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But those rehearsed lines that I know so well get stuck, the wiring in my brain short circuiting. I want to…tell her the truth.
But I can’t. Can I?
Don’t forget, Sam. You’re just getting to know her. Don’t drop your baggage on her or she’ll run, and call the cops in the process. They’re already on the right path, don’t give them the nail and the hammer they need to hammer your coffin shut.
“Even before I was born she reminded me of my father,” I say, taking a huge bite hoping she won’t ask more. Hoping she won’t pry. I’ve been honest so far. I don’t know how many more truthful words I can give her.
“And your father’s name was Sam as well?”
“Actually, no. But that’s how she thought of him for some reason. So that made me the son of Sam.”
Erica recoils a bit but catches herself, biting her lip and I reach for a napkin and dab at it.
“I can do it,” she says, taking the napkin for me and underneath the table, out of sight, I drag the heel of my boot along my opposite shin, inflicting pain, punishing myself for being an idiot.
She understands Son of Sam. She’s young, but she’s not clueless. Obviously.
“And where is your mother?” she asks, still dabbing at her mouth.
“Unfortunately she passed away,” I say out loud for the first time in my adult life. Just hearing me say it sounds so foreign, like someone else has jumped inside my body, spit the words out so casually, and taken control of me.
Can’t. Let. That. Happen.
Ever.
Predictably she says, “I'm sorry.”
“Thanks. It was a long time ago,” I add, and as expected she doesn’t press any further, which would require me to reveal how my father murdered her, and a whole lot of other people before eventually falling off the face of the earth. They never found him, but knowing the company he kept, the kind of guys he ran with and the places they frequented, he’s amongst the deceased as well. No doubt burning in hell.
I may kill just like him but I have principles, morals, a code. I’m not like him. Not at all. Son of Sam my ass. I’m my own man, full stop.
“What about you?” I ask, deflecting any more questions and giving her a chance to tell me things her university associate couldn’t reveal, and Google didn’t shine a light on.
“Well, it’s a bit macabre to say but my mom is also deceased.”
“How?” I blurt out, then try to bite my tongue but it’s too late.
“She was…let’s just say she made her money at night…on the street if you know what I mean.”
She is just like me. Exactly. Meant for me. Me and only me.
Placing my taco back in the paper wrapper I reach my hand across the small square table and place it on hers. My mitt is so much bigger, and I hope she feels protected more than scared.
Saying nothing she just looks into my eyes. I can see the hurt, but more importantly I feel it. But what I feel even stronger is a connection. Someone in this world I can relate to. Someone who could benefit from my existence, the normal me. Not only benefit…thrive.
“Mine too,” I say softly.
She rubs the back of her hand at the corner of her eye and I’m quick with another napkin.
“Sorry, I don’t normally get emotional about this. I actually never tell people.” She sniffs. “I even have a story made up just so they won’t feel sorry for me.” She laughs out loud and sucks in a sharp breath.
“Me too,” I say, “but something told me not to use that story with you, to be true to myself and trust what I was feeling.”
She pauses, just staring at me. “Me too.”
“You and I are a lot alike, Erica. A lot.”
She nods. “I think you’re right.”
