Again, Again, and Again

TW: Domestic abuse mentioned.

When I first met Isla on the first day of second grade, I immediately hated her. Firstly, she was wearing the pink tights I wanted, but Mom refused to buy them for me because they were expensive. Secondly, everybody liked her quickly, even though she was too quiet and too friendly. Even our teacher liked her, which was Isla’s greatest offense towards me, as I was no longer the favorite.

I was so busy hating her, I dreamed about ripping off her pink bows from her two pigtails. So, why was it when she approached me that day and said, “Hey, you’re so pretty, want to be my friend?” I said yes.

It’s been 15 years since I last saw Isla, on her wedding day. That morning, I dropped by at her house to say goodbye as I was leaving for college. I said I had too much to do and a long road ahead; it didn’t make sense for me to wait one more day just to be there for a small ceremony, and besides, I would see it all on video.

The truth was, I just didn’t want to see her marry him. We’d already had this conversation, and I realized she loved him too much to care for my opinion, so I felt cheated, and I didn’t want to stand there and pretend I was okay with it all.

How naive I was. If I could turn back time just once, I would go back to that day. I would stay. I would help her get her wedding dress on, make sure her bouquet was as she wanted it, fix her hair, help her put her veil on, and find her something borrowed, something blue, old, and new.

But she said it was fine, that she understood, and that she would call me later to tell me all about it. She never called, and neither did I.

Years passed, and we never spoke again. I knew she had kids; my mom told me. She knew I had graduated; hers told her. But there were no more ‘congratulations’, ‘happy birthdays,’ ‘sorrys for your loss’ between us— everything just stood still.

So, this time I wasn’t leaving. Having done this job for a few years has made me realize that life rarely gives second chances, and I wasn’t going to miss out on mine.

“Are the kids okay?” I asked as I slowly approached her.

“What”?, Isla asked back, confused.

“Are the kids okay?”

“Uhm, yeah,” she paused a little, “yes, they’re okay. They’re staying with my mom.”

“That’s good, I’m glad she can help you. Now let’s take a look at this arm”.

I rolled toward her on my stool, the X-rays in my hand, and explained that it was a clean fracture, nothing displaced, and that she’d need a cast for a few weeks.

When she slipped off her sweater so I could examine her properly, I ignored the bruises scattered along her arms and shoulders. I didn’t react. I didn’t ask. I just carried on with my work.

After a few silent minutes, Isla spoke up softly.

“Are you angry at me?”

“What?” I asked her, even though I heard, but she caught me off guard.

“Are you angry?” she repeated.

Yes, I was angry. I was most angry at him, a little at her parents, a little at Isla herself, and a little at myself.

“No,” I answered, “I’m not angry.”

Isla smiled softly and said nothing for the following minutes.

“I’m glad you came back,” she started, “and look at you—you’re a doctor. I’m so proud, you know, you always wanted to be one.”

A warmth of nostalgia came over me as I sat there working on her cast while remembering the two of us trudging across the creek, insisting we were “doing experiments” so I could find the cure for cancer.

I wanted to work in a lab, which was always the plan, but one rotation in the emergency department changed my mind.

Her name was Elliot, she was 24, and he’d hit her so hard he’d broken her nose. We treated her and sent her on her way. Our attending tried to speak with her about resources and people who could help, but she only shook her head and left quietly.

Elliot came back four more times during my rotation, and then the fifth time, she didn’t leave the hospital.

You never forget the ones you can’t save, even though you try so hard. The pamphlets, the social workers, the support groups, and everything in between. But sometimes it’s so difficult to look for peace when you’re used to pain.

It was around then that my mother called me to say she was worried about Isla and asked whether I’d spoken to her. I hadn’t spoken to her since the day I left for college, but I heard whispers from old friends whenever I saw them randomly. More than that, I knew him well enough to get an idea of what was happening.

I didn’t want to reach out to her. I was hurt she picked him over me, and that was petty and cruel of me. I’ve always lived in that gray space, where my instincts and my conscience tug in opposite directions.

Isla wasn’t built like that. She was all softness, open doors, and open hands, the kind of person people say lit up every room she walked into.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Life is a game; you get dealt either a good hand or a bad one, and the only thing that matters is what you do with it. I had so many opportunities to call out to her, and help her, or maybe just be there.

All I did was switch to emergency medicine because, in the back of my mind, at some point, I was waiting for her to come in, and I wanted to be there.

“Do you remember that day in the summer before 8th grade, we went out back, and we found the hospital trash cans, and we were looking for needles and stuff to use, for our ‘experiments’”, Isla asked me with a tinge of laughter in her voice.

“I remember, we ended up finding nothing but trash. Turns out they get rid of the needles.”

Isla laughed before continuing, “Do they? I had no idea. I guess we thought we were being clever and sneaky back then.”

We fell into a comfortable silence as I continued working on her cast.

Unexpectedly, bloody tears started falling on my final padding. I looked up; Isla’s nose was scrunched in pain, and she was biting her lips as if willing herself to stop existing.

