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My eyes crack open, blinded by the sun shining through the window. “Hmm.” I sit up and stretch my arms out to the side. “I’m okay. Can I use the bathroom?”
“Of course,” she says, stepping back. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“Okay.”
I make a stop in my old bedroom, grabbing some clothes before I head to the bathroom and shower. I use a toothbrush and comb I find in the drawer and try to make myself look like a human. My eyes are red and my eyelids slightly swollen. I have a mark on both cheeks, reminding me of what happened last night.
Once I’m dressed, I make my way down the hall, following the scent of bacon until I reach the kitchen. Mom already has a plate made on the table.
“Go ahead,” she says, eyeing me carefully.
Once she finishes, she dumps the dishes in the sink and brings her plate to the table before going to the fridge for some orange juice.
“I can’t remember the last time I cooked for you,” she says with a small smile.
Through a mouthful of eggs, I say, “It’s good.”
She sits down and watches me. “What’s going on, Mari?”
I look at my mom, taking my time to swallow down the food. She’s always been beautiful. Her hair is dark and wavy, always soft and smooth. Now, it’s pinned back, twisted in a low bun with tendrils hanging loosely. Her face is only flawed by a few wrinkles, but only around her eyes and in her forehead when she’s frowning. Not flaws at all.
Her olive-toned skin matches mine, but her hands are rough, proof of all the hard work she’s had to do over the years. Mom worked many jobs, making sure I had everything I needed. She wasn’t around a whole lot because of it, and as a teenager, I didn’t understand she was working for me. I just saw her as an absent parent. Teenagers are terrible creatures, and it wasn’t until the last couple years that I’ve started to understand her sacrifice.
“What happened to you?” she asks, leaning forward, her eyes on my cheeks. “Did someone hurt you?”
I shake my head. “That’s not important. I’m fine,” I say. “Mom, who is my dad?”
She sits back, eyes wide. When she reaches for her orange juice, her hand shakes. I give her time to answer. She puts the glass back down and pushes her plate forward a couple inches.
“Why do you ask that? We’ve done just fine without him, haven’t we?”
“Yes,” I say with a nod. “But I just want to know.”
After staring at me for several long seconds she shakes her head and looks out the window to her left. “He wasn’t a good man, Mari.”
“No?” I ask, noticing her eyes watering.
She shakes her head again. “He left us, didn’t he? That’s not what a good man would do.”
“Mom.” I wait for her to look at me. “I know who he is.”
Her expression quickly morphs into one of concern. “What do you mean? What happened? Did he…” She looks at my cheek. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story,” I say with a sigh. I didn’t think how I’d explain everything to my mom, just that I needed to talk to her.
“Start from the beginning,” she says.
I give her a crooked smile and then start talking. I tell her almost everything. I don’t disclose anything about murder or violence. I don’t tell her about how or why I met Vicente, only that I met him in the casino. I tell her who he is in regard to the Kinmore family, and then tell her he knew my father. I mention seeing my dad before I knew who he was because of a work event I was at with Vicente. I tell her that Donati told him to stay away from me because he didn’t want me involved in that life, and then I tell her how broken I felt when he did leave. I leave out any mention of being abducted, and when I lie to her by omission, only doing it because I think I’m protecting her, I realize why I’ve been lied to myself.
I tell her that Vicente came back into my life and convinced my father to tell me the truth, and that I went to his house last night to hear just that.
My mom’s expressions switched between shock and worry as I spoke, and now that I’m finished, she runs her hand nervously over her forehead.
“Wow. I don’t even know what to think.” She fidgets in her seat, moving glasses and silverware for no reason. “Well, what your…what Francesco said is true. It happened as he said. I didn’t know he’d still have the doll,” she says with a sniffle, holding her head high as she fights her emotions. “I didn’t know how to tell you your father was in the mafia. It took me a long time to even wrap my head around it. How do I explain that to a child?”
“What about when I was a teenager?”
She gives me a look. “You were a spitfire. Smart, confident, and bold. I figured if I told you the truth, you’d think you could go out there and find him. That was the last thing I wanted.”
