The Paper Swan(55)

I uncurled Damian’s palm and traced the lines. It was a man’s hand now, big and strong and rough. I felt a crushing tenderness for it. It was the same hand that had rocked me to sleep in the hammock, the same hand that had created paper worlds, the same hand that had showed me how to make a proper fist—not a girly fist, but a proper, Gidiot-busting fist.

I lay my cheek on Damian’s palm and let myself imagine, just for a minute, that we were kids again.

“I missed you so much,” I said to his crooked thumb. “I wrote to you and MaMaLu every day. I didn’t know why you never replied. My heart broke in so many places. I never saw you running after the car, the day we left Casa Paloma. I never knew the hell you were going through. I’m sorry, Estebandido.” I kissed the center of his palm. “So sorry.” My tears trickled onto his hand.

When I woke up a few hours later, Damian’s eyes were open, his hand was still pillowing my face.

“Is it true?” he asked. “What you said?”

Damian speaking softly. I had never heard him use that tone with me. His voice. God, his voice. I tried to reply, but he was looking at me in such a way that I couldn’t find the words. He was looking at me. Skye. Not Warren Sedgewick’s daughter. Not a means to an end. For the first time, Damian was seeing me.

I let him look at me, because I knew he needed that, just like I had needed it. I let him see the girl who had worshiped him, the girl who had smuggled strawberries in a stained dress for him, the girl who had wanted to impress him so badly, she’d asked him to let go of her bike before she was ready.

“Why are you looking after me? Why are you being nice to me?” he asked.

“Why did you push me out of the way on the boat? Why did you stand up to Rafael? ” I reached out to touch his wound, but he flinched and held my hand away. His eyes fell on my bandaged finger and a look of such agony passed over his face that I wanted to wrap my arms around him. But right before my eyes, Damian snapped out of it. He went blank, expressionless, like a chalkboard wiped clean. I stared at his back as he turned away.

It was slowly starting to make sense. When the pain got too much, Damian shut down. He blocked everything out. It was a coping mechanism. I could only imagine the horrors he had witnessed through all those years with El Charro. He had learned to turn his emotions off. I remembered when he cut my finger off. He’d gone on to make potato salad, as if he mutilated people every day.

I watched him adjust his pillow. I knew that sleeping on that side had to hurt—his stitches were still raw. So I flipped over, and stared at the wall. A few minutes later, he shifted back around. I could feel him staring at my back. In a little while, I would get up and give him another dose of his pills, but for now I was content with not being invisible, with having this flickering acknowledgment even though I knew he would look away the moment I turned to face him. Still, there was a lingering undercurrent of fear. Except this time I wasn’t afraid of Damian.

I was afraid for him.



All my life, people had looked after me. My every whim had been catered to, every need fulfilled. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the shelves, realizing how ill prepared I was to care for someone. I could do coffee and toast, or a bowl of cereal, but now I was looking at condiments and jars of stuff that could no doubt be combined to make something nice, but I had no idea how.

I pulled out a can of tomato soup. Sick people did well on soup. And crackers. I grabbed a packet of those. I looked out of the window as the soup heated on the stove. The contrast of azure waters against the rough limestone wall looked like something out of a travel magazine. A tropical breeze swirled through the kitchen. It was painted soft and earthy, like marzipan and pumpkin butter. I couldn’t imagine Damian choosing the color scheme. On the other hand, it was the perfect retreat from the cold, harsh world he lived in. Here, there was warmth and sunshine and light.

Damian eyed me warily when I entered the bedroom with his lunch tray. Clearly, he didn’t enjoy being dependent on anyone, but I knew he was just using his gruffness to mask the vulnerability. He hated that he was weak and needed looking after. He hated the guilt that went with being looked after by me. But it was exactly what he needed. He needed to know that he was worth caring for, that I wasn’t going to abandon him like he thought I’d done all those years ago, that in spite of everything that had happened, I was still standing by his side. I didn’t know for how long though, because lord, just getting him to co-operate so I could prop him up to eat was a whole production.