Chapter 6: The Last Slap
Ten years since the dinner.
I’m 48.
Mercer Technologies is public. NASDAQ: MERC.
I don’t ring the bell. Tasha does.
She earned it.
David and I married at 45. Backyard. No press. Lily — shelter Lily — was my maid of honor. She’s 26 now. Lawyer. Legal Aid. She sues men like Daniel for a living.
She’s good at it.
Daniel died last year. Liver failure.
Madison didn’t come to the funeral.
I did.
Not for him.
For me.
To see it end.
There were twelve people. Most were from the dealership.
No eulogy.
I didn’t speak.
I put a flower on the casket.
Not a lily.
A rose. Red.
Because red was the lipstick I wore when I took my life back.
After, I went to the cemetery. Not his.
My grandfather’s.
Harold Mercer.
I sat.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I said. “You told me ‘never let them see you cry’. I did. I cried. A lot. But I also won. Did you see?”
The wind moved.
I took that as a yes.
Today is Tuesday.
Board meeting.
I’m retiring.
Effective January.
The board asked me to stay.
I said no.
“Why?” Richard asked.
“Because I built it,” I said. “Now I want to use it.”
“To do what?”
“To sit,” I said. “To be quiet. To be bored. To be a person, not a point.”
They clapped.
After, I go to the foundation.
New office. Whole floor.
Wall of keys. Every woman who leaves gets one. Not to a house. To here.
A safe. A desk. A start.
Lily — my Lily, the director — meets me.
“Mom,” she says. She’s not my daughter. But she is. “We got another one.”
“Yeah?”
“Young. 22. Husband took her phone. She used the library. Said she saw your speech. From the gala. Ten years ago. Said you said ‘the door is yours’. She believed you.”
I nod. “What’s her name?”
“Claire.”
I close my eyes.
“Of course it is,” I say.
We go in.
She’s there. Shaking. Bare head. She did it herself. Last night.
She looks at me.
“Am I too late?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “You’re right on time.”
I take her hand.
It’s cold.
I don’t let go.
We walk to the wall of keys.
“Pick one,” I say.
She does.
She puts it in her pocket.
She doesn’t cry.
Not yet.
She will.
Later.
When she’s safe.
I drive home.
David’s on the porch.
He has two glasses. Wine.
“Good day?” he asks.
“The best kind,” I say. “Someone else’s first day.”
We sit.
The sun goes down.
My phone buzzes.
Text from Lily.
“She’s asleep. She asked if you were real. I said ‘yeah. She’s the reason we have doors.’”
I put the phone down.
I touch my cheek.
No bruise.
No heat.
Just skin.
Mine.
All mine.
I reach for David’s hand.
He takes it.
No slap.
No flinch.
No one runs.
No one has to.
The house is quiet.
The door is locked.
From the inside.
May you like
By me.
And that’s the end.
