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It’s as if a little piece of heaven fell down into the Hell I’ve been living in. I know it will help me mend, it’ll help me focus on something else. I need it, it gives me something to live for.
I frown as I contemplate the words. Then I nod. This is the truth. My truth.
I fall back on the bed, pressing my little journal to my chest, closing my eyes. My lips twitch into a half smile and a tear slides from the corner of my eye, along the side of my cheek and onto the sheet. I’m not entirely happy, but I’m not that sad either. Not anymore. I lay a hand over my still flat belly.
I’ll live.
There is life.
And this is my life.
Sadly,the little hope I have for a life turns into bottomless despair exactly nine weeks and three days after Christian Russo tore me to pieces. Mom calls. She doesn’t even need to tell me something has happened.
“Kerry.”
Her voice is broken. Crushed. My first instinct is to hang up. I don’t want to know. PleaseGod, don’t do this to me.
“Your father is in the hospital. You need to come.”
“Mom. Tell me now.” Icy fingers clutch my chest. I don’t breathe.
“He died, love. They think he had a heart attack. It happened at work. They couldn’t save him.”
My mother cries and cries. I turn off. I have no pain left to spare. I tell my belly to just hang in there while I have a new breakdown.
“I’ll be there.”
“Take a taxi. Don’t drive.”
I hang up, grab my leather jacket and my helmet, hop on my Vespa and go to say goodbye to my biggest inspiration in life. My idol. My psychologist father who taught me all about compassion, all about life.
This is my life. This is my non-life. I put a hand on my belly. If I hadn’t had her, or him, I’m not sure I’d be here tomorrow.
Mom sits slumped on a couch in the ward. My always elegant mother has her makeup smeared all over her face and doesn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes are vacant when our gazes meet. We hug. I still feel nothing. I should mourn. I wonder when I’ll realize my father is never gonna call me again, never gonna discuss the origin of intelligence, whether we’re all just energies swirling in a multi-colored void, the rate of abortion among American teens, how to solve poverty once and for all.
She takes my hand and we go to him.
A pale man in a white room. A sheet pulled up to his chin. A lit candle. A vase with flowers.
His features are sunken. I touch him and recoil. He’s cold, his skin still soft to the touch, but the warmth has already dissipated. Like when the chill sets in as soon as the sun sets.
I can’t cry, but my mother weeps helplessly and I hold her.
There’s no one in this room to say goodbye to. He’s already left.
I look to the ceiling, then out the window, and wonder if he’s found the answer to all his riddles.
After the funeral,after all the relatives have left, I help Mom sort through his things. She doesn’t want to keep one single item. I sniff his shirts, sneak some away, and revel in the stabs of pain that shoot through my chest, showing I’m still human after all.
Christian
How much fucking bad luck can one person have? Her father died. I take in her thin, black-clad shape from a distance. The day is rainy, and foggy. No rays of sun hit the mahogany casket as it is lowered into the ground. There are no relatives. Only her and her mom, clinging to each other by the grave. The rest of the crowd are his work mates, students, and friends. He was a loved man. I wonder how that feels. I hope he knew to appreciate it.
I’ll give her a couple of days, but then it’s time to set my plan in motion. I don’t trust my uncle to stay off her back much longer. We’ll leave the country. I’ll take her to Nathan’s condo in Mexico, then we’ll find our own place, well out of reach of fucking Luciano Salvatore.
I expect resistance. I have a few Roofies ready in case I need to subdue her. Just enough for her not to fight, but not so much that she can’t stand on her own two feet. I’ve arranged passports for us in fake names, tickets. I’m all set.
Excitement rises in me as I think about being close to her again. She’ll come around, I’m sure of it. She’ll understand the hows and whys of what happened once I get to explain. I might have to tie her up to get her to listen, but in that case—so be it.
