"Mark, today is a special day for us, five whole years since we first met," Sarah said, gently stroking her husband's hand. "Do you remember how it happened? Of course you do… Oh, Mark, my Mark, I'm so lucky I found you."
Sarah took out a small bottle of massage oil and began to rub it into Mark's skin, her soft palms moving with practiced skill. She spoke continuously in a tender, soothing voice.
"There, that's it. The pharmacist spoke very highly of this oil; it'll keep your skin clear and healthy. I won't let you suffer any more than you already have."
The slender woman struggled with her husband's large frame, but she did it so often that she hardly noticed the weight anymore. Mark remained motionless and silent, only his eyes betraying a deep, unutterable longing.
Finishing the treatment, Sarah sat beside him again, stroking his face as if trying to smooth away the faint lines that had formed around his eyes.
"I love you, Mark. I love you so much, and I'm going to bring you back. I promise."
The doorbell rang. It was Dr. Miller, the physician who had been treating Mark for the past year and a half, ever since the accident.
"Well, how's our patient today?" he asked cheerfully. After examining the immobile man, he made a few notes in a ledger and then asked Sarah to step into the next room with him.
"I'm listening, Greg," she said. Over the many months he had been handling her husband's case, they had moved to a first-name basis.
"Sarah, look," he began. "I've told you before, we can't expect much change in Mark's condition. He could stay like this for years. And you—you're young, you're beautiful. What are you, seven or eight years younger than him?"
"Yes, so what?" Sarah asked, suddenly on guard.
The doctor didn't answer. With a sudden, firm movement, he pulled her toward him. He began kissing her lips, his hands moving over her, pressing her first against the wall and then guiding her toward the sofa. Sarah began to struggle, but for a terrifying moment, her body betrayed her, responding to the bold touch of another man, a fleeting part of her wanting him to continue.
But in the battle between body and mind, the latter won a total victory. Sarah shoved the man away with all her might, straightening her shirt and fixing her hair.
"Get out!" She pointed to the door and flung it open. "I said get out!"
Greg tried to step toward her again. He had sensed her brief moment of hesitation and thought he had simply moved too fast. But Sarah struck him across the face with unexpected ferocity, then again and again.
She kept advancing on him until he found himself out on the landing, his face stinging with pain. Sarah slammed the door shut. A second later, she cracked it open just long enough to hurl his briefcase after him.
"You're a fool!" Greg yelled, finally finding his voice. "Go ahead then—spend your life with that piece of dead meat!"
"I'd rather live with 'dead meat' than a dead soul!" Sarah retorted, slamming the door for the last time. She went into the bathroom, washed her face and hands, and looked at herself in the mirror. She took a deep breath; Mark shouldn't see her like this.
She sat back down beside her husband, picking up a small spoon and a bowl of puree.
"Time for lunch, sweetheart. I've got something delicious today… The doctor? Oh, don't worry, everything's fine. But that doctor won't be coming back. He wasn't a very good physician, and he wasn't a good person, either. But you're good. You're the best. So, let's have some lunch… then your medicine, and then a nap. Sleep will help you get your strength back, won't it, honey?"
***
When Mark closed his eyes, Sarah sank into a soft armchair nearby and drifted off. She didn't realize she had fallen into a light sleep until her dreams began to merge with her memories.
She saw herself as a ten-year-old girl, standing among a crowd of mourners, watching her mother's casket being lowered into the ground. Sarah wanted to lean forward and look down, but someone's bony fingers gripped her shoulder, and the slightest movement caused her pain. Sarah didn't cry; she didn't know how. Her mother had always hit her if she saw tears, and the girl had quickly learned to suppress them.
Her mother… how did she remember her? Usually drunk, sometimes singing loud songs, but more often screaming at whichever boyfriend was currently living with them. That was Sarah's childhood; she knew nothing else.
After her mother died, a distant aunt took her in rather than sending her to foster care. Sarah had food and even her own room, but she only saw that room late at night when her chores were finished. Her aunt ran a large farm with dozens of cows, pigs, and poultry. Sarah was constantly permeated by the smell of the farm—a scent so thick she felt she could never scrub it off with soap or shampoo.
Her classmates kept their distance, whispering and snickering, but they never bullied her openly; Sarah knew how to defend herself. Instead, she preferred to sit at the back of the class and dream of the day she would leave that town forever—a place where she hadn't known a single day of happiness.
That day finally came. The moment Sarah turned eighteen, she packed her few belongings and walked to the bus station, ignoring the screams and curses of her aunt, who was losing a source of free labor and the government checks that came with her.
When she arrived in the city, Sarah spent a few nights at the bus terminal, walking the streets by day and reading "Help Wanted" signs.
On the fifth day, she got lucky. She saw a sign for a dishwasher at a small bistro. She hurried inside and saw a tall, handsome man with dark hair in a charcoal suit that perfectly fit his broad shoulders.
