CATERINA
“It’s nice of you to stick around to make sure your old man’s taking care of himself.” Dad finishes unloading the cold stuff into the fridge before standing up straight. He eyes me warily, as if he’s trying to figure me out. “However, you don’t need to take another day off work to look after me. I’m fine, and you can’t afford to lose your job.”
“I know.” I turn my back to him before filling a pot with water at the sink. It’s a relief to be able to loosen my face up a little—it’s been more than an hour since we went out for groceries, and I spent the entire time straining to keep my expression neutral. I’m exhausted, and my cheeks ache already. And it’s all because I can’t let him know what’s going on in my head.
“Honey? Did you hear what I said?”
“Hmm?” Turning off the faucet, I set the pot on the stove. “Sorry. I couldn’t hear you over the water.”
“We’ll both head to work tomorrow, and when you get home, I’ll have dinner ready for you.” He pulls out a pitcher to mix up iced tea, something we always drank with dinner when I was a kid. The first time I ate dinner at a friend’s house, the fact that they wanted us to drink water, was horrifying. I thought everybody drank iced tea, the powdered kind from the can.
It always made me feel like I was helping with the meal, pouring the powder and stirring it into the pitcher. Testing the sweetness. Mom would try it after me and give me a thumbs up. “Thank you so much for being such a big helper.”
Between the constant reminders of her and the fear that I might’ve betrayed her with Gianni, it’s astonishing I can get through something as simple as fixing dinner for us. I zoned out a few times when we were at the store and kept trying to add things to the cart after Dad had. Ugh.
I have to shake myself out of the distraction gripping me these past two days. Like just now, walking into the house, I could have sworn somebody was watching me. It’s ridiculous, really, and just another way Gianni has sunk his nails into me. In real life, people don't lurk around in the shadows, stalking girls and claiming it's because they love them. I have to adjust my thinking before I lose my sanity.
It's already bad enough I'm walking a thin line with Dad. Weighing every word I use, tiptoeing around the obvious. The way he let the house fall to pieces along with himself. The things he said about Mom and Gianni, which he still hasn’t uttered a word about.
I wanted to give him the time and space to do the right thing on his own. I’m not deluded—I didn’t think he’d break down and pour the whole thing out, but this is a huge development and she was my mother. Don’t I deserve to know the truth?
It’s a relief when he retreats to the living room at my suggestion and turns on the ball game. I can practice in my head what I want to say once we sit down to eat.
Dad, I’m going to lose my mind if you don’t tell me what you meant about Gianni murdering Mom. Yeah, sure, that’ll work. He won’t be completely shocked at all. I’m still unsure if he remembers what he said before passing out. I want answers, but I don’t think I can dump them on him like that.
I guess the best way to go is to be gentle. Hey, Dad, you said a few things the other night, and I was hoping we could talk about it. I mean, that’s normal. It’s almost enough to make me lose my hold on the plates I pull out of the cabinet. Gianni. Mom. Impossible.
But what if it is possible?
I hate that question. It’s the reason why I haven’t gotten into it yet with Dad. Unable to come up with a motive, I can’t see it being true. Gianni wouldn’t murder an innocent young mother, for fuck’s sake. A flash of bitter disbelief blazes through me, leaving in its wake a horrible taste in my mouth. He’s many things, but he’s not that sort of a monster.
You’re assuming she was innocent.
Stupid subconscious. That could be the reason Dad doesn’t want to offer an explanation. It might mean sharing a lot more. I was eight years old—what did I know? So many things could’ve passed under my nose without me ever noticing. I don’t think I could handle having that picturesque image of her shattered, but I have no other option. I need the truth. At the very least I need to know what makes Dad so sure it was Gianni who killed her.
By the time the food’s ready, I’m not closer to having any sort of resolution than I was before. This is ridiculous. Grow some balls Caterina! Since when can’t I talk with him? Okay, so he can’t know about Gianni or about Luciano hitting me with his car or about where Luciano is now… fine, I can’t talk to him about most of what’s gone on lately.
This isn’t the same. We’ve always been close, but especially over the loss of mom. If there is anyone I can talk to about her, it’s him.
“Goulash?” Dad’s eyes light up at the sight of what’s waiting on the stove. It isn’t goulash, actually, just macaroni mixed with ground meat and tomato sauce. One of my favorites from when I was little.
“I can’t help thinking about the past,” I admit as he fills up a plate. “When Mom taught me how to make that. I’m so glad I had the chance to learn.”
“Me, too.” He’s smiling fondly as he sits at the dining table.
“I feel like she’s still here with us at times like this.” Heavy-handed? Yes. I’m laying it on thick, hoping he picks up the hint and runs with it.
“It makes me happy to think of you keeping her memory alive.”
Fuck. This is torture. He’s so happy, eating and smiling, and all I want is to ruin things by bringing up the painful past.