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‘Why did you bother telling him the truth about us? I had already left, with no intention of coming back.’
She bit down on her lip. Even now, ten years later, it still stung. ‘I...’
‘Be honest,’ he insisted, after she hesitated.
Alicia nodded. ‘I couldn’t bear for him to think what he did of you. I couldn’t bear the thought of him...telling anyone...what he believed you’d done. I didn’t want what we’d shared to be sullied in that way. You deserved so much better.’
He lifted a hand to her cheek, stroking it gently. ‘I was wrong about you. All these years, I thought you a coward.’
Her heart soared, but she didn’t deserve his praise. Annie was always there, in the back of her mind, a secret she’d kept to protect Graciano, but now, as an adult, she realised how greatly she’d deprived him.
‘My own father was an excellent man,’ he said into the silence so her stomach twisted and she moved closer unconsciously. ‘I was only seven when he died, but my memories of him—and my parents—are strong. Perhaps loss sharpened them?’
She stayed quiet, waiting, knowing that her silence would encourage more confidences than probing questions.
‘He was a lawyer. As a child, I knew only that he worked hard and always carried a heavy briefcase. Now, I have more information. He was a family lawyer, a working legal aid for children. My mother was a doctor.’ His smile was regretful. ‘She didn’t work when we were young, but she’d just started talking about going back. They sometimes fought about it.’
‘He didn’t want her to work?’
‘I suppose not. My memories of the details there aren’t clear. She was very beautiful,’ he said, distracted. ‘She had long, dark hair that she would loop into a bun high on her head every day. Then each night, she would sit cross-legged on the sofa and pull out the pins, one by one, until it unfurled like a waterfall over one shoulder. My father would comb it with his fingers, and she’d purr like a cat.’
His smile was, strangely for Graciano, almost self-conscious. ‘It’s odd, the things we remember. Some memories like that are locked in my brain. I can replay them on cue, like a TV show. Others are grainier.’
She weaved their fingers together, dragging his hand to her lips and pressing a kiss against it.
‘I know she used to read to my brother and me every night, but I cannot ever remember which books—only the sensation of my brother’s little body being curled up at my side and my mother perched beside us, my eyes growing heavy even when I was determined to stay awake, her hand brushing my forehead as I fell asleep. Fragments of memories, impressions of feelings.’
‘It sounds like you were very loved.’
‘They were good parents,’ he said with a small nod. ‘They taught me the importance of family.’
‘Your brother... Did he...?’ She let the question hang in the air.
‘No. He survived the crash, but afterwards, we were separated.’
Her brow was quizzical. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He was badly injured. I was not. I had to be put into foster placement immediately. I saw him in hospital once, but not again—he was too ill. I thought I’d see him when he was better, but days turned into weeks and weeks into months. My foster parents couldn’t afford to care for another child. A different home was found for him.’
Alicia gasped. ‘That’s awful. Could you see him at least?’
‘No.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Perhaps if a lawyer like my father had been involved, but neither foster parent welcomed the contact. After three months, I was moved to a different home, and then another.’ He stood abruptly, striding naked across the room to a tall chest of drawers. He hesitated a moment, then opened a small drawer at the top and removed a piece of paper, crossed the room and handed it to her. ‘This is all I had.’
She sat up, taking the photo from him and cradling it in her palm. It was aged, and had obviously been well loved. Her eyes roamed the faces staring back at her: a man who was slender and smiling, wearing a buttoned shirt with jeans and dark hair shoulder length, and two little boys—Graciano with his knees up under his chin, a look of concentration on his face, and his baby brother, with chubby cheeks and a silly grin.
So he’d been serious even before the accident, before the foster care system, before life on the streets?
The photo made her smile, even as it formed a heavy notch in her belly, because how could she ignore the woman in the photo? A woman just as Graciano had described: very beautiful, with silky dark hair and soulful eyes, a woman who was so familiar to her, so achingly known and loved. This was Annie’s grandmother—but it could have been Annie. Their eyes, their smiles, their hair. This was Annie’s family.
She lifted her spare hand to her mouth and pressed her fingertips there, the heaviness of her betrayal landing like a thud in the centre of her chest.
‘As a child in the foster system, you are somewhat powerless. I could do nothing to find Diego. But I remembered my father’s voice. Again and again, when we were boys, he would say to me, “He’s your brother. It’s your job to take care of him.” I never forgot that.’
Emotion weighed down on her. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
‘When I was older, one of my social workers took the time to look into it for me. I was told he’d been adopted by Americans. I don’t know if it’s true or not. Adoption records are sealed, but perhaps.’
‘That’s devastating for you. Surely now there must be something—’
