Page 68 of Wounded King
"It will get better," Mom says out of the blue.
She's talking about me missing Marcello. But for her, it's different; her husband died. He was takenfromher. Marcello,Ipushed away.
"Do you still miss him?" I ask, hoping this time she will finally open up to me and tell me about my father.
She sighs and gets up, taking my plate to the sink. "Looks like it might be going to rain," she says, staring out the window.
"Mom, please," I beg.
She shakes her head. "Some stories should never see the light of day. Your father's and mine is one of those."
"Oh, for crying out loud, quit being so dramatic." I rise from the chair. "That's bullshit."
"Watch your tone," she admonishes.
I shake my head. "Is that really all you're going to say to me? Watch your tone? Don't I have a right to know who my father was?"
"Why? He's dead."
I throw my arms up into the air. "I'd still like to know. You're the only person who can tell me about him. And you won't… why? What did he do that was so bad?"
A hint of alarm passes over her features. "What do you mean? What do you know?"
"What? Nothing." I stare at her.Did I just get a tiny bit of information?
"So, have you applied back to your hospital yet?" She tries to change the subject again, and this time, I allow it. I'm tired of asking the same questions over and over for as long as I can remember, and getting no answers.
The image of a white envelope that has been sitting and waiting for me at home for weeks pops into my mind. The results from my DNA test. So far, I've been reluctant to open it, out of respect for my mom, and yes, some apprehension. Because once I open Pandora's box, there will be no turning back.
But this uncertainty is gnawing a hole into my stomach, and it might just be the key to distracting me from Marcello and my constant yearning for him.
So I pretend nothing has happened and that nothing out of the way was said, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon with Mom because that's what we do: we pretend.
Back home, I hold the letter in my hands and stare at the computer screen with the unopened email containing the same information.
I drum my fingers against the desk—too chicken to open either.
That's what you do, isn't it?My internal voice pipes up.
Do what?
Run. Run from something you claim to want to know so desperately, run from the man who made youfeel. Living in limbo.
I exhale deeply. Is that what I'm doing?
You want to go down those stairs so badly and find out what's there, but you don't have the courage to follow through.
Shit, am I really bitching myself out right now?
Yes.
I don't run, I defend myself. I don't. I'm a trauma nurse. I deal with shit every day.
Other people's shit.
I shut myself up because I don't want to hear it. I don't want to argue with myself.
I try to eat. I try to sleep. I try to watch TV. I do none of the above.
