The storm in me

By Milena Galdino                                                        

 

 

“So, how did you find me, Officer Cooper?”

 

“I’ll propose a deal, Marina: tell me your motives, and then you’ll find out.”

​

It seemed like a fair deal to the mid-aged woman. There wasn't much to fight for. She was too long carrying her sin, anyway. So she started from the beginning.

 

“I walked down the stairs of the building where I had just been tested to see if the in-vitro fertilization had worked. Back in the 90s, IVF was a new treatment with less than a 15% chance of success, but I was more than optimistic. I knew it in my heart—I just needed to see it written down.

 

Earlier that day, I had even shopped at Sears for newborn clothes and diapers. We had already chosen names: Kyle for a boy, Amanda if it was a girl.

 

As an art lover, I particularly liked Boston Square, especially the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. It was my favorite place in a city I had adopted as my hometown at the age of ten, when my family immigrated from Mexico to Massachusetts.

 

I had married in a Catholic church fifteen years before that day. The last time I spoke to my grandmother, she told me that God wanted me to have as many children as I could. She was firmly against contraception.

 

‘Do not worry about the party. Keep your eyes on the heavenly blessing to your marriage,’ she had said over the phone, just hours before the heart attack that took her life, days before my wedding.

 

So I did.

 

That day, during Mass, the priest spoke about how Jesus had calmed a storm in the Sea of Galilee. Every time I faced trouble, I used that story to remind myself of who my God was.

 

But back on that staircase, a storm was rising inside me. My breath accelerated, and my hands shook as I gripped the envelope opener I always carried in my purse for safety at night.

 

‘Not pregnant,’ the lab report read.

 

A bomb exploded inside me. A punch to the stomach. I felt an urge to vomit, my head spun.

 

It was my third failed attempt, and George had been clear: although he loved me, being a father was the most important thing to him. I knew this failure could end our marriage.

 

‘Oh, Grandma Narita… my heart is in a million pieces,’ I whispered.

 

At first, my sobbing was quiet. Then it got louder.

 

All of Grandma Narita’s words about a savior suddenly made no sense. He had saved his friends in Galilee, but not me.

 

‘I’m completely alone,’ I thought. ‘You took my grandmother, now my baby, and soon my husband. You’re a lie.’

 

And then, I felt it. The unmistakable sensation of blood.

 

Getting my period at that exact moment was too much to bear. God hadn’t just taken away the most important things in my life—he had made me bleed, as if to underline his betrayal.

 

For the first time, I saw the universe without God. Or worse—if there was a God, he was cruel.

 

‘Go ahead and take my life, nonexistent God!’ I screamed with everything inside me.

 

My hatred was overwhelming. My blood felt like fire coursing through my veins.

 

I entered the museum, the test result in one hand, a Sears bag filled with baby clothes and pacifiers in the other.

 

I headed straight for Rembrandt’s The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. The room was empty. I shut the door behind me, possessed by rage, and reached for the envelope opener in my purse.

 

Without thinking, I stabbed the painting. Once, twice.

 

As the blade tore through the canvas, I realized I would be in prison by the end of the day. But I didn’t care.

 

I grasped the painting, pulling it down. The staples at the top gave way, and the entire canvas fell into my hands.

 

I dumped the baby clothes from the bag and folded the painting as best as I could to make it fit.

 

As I stepped outside, sirens screamed in the distance.

 

‘You did what? You’re out of your mind, Marina!’ Brad’s voice trembled as he unfolded the painting in our living room, staring in disbelief at the centuries-old masterpiece, now wrecked.

 

‘I’m sorry… don’t leave me. This is your fault too, Brad! You pressured me too much! Help me fix this!’ I begged.

 

‘When I thought the worst news was you bringing home proof of your failure as a mother, you do something even worse. You come back not just without a child—but as a criminal. Fix your own mess, Marina. And never look for me again.’

 

And just like that, he was gone.

 

Twelve years later, here I am, ready to pay for my sin—the sin of stealing from humanity. I know it’s shocking.

 

‘So, Officer,’ I say, ‘tell me how you found me.’

 

‘Brad committed suicide yesterday in California. He left a letter saying he had been living in the storm of Galilee for the past twelve years. From there, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together—especially after baby clothes were found discarded in the museum’s trash can.’

 

He pauses.

 

‘You have the right to remain silent from now on, Marina.’”