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The clock stutters toward morning. I grab my coat, check the address one more time, and head out into the cold dawn.
The hospital waits.
I dodge puddles left by last night’s rain and hire a ride, staring sightlessly out the window the entire way to the hospital grounds. Taking a deep breath, I try to keep my worries from showing on my face.
At the nurses’ station, a woman with tired eyes recognizes me. Her voice drops. “I’m sorry about your loss, sweetheart.”
Loss. I stare for a couple seconds. Then, as soon as my brain registers the condolence, I’m sprinting down the hall.
No, no, no. Please, not her, not Mama…
By the time I reach her room, my legs give out. I scramble to pull the door open, my shaking hands barely able to grip the handle. My heart pounds in my ears. I can’t think past the terror clawing through me.
Then I find her sitting on her bed, and the sight knocks the air out of me.
She actually looks like my mom again, propped up, pale, but awake. Alive. Just like the last two times.
She waves me over.
“The woman at the desk,” I gasp. “She was giving me condolences. I thought…”
“It’s your father, hon.” Her mouth trembles. “He’s gone, Sophia.” She touches my hand. “I got a call from the cops. They said he’s dead.”
The words hang, suspended in the stale air.
A reaction should come. Anger, relief…something. But only the empty ache spreads.
“He wasn’t all bad.” She tries to smile, but the tears slipping down her cheeks win over.
“There were times he tried. When you were little, he’d bring gardenias…my favorite…and tuck one behind your ear. He used to hum you to sleep. That old Dean Martin song, ‘That’s Amore.’ Remember how you’d beg him to sing it again?”
Memories flood back of him in the doorway with gardenias, humming ‘That’s Amore’ while the record crackled in the living room. He was happy then. I shake my head. “He wrecked everything, Mama.”
She squeezes my hand. “He wrecked himself too.”
Machines beep, steady and indifferent, as her eyes gleam in the light. “I should’ve kept you out of this.”
Something inside me gives way. Maybe it snapped years ago, and I’m only now noticing the tremor.
I run my thumb along her papery skin. “It’s not your fault.”
But we both know that’s not true. Love never lets you off easy. If anything, it just compounds the guilt.
When I stand, she looks up. “Don’t let this turn you cruel,” she says softly. “Forgive him if you can.”
“Forgive him. Forgive Enzo for killing Vincent?” The idea of forgiving the world that keeps taking and calling it protection feels impossible.
“Yes, sweetheart. Forgive Enzo, too, if you need to.”
“But—”
“And if you love him, fight for him. Always. Love doesn’t run when it gets dark. It stays until it’s light again.”
Those heavy words will probably stick with me like gum on a shoe. I don’t know what to say. “I’ll take care of the arrangements.” I don’t recognize my own flat voice.
I stay another hour, holding her hand until she drifts off. Then I slip out, my heart heavy, my mind numb.
The hospital doors sigh open. The outside air—cold, metallic, alive—hits like a slap.
