed, and I constantly consulted with her therapist to make sure I was giving her that. Marlene trained me on how to assist with Pearl’s growth.
And each day, I noticed a change.
Gradually, she was finding her footing, taking on new challenges, and I was there to admire each one, like the evening she cooked for the first time.
She’d been living with me for about nine weeks when it happened, and I could smell the tomato sauce as I returned from work and unlocked the front door. Once I had it open, she was standing at the stovetop, a wooden spoon in her hand, dipping it into several different pots. A dish towel hung over her shoulder, her wet hair twisted in a long braid.
I watched from the doorway, frozen.
A million memories hitting me at once.
She looked over her shoulder, catching me staring. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.” I dropped my bag by the door and took a seat across from her on one of the barstools. “What are you making?”
Maybe it was the way she was moving through my kitchen, or maybe it was just the bright lighting in here, but I noticed the weight she had gained and how healthy she was starting to look. The color was coming back to her cheeks, her eyes not so sunken and hollow.
“Some pasta and garlic bread. Nothing too fancy.”
I smiled, knowing the answer before I asked, “Did I have that food in the pantry?”
She was stirring onions and peppers into the sauce. “Marlene and I went to the grocery store today.”
“How did that go?”
She moved to the counter in front of me, cutting a large loaf of French bread. “It was really loud in there, and the options were overwhelming.” She glanced up. “I chose something I was comfortable with—or at least, I used to be since pasta was one of Gran’s favorites.” Her hands paused from cutting, and she took a deep breath.
Gran was a topic she hadn’t begun discussing in therapy. She just wasn’t ready to tackle that pain. There were still so many other heavy items to get through.
“Hey …”
Her eyes met mine.
“You’re doing great, and pasta is one of my favorites too.”
She didn’t smile back, but there was light in her eyes. “Aside from the stage, the kitchen used to be one of my happy places. Marlene wants to see if I can get that feeling back.”
“It smells incredible in here. I’d say you’re doing something right. How’s it feeling?”
She finished cutting the bread and began swiping butter over each piece. “I think I’ve missed it.” She turned her head to cough. “And I’m surprised how quickly it all came back to me.”
“Tell me about your day.”
She set down the knife to sprinkle garlic on top of the spread. “Therapy, grocery store. I used your laptop and did this meditation video that I’d found online. I took a nap and journaled while I sat on your balcony to get a little sun. I got out of the shower and only started cooking about fifteen minutes before you got home.”
There was a warmth across the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks, showing me she’d been outside.
The tan looked beautiful on her.
“You took control of a meal.”
Up until this point, I’d been making all the food decisions. This was another huge step and a moment that needed to be recognized.
She nodded. “I hope that’s okay.”
I reached forward, my hand surrounding hers. “It’s more than okay.” We didn’t move for several seconds. Our fingers stayed linked, our stares fixed. “I’m extremely proud of you,” I said softly.
Her thumb swiped the side of my hand, back and forth.
And then she returned to the pot and stirred. “I didn’t grab anything for dessert, thinking there was ice cream in the freezer. But when I got back, I looked, and I guess we’d eaten it all last night.”
“I’ll run down to the bodega in a little bit. Ice cream or cupcakes?”
I wanted her to continue making decisions, to build back the control she had lost, even if each step was small and the decisions were minor.
She lifted the pot of pasta and drained the water in the sink. “Cupcakes.” She paused. “Yep, cupcakes.” She scooped a pile of noodles onto two plates before covering it with the simmering sauce.
Since I didn’t have a dining table, she joined me on the other side of the bar, and we began to eat.
“Pearl …” I groaned, the garlic she’d added to the onions and peppers making the sauce so rich and delicious. “This is amazing.”
“Thank you.”
I put my hand on her back, causing her to look at me. “No, it’s really, really amazing.”
Her eyes lightened even more. “It makes me happy to hear that.” She took a bite of her bread and slowly set it down, twisting the paper napkin in her hands. “I want to talk to you about something.” She cleared her throat. “It’s something I discussed in therapy today.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin and then twirled it through her fingers. “I know you mentioned no one would be coming over here, giving me the space I need to heal, but this is your home, and I don’t want you to feel like a guest. If you want to bring your friends over, a girlfriend, whomever, I will support it.”
Marlene had thought it was important for Pearl to hear about the events that had led to capturing Little, so over the course of several weeks, we had addressed Dylan’s death, letting that news gradually unravel in Pearl’s head. There were several ugly moments and a setback—she felt as though she had lost everyone she loved. But we made it through, and when we were able to move on to other topics, I described what had led to me walking into her cell that night. During those conversations, I had told her I’d dropped out of med school and joined the academy to find her, but we hadn’t discussed my personal life aside from the fact that I lived alone.
Marlene had told me that even conversations between Pearl and me needed to have the right pacing in order for her to process their importance and depth.
This one had been avoided for long enough.
“In the future, I might ask Rivera to come over. I know he would like to see you. And a few of the guys we hung with in college—all names and faces you would recognize. But that’s it, Pearl. There is no one else, and there’s no girlfriend.”
She lifted her fork again, diving it into the spaghetti. “I spent so much time wondering what your life looked like.” Her voice changed to an almost-raspy tone whenever she spoke about the basement. “What area of medicine you had chosen, what hospital you were working at.” She looked at me. “How many kids you might have.” A wrinkle formed between her brows, more on the sides of her lips. “I didn’t picture this.” Emotion was moving in, a storm gathering in her expression. “That you would be the one who walked through my prison door.”