“Isla—“ I started to say something, anything, but she interrupted me.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” she took a deep breath before continuing through the tears, “I was just so exhausted, my soul felt like it was hanging by a thread, and he was coming at me with his fists balled, and I just didn’t want to take the pain anymore.”

I didn’t know what to say. What kind of words would comfort her right now?

‘It’s okay, he deserved it?’

‘You didn’t mean it? ’

‘You did what you had to do to survive? ’

“You did what you had to do,” I said finally, my voice low, careful. “You survived. That’s what matters.”

She looked at me then, eyes blurry from the tears, as if she needed permission to breathe again. I kept working on the cast, steadying my hands, letting the quiet of the room and the rhythm of my movements be the things I couldn’t say.

Isla put her hand over me when I was done, and I stayed like that, holding her hand for 5 minutes and 35 seconds until another patient needed me.

*********

My shift was finally over, I walked over to “Johnny’s” downtown and picked up something to eat. They made some of the best waffles there, and Isla and I would always be there on Friday nights after school.

The cold was nipping at my face, so I scrunched up in my wool scarf and trudged on through the snow-filled streets. I didn’t have to think about where I was going; my feet walked there on their own, the same path I walked over a hundred times after school.

I thought of a million things to say when she opened the door, but all I could come up with when she stood in front of me was “I brought waffles, fried chicken, and eggs. Do you want to eat dinner/breakfast with me?”

Isla stood there for about a minute, surprised and confused, before a smile brightened her face.

“Sure, come on in, everybody’s awake, so we would like to have some food.”

Her mother was in the kitchen, sitting down at the dining table with a cup of tea in her hands. When she saw me, she came over and hugged me as if to say ‘welcome home’. She walked away in the direction of the living room, where I saw three tiny heads sitting together on the couch.

Isla started putting out the food on plates and arranging everything.

“Lila’s the youngest, she’s only three, I don’t think she really knows what’s going on, but that’s fine, I feel like it will be easier for her,” Isla started saying. I didn’t interrupt her; I think she needed to say this, and I listened.

“Brandon’s the oldest; he worshiped his dad, and I think he blames me for what happened.” She paused a little before continuing, “And he’s right in a way, all of this is my fault, I let this happen, and then it got worse.”

I shook my head gently, even though she wasn’t looking at me.

“Isla,” I said quietly, “none of this is your fault.”

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either. She just kept moving the plates around, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting, like she needed her hands to stay busy or she might come apart.

We brought the food to the table and set it down. Her mother called the kids over, and the three of them shuffled in, sleepy and cautious, blinking at me, trying to guess who I was and what I was doing there.

“Say hello,” her mother urged softly.

Brandon nodded once. The middle child, Sophia, whispered, "Hi." Lila just stared at me with her thumb in her mouth. I waved, small and awkward, and Isla gave me this tired little smile that said thank you for trying.

The kids dug in first. I could hear the quiet clinks of forks and the soft hum of the heater. Isla sat across from me, picking at her food more than eating it. I watched her thumb trace the edge of her plate over and over.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked suddenly, as if realizing she was supposed to be a host.

“I’m fine. Really.”

She nodded.

A few minutes passed like that, the kids talking in those half-whispers kids use when they know something is wrong but don’t know the words for it. Her mother was humming under her breath, trying to pretend the house felt normal again.

I didn’t push Isla to talk. I just waited, the way I’d learned to stay during long overnight shifts when someone needed a minute to gather themselves.

Eventually, she said, “You don’t have to stay long. I know you’re tired.”

“I know,” I replied. “But I’m not in a rush.”

She looked down, her shoulders dropping a little, like the idea of someone not rushing was foreign to her.

“It’s been… a long night,” she said.

“I figured.”

She nodded again, then reached for a piece of waffle and finally took a bite. “These are good,” she said, and her voice cracked just slightly, like even saying that much took effort.

I smiled. “They still taste the same. We used to get them after school, remember?”

Her eyes softened as the memory settled in. “Yeah. I remember.”

We let that sit between us—the good part, the simple part. The part before everything got complicated.

After a while, she whispered, “Thank you… for coming over.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yeah,” she said, looking at her hands. “I think I do.”

I gave her a comforting smile as if to say ‘it’s okay, I’m here now’ and I reached for another piece of chicken and took a small bite, tasting nothing. The kids were laughing quietly now at something on the TV in the other room. Her mother was washing a few dishes, slow and methodical. The house felt worn out, but not broken.

Isla finally looked up at me again.

“I don’t know what happens next,” she admitted.

I met her eyes and answered softly, “You don’t have to know right now.”

She breathed out, almost a sigh of relief.

Slowly, Sophia came over to us and quietly sat on her mother’s lap. She was looking shyly at me, and I waited until she was ready.

“What’s your name?” she asked me in a whisper.

“Lilah,” I answered her, “my name’s Lilah.”

She held out to me her broken Barbie, and I gently took it over and smoothed out her hair.

“You’re pretty,” she suddenly said loudly. “Do you want to be my friend?”

I paused a minute, my throat tightened, as I could feel myself choking down tears.

“Yeah,” I whispered, “I would love to be your friend.”