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My eyes flick to my door, half expecting him to walk in, and that thought isn’t as annoying as it was yesterday. I wonder when I’ll see him again. Looking to the window, I pause as I take in the blue sunny sky, before I look at the wall clock. It is early, and I want to see her. Having never known where she was laid to rest before, now the impulse I have to grab a taxi and haul myself across town to the cemetery is festering with renewed enthusiasm.
Instead of waiting around for the mobster to call, I sit up, throw back the rest of my coffee, and jump in the shower.
I am going to see my mother today.
* * *
The taxi ridewas reasonably quick and now as I stand in the cemetery, clenching a small posy of yellow roses I picked up from the corner florist—who obviously does a roaring trade simply due to proximity. A calming sense of peace washes over me. I walk slowly in the direction where the office receptionist at the front of the cemetery pointed me. This place is huge, and I am glad I wore comfy sneakers.
I see different memorials as I step along the pathway; some are so beautiful, large and opulent. Many of them are old, with no flowers, no color, no sign that anyone visits. I look in the direction of where I am going and see a small headstone. It is nothing too big or unusual, but it catches my eye because there is a large bouquet of bright red roses resting in front of it. The color is striking in the sea of gray cement and grass. I’m pulled closer by my interest to see who is held in memory so beautifully by someone all these years later.
I pause as I look down and read before my breath gets caught in my chest.
Jacqueline Grace Cole
My mother. Startled by my sudden find, I take a small step back and read over the rest of the text on the headstone; the date of her birth, followed by the date of her death. She was only in her mid-thirties. The prime of her life. I squat and lay my posy of yellow at the base and look at the large bouquet of red roses as I do. They are fresh, like they have only been placed in the last day or two. There is a small card with them, and although I feel like I am snooping, I flick it open to read.
mon ange toujours
That’s all it says, and I wish I had stuck to my French lessons in high school, because I have no idea what it means. I flip the card over and see the florist sticker on the back.Le Rose Fleursis stamped on the back, so it appears the florist is even French.
“Mon ange toujours,” I say out loud to myself, feeling how it sounds on my tongue and committing the saying to memory. I lean back and sit on the grass in front of my mother, wondering who is placing flowers at her grave with mysterious French messages.
As I look around, I see no one and feel shy all of a sudden. I am quiet for a few beats before I take a deep breath and talk to her. I stumble at first, as it feels weird, but I have so much to say. So much to ask her. Within moments, it is like I have forgotten where I am as I start telling her everything. Everything about me, my life and what has happened. It feels so good to get it out. Get it off my chest. Tell her how Dad never treated me with love, only contempt. Tell her the best thing to ever happen to me was when I got a full college scholarship and moved to the other side of the country to get away from him, and how I often wonder why I ever came back.
I apologize to her for not coming sooner, explaining how I didn’t know where she was or what had happened until last night after reading it in the old newspaper clipping.
Then I tell her about Nico, about his demands, but also the odd sense of comfort I feel around him, the coffee he makes me, the way he instinctively put his hand on my thigh last night when he knew I was scared of his friend. He was protecting me. I have never had that before. I have always looked after myself, never wanting to get too close to people, not wanting to feel the pain of rejection. If my own father didn’t want me, then it became apparent to me very early on that no one else would either, and that has been fine with me.
But Nico is different. A virtual stranger, yet he seems to care for some reason. And I’m not sure how I feel about that… or if it’s more about being sure of how much I like him, but knowing I shouldn’t.
The sun is high in the sky by the time I finish, my voice hoarse, and my throat now dry. The tears that have slowly crept out and over my cheeks now finished. My heart beats in a steady rhythm, and a little weight has been lifted from my shoulders. A small breeze flutters past me, and when I look up, I immediately spot a man standing in the distance who looks like he is watching me. I squint a little, trying to see if it is someone I know, but he simply nods his head to me and turns and walks away. But as he does, I notice a large winged tattoo on his neck… it looks familiar, but I can’t place it. My eyes remain on his back until his body is a mere dot in the distance.
Looking back at the grave, I lean forward and touch the cold stone with my fingers.
“I will come again soon, Mom. I promise,” I say to her, knowing I will make an effort to come regularly from now on, now I know she is here.
Standing, I take one last look at the red and yellow roses, happy she still has at least one other visitor, and I turn and walk away. I grab my cell from my handbag and type the French words into the search before I forget them.
Mon ange toujoursit confirms is French, which is what I thought, so my French can’t be too rusty. I hit translate. The words‘My Angel Always’pop up on the screen and my feet halt as I come to a stop. That was what she had scripted in the letter I read last night. Looking back at my phone, I read on. A term of endearment for love.What the hell? I already know this isn’t the work of my father. He couldn’t give a damn about my mother now. There is no way he would be placing flowers on her grave decades after her death, given how much he despises her.
So if it isn’t her husband delivering flowers to her grave, then who is it?
13
NICO
“What’s going on?” Sebastian’s voice is rough as we sit together in the conference room, waiting for the others. He takes a sip of his morning coffee, and I take a sip of mine. It’s my third for the morning already, having had one when I was at Emilia’s apartment earlier, then another when I arrived back home not long after. I tell myself it is because she has a good coffee machine and great Italian beans, because there is no other reason to be stalking my new employee so early in the morning.
“She got through about five boxes yesterday,” I tell him, my eyes flicking to him and watching for his response.
Sebastian nods. “Not bad, but she will need to work faster,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I don’t want to push her. It’s a lot for her.'' I think back to her tears at seeing her family photos, and then seeing her asleep on the floor. She is an employee, I know this. I shouldn’t care. Sebastian would tell me to have her working even more, and that is my job to get her to do so.
“So I ask you again. What is going on?” Sebastian presses. He puts the cup on the table in front of him, placing his hands face down beside it.
“Nothing,” I say simply. “What do you mean?” I wish he’d just get to the point.
