I set her bag on the table in the foyer then retreated into the kitchen. I didn’t want to hoover, though I kept my ears perked for any hints of cruel words. She might want to reconnect but that didn’t mean she just stopped holding her beliefs regarding certain things.
To keep myself busy, I made some ginger tea, the process relaxing me. I sipped at the steaming mug, the urge to sit next to him gnawing at me. I came to understand I was not just angry for the bigotry he’d suffered, but angry on my own behalf. Neither of us should have gone through what we’d had. We deserved to be loved and cherished by our parents.
Matteo surprised me when he walked into the kitchen, his eyes red-rimmed from tears.
I held my arms out. “Come here.”
He did without a word, and I cuddled him close. He sniffled into my shirt, fingers digging into my back. After a moment, he dried his eyes and looked at me.
“When I was really young she taught me how to speak French and we would make a game of talking in the language. It was our own little secret, you know? Sometimes she’d whisper something behind my father’s back and wink at me.” He took a shuddering breath. “I can’t remember when that stopped. Maybe it had been a gradual thing. Like, slowly chipping away at something until what it used to be is no longer recognizable.”
He looked behind me to where the tea pot was sitting on the stove and I said, “It’s ginger and chamomile. Do you want some?”
“Not for me,” he muttered.
“Okay,” I said, figuring it was a good sign he wanted to take care of his mother. As I fished out a mug and napkin for her, he started talking again.
“She said she left. She keeps saying it over and over and won’t give any more details, but… I don’t understand what she’s expecting from me.”
“Matty,” I started as I poured the tea into the mug. “Do you think it’s possible she might be a victim of abuse just as you are?”
I’d chosen my words carefully and posed them as a question because I wanted him to come to his own conclusion. He ran his wide eyes everywhere, from the kitchen floor to the steaming teapot and finally settled them on me. It was like looking in a mirror, his devastated and lost expression echoing my eighteen-year-old self the day I’d left home. I wished with all my heart I could have spared him that.
He inhaled, held it for a moment and sighed, sending his hair fluttering. “I didn’t think about that. She just…shut down. Stopped talking to me. Barely looked at me. My father would go off the rails and punish me for something inconsequential and she’d just…look away. I always thought it was because she was disappointed with me, but… Fuck! I’m an idiot, I never—”
“Everyone processes their trauma in a unique way,” I said and dropped a slice of orange into the tea. “It’s not your fault. But it seems to me she’s here because she’s trying to break the cycle. She showed up in her best clothes, but her make up is runny and her hair disheveled. Her bag is stuffed tighter than a size-queen’s ass. You know your father best. Imagine the strength to go against him and show up here.”
Biting his lip, he blinked at the mug. “Will you bring her the tea? I need to make a phone call.”
“Sure thing.”
As I shuffled around the marble island, he said, “Thank you.”
I offered him a warm smile. “You know I’m here for you, brat. Whatever you need, let me know.”
“No, I really mean it. I’m not sure what I would do without you.”
I closed the distance between us and tugged him into a lingering closed-mouth kiss. He smiled in the way that I loved, and I peeled myself away from him to deliver the tea.
Mrs. Fernandez was sitting on the couch, curled into herself, and blinking blankly at the carpet between her sensible Ferragamos. When she noticed me, she moved her mouth as if she wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what to say.
“Thank you,” she said as she accepted the tea from me. She cradled it in her hands for a moment. “You were at the hearing. Are you…his…?”
“I’m his,” I confirmed.
She nodded softly and sipped at the liquid in robotic motions. “This is delicious.”
“Yeah, I’m a terrible cook. Even my spaghetti sucks and spaghetti is the easiest thing you can make but I brew up a mean cup of tea.”
She made a soft sound that let me know she’d heard what I said but had no thoughts on the matter. Maybe she did but was so used to remaining silent she didn’t know how to respond.
I shifted my weight on my feet, unsure if I should stay or leave. My mother had been in agreement with my father concerning my queerness and she’d never refrained from being vocal about many things so I was unsure how to deal with a woman that had likely been forced into silence.
“It’s been years since I visited Carla’s home,” she said just as I was about to leave. “She would serve me this tea with anise in it. I didn’t particularly enjoy the flavor very much, but the company was preferable.”
Biting my lip, I lowered myself into a single-seater and proceeded to listen. Matteo had described himself as beingmuzzled and I reckoned it was the same for her. I supposed she wanted someone to talk to.
“But that was so long ago when Matteo was just a baby,” she said with a smile and dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “He was always so bright and rambunctious. Bringing him here to spend some time at Carla’s house was the highlight of our day.”
