“It wasn’t supposed to be like that,” she whispers. “They weren’t supposed to maim him permanently. They were only supposed to bruise him up a little bit, make it look worse than it actually was. That’s what his father promised me.”
“Are you okay?” I ask. She’s talking so fast, her eyes wild, and the monitor next to her starts beeping wildly. Her fingers dig into my hand like little claws. “Do you need me to call a nurse?”
“You need to hear this, Mia. You need to tell him this. I was too afraid to tell him myself. I was too weak.”
“You’re not weak!” I look around the room for a button or something I can push to get a nurse in here. She won’t let go of my hand, and I’m afraid to stand up. I’m really not sure what she wants me to say, but if what she’s saying is true, Serafin is going to be devastated.
It can’t be true.
She’s probably just pumped so full of pain pills she’s hallucinating. Maybe this is what happens to your brain right before
I don’t want to be alone with her anymore.
“We let this happen to our son. Antoni organized it. It was the only way he could find an excuse to go to war with the Cammaranos. He needed blood. The Kings wouldn’t understand. He had to do something drastic. We had to send you away. You were the only witness. If you would’ve stuck around, the police would’ve questioned you, and everyone would’ve found out. It had to be done.”
“Mrs. Mazur, I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”
“Just because you don’t want to believe something doesn’t mean it’s not true,” she hisses. “Just promise me one thing, Mia. Promise me you won’t pretend like everything’s alright when it’s not. I didn’t advocate for my baby when I should’ve, I just brushed things under the rug to save myself, promise me you won’t be like that, Mia.”
Her breath is choppy and she looks so distressed. I’m trying not to freak out, because the more she talks, the more I believe her, and now she’s tasking me with this secret she’s carried her whole life. She’s trusting me to do the right thing with it. It’s her dying wish.
“I promise,” I say. A single tear runs down her face. Her grip on my hand loosens, and she closes her eyes, her breathing going back to normal.
I breathe a sigh of relief when Serafin appears in the doorway with a nurse. I run over to him, not even looking over my shoulder, and wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest.
22
Serafin:
They pronounced my mother dead at 7:45 that evening. Mia and I were in the cafeteria neither one of us actually eating our sandwiches. When we returned to her room, the nurse said she slipped away peacefully.
Mia hasn’t said a word to me since she spoke with my mother, but she hasn’t left my side, either. I hate that their first real conversation was their last, but there’s something that makes me think maybe knowing what kind of person Mia actually is was enough to give her the courage to slip away. Maybe she knew she didn’t have to fight so hard anymore.
Mia makes everything easier.
She’s waiting there with a towel for me when I get out of the shower. Her hair is tucked up in a ponytail and she has green goop all over her face, but I can see the sadness in her eyes.
“How do I help you?” she asks, blanketing me in the towel. “Tell me what you need.”
“This,” I say, as she wraps her arms around me. “Just you. There’s nothing we can do or say right now.”
She nods and I kiss her softly on the lips. She takes me by the hand into the bedroom, peeling back the sheets for me. She curls up next to me, and I hug her tight, wrapping my arms and legs around her, tangling up in her, smelling her hair, feeling her skin, trying not to think about the weight of the world.
I doze in and out of a light sleep, waking up every once in awhile to the random sound of my phone going off, everyone who’s ever met my family wanting to pay their respects.
I turn my phone all the way off, not wanting to disturb Mia. She seems to be having as much luck falling asleep as I do, and every time I roll over she’s contorted herself in some new way, wrapping her legs around me or taking all the blankets and throwing them on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers as I get up to go to the bathroom. “I can go sleep in the other room.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You relax. I’m gonna go get on the treadmill.” I pull a pair of running shorts out of the dresser and throw on a tank top.
“It’s not even three in the morning, Serafin,” she says, patting the bed next to her.
“I gotta get some of this out of me,” I say. I don’t know what “this” is, grief, anger, confusion, shock, numbness… running until my lungs burn seems like the best solution.
“I understand,” she says with a sad smile. “I’ll keep the sheets warm for you.”
I pull the covers up over her, and she closes her eyes. I know most of my mother’s nights were spent like this, tossing and turning and worrying about what was going on in my father’s mind. I don’t ever want Mia to have to feel that discomfort. I want her to be able to sleep soundly, knowing everything I do is for her.
I don’t care what it takes. I never want her to have to live through what my mother felt. I don’t ever want her to have to phone in her love for me, or force herself to make it work because that’s what society wants. I want to fill her with as many babies as she wants, but I don’t want that to be the only thing she has to live for.
I walk down the hallway, leaving the door open just a crack, and my heart shatters in a million pieces when I hear her feint sobs.
23
Mia:
I feel like complete garbage and I’m sure I don’t look any better. Jakub gave me the rest of the week off from the agency, but I had to get out of the house for a little bit. I’ve been doing whatever I can to help Serafin make funeral arrangements, but I can’t stop thinking about that conversation I had with his mother.
I know how much he loves her and how much he’s going to miss her, but with every passing hour, I hate her more and more. Instead of making things right with her son before she passed away, she pinned this ugly secret on me. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t even have a conversation with him without getting my words all mixed up.
He’s out of it now, thanks to the never ending parade of guests coming to the house to pay their condolences with shots of scotch, but soon he’ll be sober. Soon I’ll have to confront him.
I can’t hide out in the studio forever, staring at a blank canvas and chain smoking. The doorbells jingle, and I tuck my hair up into a bun, snub out my cigarette, and try and contort my face into some other expression than deer in headlights. It’s probably him, and he’ll probably want to take me to lunch, take me to the museum, take me to a movie, fly me to Paris, and I’ll have to make up some excuse why I can’t be alone with him right now.
I made a promise that after the funeral, I’ll tell him everything I know, but as much as I can’t stand that woman, I’m not going to disgrace her life with drama. I’m above that. She’s gone now, and I’m not going to let her ruin the rest of our life together.