"Excuse me," Sarah said politely. "I'm looking for Mr. Reed."
"That's the owner," the man said. "And who are you, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I'm Sarah. I saw the sign for a dishwasher. I need a job."
"I see. I'm Mark, by the way. Just so you know. The boss is in his office; just go down that hall and to the right." Mark paused, then gave a strange, small smile. "I hope you know what you're getting into."
Sarah gave him a puzzled look and headed toward the office, wondering what he meant. She assumed he was looking down on her for taking a dishwashing job. Well, let him. She didn't have any other choice.
Mr. Reed looked his new employee up and down with obvious approval. The slender, brown-eyed girl looked delicate, but she moved with a hidden strength. She was nothing like the fragile city girls he usually saw; he could tell she was a country girl used to hard work.
He decided then and there he wanted her. He gave her an inviting smile.
"When can you start?"
"Right now."
"Perfect. You'll get your pay from me, personally, at the end of every shift. Where are you staying?"
"Nowhere yet."
"I see. Well, here's an advance. There's a small hostel around the corner; tell them I sent you. This is enough for a week. Drop your bags and get back here. And don't forget—come see me for your pay as soon as you finish. If you work hard, there's a bonus in it for you. You'd like a bonus, wouldn't you?"
Sarah nodded. Mr. Reed had a thick accent and she didn't catch every nuance, but she understood she had a job and a roof over her head. She rushed to the hostel and was back at the bistro in record time.
That evening, after scrubbing a mountain of dishes, an exhausted but relieved Sarah went to Mr. Reed's office. She was surprised to find him sitting there with a drink in his hand.
There were snacks and flowers on a small table. He held out a glass of wine and winked.
"Come in, sit down."
"No, thank you," she said firmly. "I'm going home. Just pay me for the day like you said."
"I didn't promise you anything for free. You owe me."
"For what?"
"What do you mean? The advance! I gave you money, I helped you out. Now you can show me a little gratitude. Or give the money back."
"I… I don't have it," Sarah said, backing toward the door.
He lunged at her, grabbing her shirt and pulling her close with a heavy hand. Sarah screamed and fought back, twisting away and striking him. He gasped and immediately backhanded her across the face.
"You owe me, you little brat!" he shouted.
"How much?" a calm voice came from the doorway. Mark, the man from that morning, stepped into the room.
"Mind your own business!" Reed shrieked. "You're fired! Get out!"
"Fine by me. But you owe me, too."
Mark moved with a fluid, terrifying speed. Suddenly Reed was stumbling back, howling in pain as he crashed into a filing cabinet, buried under a cascade of papers. Mark calmly took Sarah's hand and led her out.
"I have to get my things from the hostel," she told her savior. "I can't stay there now."
"Do you have anywhere else to go?"
"No," Sarah sighed.
"All right, come back to my place," he said. He felt her hand tingle with nerves and gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. "I'm not like him. Don't be afraid."
Sarah looked at him and believed him. For three months, she lived in his apartment as a roommate. It turned out Mark wasn't a bouncer; he was a firefighter who had just been filling in for a sick friend that morning at the bistro.
He lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment he'd inherited from his parents. He'd been married once, briefly. He'd simply felt sorry for the girl and wanted to give her a chance to get on her feet.
He never pressured her, never even made a move. In return, she turned his bachelor pad into a home. She had a hot meal waiting for him after every shift and kept his closet full of clean, pressed clothes.
Then one evening, as he sat in his chair relaxing after dinner, she walked up behind him and began to massage his shoulders. Mark instantly caught her hands and said softly, "Sarah… I'm not a saint. I'm just a man."
"I know," she replied. She leaned down and kissed him tenderly.
In an instant, he swept her up into his arms, and they didn't let go until morning. Several years of pure happiness flew by like a single day. Then came that terrible call—the accident on the job, the medevac helicopter, the weeks of unconsciousness.
And now here he was, unable to move, with only his deep eyes to prove he was still there.
***
Sarah woke up and walked over to her husband. As if sensing her presence, he opened his eyes. She smiled at him, stroking his thick dark hair, and whispered as she took his hand:
"Our son is going to look just like you, honey. You're going to give me a son, aren't you?"
His fingers twitched in her hand. His lips parted, and a sound came out—faint, but unmistakable:
"Yes…"
Two years later, Sarah stepped out of the hospital, squinting at the bright morning sun. It was a beautiful day. The doors opened again, and Mark walked out, carefully carrying a small bundle wrapped in a blue blanket with a satin ribbon.
From under the fold of the blanket, a tiny nose and a tuft of dark hair were visible.
"Thank you, Sarah," Mark said, leaning down to kiss his wife.
She took a happy breath and whispered back, "Mark, my Mark… I'm so lucky I found you. So lucky."
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