Page 9 of Savior

He shoves my shoulder as he strides closer.“Just showing my respect to one of the Lord’s disciples.”

My brother John is as non-religious as one can be. He hates organized religion and all it stands for. Though in my early years, I tried like hell to save him. But I settled for him just being my brother. It’s better for both our sanity that way.

“Luca, my sweet boy!” Mama says, swaying out of the kitchen as she wipes her flour-covered hands on her apron.

It matters not that I’m thirty-eight years old; I’m always her little boy.

“Mama, how are you?” I hand over my gift, and then she tugs me into her soft body for a hug.

I melt into her, letting her tea-tree-scented shampoo waft into my senses and soothe my soul. I’m convinced that a hug from this woman could end wars.

“Something is wrong with you?” She peels me off her, grasping me by the shoulders in both hands.

John smirks at me, then moves toward the kitchen with the wine. Mama knows everything. Always has. She can tell if it will rain hours beforehand and always knows when something is afoot with one of her family members.

She’s like a human lie detector.

“Nothing is the matter,” I tell her, lying boldly to her face. It would earn me a spanking if I were younger. But at my height of six feet three, it’s unlikely she can get me over her knee. Not that I’ll push the issue because she might damn well try.

She tsks at me, dropping her hands down to her ample hips. Her eyes grow hard as she glares at me in a way that says I’d better spill soon or suffer the consequences.

I’ll be honest: I fear my mother’s wrath more than the almighty himself.

“Mama, drop it. I’ll be fine.”

“Your health is okay?” she asks, narrowing her gaze.

She won’t give up on this anytime soon.

I lick my lips, contemplating falling on my knees before my mama and admitting defeat, admitting that I am in a crisis of conscience and faith.

That I’ve lost my way in the world and need reassurance and help.

But I need to be the pillar of strength. That’s in my job title.

“My health is fine, Mama.”

“Something is bothering you, my love. And Iwillfind out what. But for now, dinner is ready. Come.”

She comes to my side, sliding her arm into the crook of mine, beckoning me to lead her into the dining room.

I do so, heart palpitating because of her threat to delve into my secrets. All my life, she’s been able to find out anything she wants to. So, I know she will manifest her words and get theinformation she seeks, and I’m afraid of what she’ll think of me when she does.

“Crisis over? The man of god alright now?” John asks, pouring wine into two glasses, where water sits already poured over ice in mine.

Sunday night dinners are a staple in this family. We’d reinforced their necessity after Papa died. He’s been gone five years now, but Mama is just as fragile as she was the day we buried him.

John and I take turns checking in on her, ensuring she has all she needs, and giving her a hand where she needs it.

She’s a strong woman, our mama, but she hides a lot of hurt and weakness beneath that tough exterior.

I haven’t seen her attend Mass since Papa’s death, and I expected as much. Though I thought she’d return after some time had passed.

It’s normal, the anger toward God when someone leaves the earth before their time. So, I knew it was coming after we laid Papa to rest. I knew she’d need time to go through the grieving process and douse her anger.

It seems she’s more stubborn than anyone gives her credit for because even her habit of blessing before dinner isn’t something she does anymore, and John is all too quick to follow and discontinue the tradition.

I cross myself as I sayamenand raise my head back up.

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