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“But you’re in a castle. You’re in a princess tower.”
“Nope! I’m in a . . .” I try and think of the word I read from Lola’s vocabulary homework. “A fortress.”
“A fortress, huh? So, you can fight?”
“Yup. Made of diamonds.”
“Well, of course. You can fight in style.”
“Diamonds are the strongest rocks in the world. I want to be a diamond. Pretty and sparkly and strong.”
“Then a diamond you’ll be, Delilah.”
* * *
The memory comes back out of nowhere.
It was buried deep in the recesses of my mind, somewhere safe, warmth surrounding it. But now it’s back and I can see it clearly—Mr. R is Alfredo, a younger, less worn version, but that’s him, clear as day. All along, the man my mother took me to play with once a month—he was my grandfather.
Mom said he was just an old friend, someone who always just happened to be playing at the park when we went. I remember her telling me if I wanted, I could ignore him, play alone. It wasn’t some kind of arranged play date, but I liked him and I liked how he smiled at me and I guess . . . I guess a part of me knew, even then.
He was family.
“Why didn’t . . . Why didn’t you ever say anything? Tell me who I was? Who you were? Even after . . .”
After mom got sick, I never saw Mr. R again.
“I tried. I swear it, I tried. Your mother . . . was shaken because she also knew what happened all those years ago, knew deep down that you were the reason Arturo was murdered.” He sighs. “I wasn’t going to push her. She had two young girls and was trying to make things work with a husband who kept getting deeper and deeper in the underworld. I told her I wanted to tell you who you were, who you would be one day. Your destiny and what that meant. But she told me no. She told me it would be your choice one day, and I had to respect that. Said she didn’t want you growing up knowing you were already pigeonholed into some life you didn’t get to choose. And I respected that because I know it’s what your father would have wanted.”
It’s what your father would have wanted.
Interesting to see the contrast between who I’m learning Arturo was and who Turner is.
Turner made nothing my choice, telling me where to be, when to be there, and who to be when I got there. Selling dates with me, using me to his advantage to further his own needs and desires.
Meanwhile, my father wanted things to be my choice.
He didn’t want me forced into this. Of course, he told me in that letter he left I would be a queen, but thinking back, I recognize he told me he wanted that if it was what I wanted.
And really, there’s no way he thought that note would be his last line to me, the last and only time he got to tell me about my destiny, of his hopes, dreams, and expectations of me.
“And then she got sick?”
“And then she got sick. She told me she left you things to explain and one day, you’d show up at my door looking to get answers. That I was to be patient, to wait. She was sure of it.”
I think of the journals, the insight into her life, the note from my father.
“Every morning, I woke up and prayed it would be that day. The one I got a knock on my door and you’d be standing there, ready to take your seat.”
“My seat?” I ask, my heart stuttering.
“You’re going to be queen one day,” he says then screws up his face in confusion, nerves maybe. “If that’s what you want, of course.”
So much is running through my mind.
New information is melding with old to create a better, more complete picture. There are still fuzzy spots, questions I have that I think might never be answered because Arturo and my mom took the truth to their graves, but still—the picture is closer than what I had before.
“Do you . . . Do you think they’d let me?” I ask, and for the first time in a long time, my voice is timid. Nervous.
