“Have you thought about what kind of dress you’d like?”
“No.” Dress shopping has been the last thing on my mind, what with never knowing if I’d see the light of another day and all.
I wonder if she knows. She obviously knows something, but how much? I can’t envision Pietro confiding in her as he loosens his tie and unbuttons his sleeves after a long day of work, but maybe he does.
Does she know her husband has men watching my house? Does she know it might be my husband who wanted them there to assure no knight in shining armor comes to my rescue if he decides one night he’s had enough of my shit? Does she know her husband may ultimately be responsible for my death, just like he was my father’s?
“How’s Paul?” she asks, like there’s even a chance of me answering, let alone caring.
There isn’t and I don’t.
After a moment passes, she says, “Pietro says you two have been having problems.”
I’m too tired for this shit.
“Paul and I have never had anything but problems,” I state, resting my head against the window.
She’s quiet for another few seconds, then she asks quietly, “Who’s this other guy?”
My pulse quickens at the mere mention, however indirect, of Liam. I imagine another lifetime where we would’ve talked about a man I had feelings for, but this is not that lifetime.
I don’t answer, but I’m tempted to. The problem with being as isolated as I am in the world is there’s no one to turn to. I’m an island, no friends, no similarly-aged sister, not even a mother to confide anything in. I bottle it all up, because there’s no place else for anything to go.
“How’d you meet him?”
I don’t even like her, but God, do I want to tell her.
“What’s he look like?” she tries again, a lightness to her voice as she tries to coax me into girl talk.
I finally turn to look at her and she brightens, thinking I’m going to spill like she’s my girlfriend and we’re on a joyous trip to the mall.
Instead I ask, “Why did you keep my bedroom the way I left it?”
The light goes right out of her face. For a minute, I don’t think she’ll answer, so I lay my head back against the glass.
“I don’t know,” she finally says. “I guess… it felt like I couldn’t lose that part of you, even if I lost the rest.”
She says it like I’m the bad guy and she’s the victim. Poor her, losing her daughter. I roll my eyes and don’t ask anything more.
When we get to the store, I’m already exhausted. I didn’t have much energy to begin with, but just the car ride with her zapped me of what little energy I’d mustered.
As we pass racks of men’s clothing, I see a fitted black shirt that reminds me of Liam. I don’t think about it, I certainly don’t intend to, but as we pass it I reach out and caress the front.
My mom gives me a side eye and looks back over her shoulder at the shirt. “Pretty shirt.”
“Yeah.”
“Does he wear shirts like that?”
“Paul?” I ask, deliberately oblivious. “No.”
Just the thought of Paul in a shirt like that makes me want to retch.
“No, I—what’s his name? I feel silly not knowing.”
“Why would you?” I reply, and walk a little faster, hoping to leave her behind.
But she doesn’t give up. “Because I’m your mother. You were a teenager the last time you talked to me about a boy you liked.”