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“I want to talk about Mom.” That shut him up.
My father's mouth clamped shut, and he made to brush past me. I moved and blocked the door. “No. This needs to happen. I know I’ve made mistakes, but—but you have too. Ineedto talk about this, and I'm not letting you walk away.”
"You were the one who walked out on this family. Not me."
My father was a shell of the man he used to be. Michael Quinn was a figure larger than life, broad shoulders, warm, callused hands that were well accustomed to a hard day's work--both the honest and the dishonest kind. His face was sunken, now, shoulders stooped. The pale hollows of his cheeks were flushed an angry scarlet, the effect looking like poorly-applied blush, and his once twinkling blue eyes were now cutting with anger as he tried to draw himself up to his full height.
Suddenly, all I saw before me was a weak old man who had lost nearly everything, and I wasn't angry any more. I pitied him.
"Yes. I walked away from this family." I planted myself firmly in the doorway and made him look at me. "I walked away from this family because I was sixteen years old and had just lost my mother--I had just seen her die a horrible death in front of me. I walked away because my entire life had been upended. I was in pain, physically and emotionally, every single day, and nobody cared except for the doctor's clean bill of health when he released me. I walked away because I still carry the scars of that day, and nobody wanted to understand why I blamed the violence of our chosen lifestyle for taking my mother. I walked away because nobody wanted to listen."
The silence in the room was deafening, and I took a steadying breath. "I'm here now. I came back, because I wanted to prove to myself that I'm stronger than my past. I'm standing here now, and I want to talk. And this time, you will listen to me."
Seconds, minutes, I didn’t know—time seemed to stretch into eternity until his expression fell along with his shoulders, and he let out a long sigh. “That’s your mother in you. She always wanted to talk. About everything.” He let out a choked laugh. “I was so afraid you’d gotten more of me in you than her, but the more I see you, these past few weeks…I just see her.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” I blurted.
The words surprised us both. “I’m…I’m sorry that you went through that,” I said carefully. “And I’m sorry that I pushed you away, after. Blamed you. It wasn’t your fault, and I was wrong.”
A long, long silence.
Jacob stared at the floor, his eyes as red as I knew my own to be. Finally, he let out a little huff. “You love him, don’t you?”
Another long silence.
"I think I might," I said. "And I also think I might understand how hard it was on you to lose Mom like that."
My father looked like he'd aged several years in the span of seconds. He fumbled for the armrest behind him and sat heavily on the couch.
“Rosie’s death…” he paused and cleared his throat. “Her death was a blow to everyone who knew her. I don't have to tell you the hole that loss left behind. I know you blame me, and I understand it because I blame myself. Not a day goes by without my regret over losing Rosie, and then you. But it’s easier to be angry and bitter, than to open yourself up when you’re hurting. We’ve never been good about talking, you and I.”
“Looks like we’re doing okay now,” I said softly.
He didn’t say anything. I had never seen him speaking this openly about Mom, and I felt like I was treading on very thin ice. Still, I wasn't going to let this night end without having said my piece.
“Connor told me about the mole. He said things are getting out of control, just like when Mom died.”
His jaw tightened, and it looked like he was trying to burn a hole in the rug just by looking at it.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let Tommy and Connor do your dirty work for you? You made it seem like everything would be okay if I just played the dutiful little wife for a few weeks, but there's already been an attempt on my life, and two other close calls."
“It was for your own protection.”
I fumed. “I am sick and tired of everyone deciding what's in my best interest of the guise of protecting me. I have to be involved. I won't take a back seat to my own life again.”
“What would you have me do, after the way you drew the attention of every crooked cop in Boston after Johnny got killed.” He sat up suddenly, his tone short and clipped. “Call you in after five years to say, ‘Gee. Sorry, daughter, but that life you hated so much? It’s dragging you back in now, only this time, the mafia's on your ass, and they won't stop until you're dead.’ Connor may have told you about the mole and the tensions with the Italians, but he didn't tell you what they'd do if they ever got their hands on you.”
“The truth would have been better than leaving me to form my own conclusions."
He snorted. “And you’ll honestly sit there and tell me you wouldn’t have just left after hearing that.”
He had a point. If any of them--my father, Tommy, Connor--would have come right out with the truth, I would have left as fast as my feet could carry me.
"I'm dying, Cassidy." My father looked at me, all anger sapped from him seemingly along with his strength. "I don't say that to be dramatic or to get a reaction out of you, because I know I don't deserve one. But it's the truth, and knowing your expiration date gives you a unique perspective on things. Especially past regrets."
My palms felt hot, and I rubbed them against my knees. "Tommy told me. So, it's pretty bad, then?"
He shrugged. "Damn quacks can't decide on anything--no offense, of course. One guy gives me three months, another six. All I hear is that this fucking cancer is going to get the best of me, and I've got to make whatever time I've got left count for something."
