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He drank a third and fourth glass of vodka.
It was all so confusing. The house was a wreck. There was an
empty pizza box on the floor of the living room and the casing
around the bathroom door was splintered and cracked. The door
would no longer close all the way. He’d kicked it in after she’d
locked it, trying to get away from him. He’d been holding her by
the hair as he punched her in the kitchen and she’d run to the
bathroom and he’d chased her through the house and kicked the
door in. But now he couldn’t remember what they’d been fighting
about.
He couldn’t remember much about that night. He couldn’t
remember breaking two of her fingers, even though it was
obvious that he had. But he wouldn’t let her go to the hospital for
a week, not until the bruises on her face could be covered by
makeup, and she’d had to cook and clean one-handed. He bought
her flowers and apologized and told her that he loved her and
promised it would never happen again, and after she got the cast
off, he’d taken her into Boston for a dinner at Petroni’s. It was
expensive and he’d smiled across the table at her. Afterward,
they’d gone to a movie and on the way home he remembered
thinking about how much he loved her and how lucky he was to
have someone like her as his wife.
21
Alex had stayed with Katie until after midnight, listening as she’d
told the story of her prior life. When she was too spent and
exhausted to talk anymore, he put his arms around her and kissed
her good night. On his drive home, he thought that he had never
met anyone braver or stronger or more resourceful.
They spent much of the next couple of weeks together—or as
much as they could, anyway. Between the hours he worked at the