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"Antonia, over here!" A reporter shouts, thrusting a microphone toward my face as I cross the street. “Do you have any comment on the rumors that your family had dinner with Liam as part of a compensation deal?”
“Or is it extortion?” Another one chimes in, snapping photos that will no doubt be plastered across tomorrow’s papers.
I keep my head down, trying to block them out, but their words worm their way into my mind, along with other theories I’ve heard - that we’re seeking vengeance, that we’ve forgiven him, or that Liam had turned against his family and gone rogue.
None of them are true, but it doesn’t matter. The truth is too messy and complicated for easily digestible headlines in under five hundred pixels.
As if the scrutiny isn’t bad enough, I’m also dealing with the harsh reality of my mother’s condition. There will be many, many more years ahead to deal with these loathsome leeches who will do anything for a cheap spread in their trashy tabloids.
Right now, all I want to do is dedicate all my time to my mom. She, unfortunately, does not have the luxury of time. I choose not to feed this cheap gossip with oxygen to flame their speculations, though, to be fair, I, too, wonder what the heck Liam wanted. What was he playing at?
To avoid the paparazzi and their cameras, I make my way into Jered’s coffee shop. It’s a place I’ve frequented for years, but today feels different. The atmosphere buzzes with whispers and stares, and I can’t help but feel like I’m the center of everyone’s attention.
“Hey Tony,” Annabelle—the barista, greets me, offering a sympathetic smile. “The usual?”
“Please,” I say, trying to ignore the hushed conversations around me. As I wait for my coffee, I catch snippets of people’s theories about our dinner with Liam.
“Must be some sort of compensation deal,” one woman mutters to her friend, casting a sidelong glance in my direction, probably making sure that I heard her. I pretend not to hear, but I see their reflection in the mirror behind the mirrored wall splash behind the barista’s station.
“Or maybe they are blackmailing him,” another man speculates, shaking his head.
“Could it be they’re just desperate for attention?” someone else chimes in, and a woman’s voice says.
“Now, you are just being silly.”
“Maybe she’s fallen for him,” a young girl offers, her eyes wide with morbid fascination.
“Don’t be silly,” the same woman, probably a relation, admonishes. “How could that be . . . he killed her father. That would be downright weird. I don’t see that happening.” The older woman finishes.
“Not even for a billion dollars? Those people are nasty rich.” The girl says, a strange countenance on her face. I can just see her doing that . . . marrying her father’s murderer for the love ofmoney. That way, she never has to spot that fake Louis Vuitton.Now, I’m just being mean.
“Here you go, T,” Annabelle says, sliding my coffee across the counter. “On the house today.”
“Thanks, Annabelle,” I mumble, picking up the cup and making my way outside, desperate for a reprieve from the gossip factory. They say coffee is a stimulant. Now I know why. It stimulates stupidity.
As I walk down the street back to my car, sipping my coffee, I feel the weight of people’s judgments bearing down on me. They don’t know what it’s like to have your entire life turned upside down by a single act of violence. They don’t know the pain of losing a father or the pain of confronting his killer years later.
As I approach our house, a voice calls out my name, snapping me out of my thoughts. It’s my neighbor, Maria, waving from her porch. “Everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just lost in thought, I didn’t see you there. How’s Manuel?”
“He’s good. He wanted me to bring him over to see your mom, but he has a cold. I told him we must wait till he gets better,” she says, her voice filled with concern. “You know, we’re all here for you and your family. If you need anything, just let us know.”
“Thanks, Maria,” I reply, touched by her kindness amid the chaos of speculation. As I continue my walk into the house, I begin to realize that while some people may judge and gossip, others still care about us and still see us as more than the grand sum of our tragedy. That has to be enough.
I am ashamed to say that somehow, over the fifteen years, my pain had subsided some, and I didn’t spend too much time thinking of the Dexters and what they took from us, but seeing Liam that Friday at the auction, then the next day at the restaurant has opened all the old wounds.
I was healing . . . I was healed. Why on earth did he have to come back and pull off the scabs and give the wounds new life? We had gone through the mourning period. We had all developed our coping mechanisms, and we were dealing, but at that dinner, the raw pain was evident to see in Dick, Jenny, Lola and me. Our hearts were bleeding afresh.
Desperate for peace and guidance, I turn to my lagging spirituality. I find myself at the doorstep of St. Mary’s Church, a small stone building nestled in North Miami. Father O’Malley greets me with a warm smile, offering solace even before we speak.
“Father, I . . . I need help,” I confess, tears welling up in my eyes. “I had dealt with my father’s loss years ago, but now, I am losing my mother too. That is already too much to bear, but the universe seems to want more from me. I’m having trouble coping.”
“Antonia,” Father O’Malley says, gently placing a hand on my shoulder. “You must remember the teachings of the Bible. Colossians 3:13 says, ‘Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.’”
“Forgiveness,” I say, tasting the word like horse manure on my tongue. “How can I forgive him? How do you forgive someone who has not asked for forgiveness?”
“If he asked, would you give it wholeheartedly?”
