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That’s hard for me to imagine.
When my mother married my father, she was swallowed up by the Gallos. I’ve been defined by that name all my life. My uncles and aunts and cousins are powerful figures, known to everyone I know. I’m compared to them, taught by them, shaped by them.
It’s hard to imagine trading that identity for another, or even sharing it.
“How long did that take you?” I ask her. “To really feel like both.”
“It’s bonding to your partner that does it. When you’re truly partners, you become as one person. Your goals are the same. Your desires are the same. Everything you do is for both of you—you’re not selfish anymore.”
I can’t picture that, either.
I don’t know if I could ever be that way. Iamselfish. It’s always been about what I want.
“I’m not as good as you,” I say to Aida. “I don’t know if I ever will be.”
She laughs. “I’m notgood.But I am happy. And I hope you’ll be that.”
“I hope so too.”
“Sabrina … you have so much fire in you. Give that passion to someone, really give it to them, holding nothing back, and see what happens.”
“Like you did with Uncle Cal?”
“That’s right. I gave it all to him … after a little resistance.”
I laugh, quietly so I don’t wake anyone up. “Gallos don’t do anything the easy way.”
“No,” Aida says. “But it always works out in the end.”
That’s why everyone loves Aida. Because she never gives up hope. She could have her neck under a guillotine and she’d still laugh and say,I’ll figure something out.
Maybe she’s right. If the blade comes down on your neck, crying about it won’t change a thing. Maybe it’s better to die happy, believing life is good and will go on forever.
“Thanks, Auntie,” I say. “I love you. And I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. But not as much as your mom—make sure to call her.”
“I will,” I promise.
I end the call and throw the remains of my burger in the trash.
As I’m about to head back upstairs, I hear music coming from the other side of the house. It’s light and soft, so faint that at first I think I’m imagining it.
I pad down the hallway, passing the closed doors belonging to Andrei and Hakim.
The last room is Vlad’s. His door is slightly ajar. At first I think he’s listening to music, but then a note fumbles and I realize he must be playing himself.
Peeking in the room, I see Vlad cross-legged on the bed, holding a tiny ukulele in his massive hands. Even a normal guitar would look small compared to him. The ukulele is comically undersized, like a toy. And yet he’s making lovely music with those sausage-sized fingers.
After a moment I recognize the song—one of my mom’s favorites.
La Vie En Rose – Emily Watts
Spotify → geni.us/savage-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/savage-apple
I can’t help lingering just outside the door, listening. It brings back my parents’ kitchen so vividly: my grandpa Axel sitting in his favorite hideous green chair in the corner, his head nodding because he could never sit in the sunshine without falling asleep. My mother making empanadillas. She’s so good with her hands, everything she touches comes out just right. My brother Damien stealing one from the first batch, sitting down to eat it while he reads. Unlike me, he can read for hours and hours, oblivious to all distractions.
