Page 54 of Revere
Mom frowns at Mila’s outfit again. She doesn’t say anything, but I know what she’s thinking. Mila’s legs are bare, and the hem of her skirt is too short. It’s one more reason she’ll decide Mila isn’t good enough for my brother. When, in reality, Mila is the most loving, caring person he could be with.
It was strange coming to terms with the idea of my best friend and brother dating on the car ride over here, but I understand why he finds comfort in her, given the environment we grew up in.
“There’s a bathroom outside the library, three doors to the left.” Mom smiles at Mila, but it isn’t friendly. “I can call someone to guide you.”
“I’m sure I can find it.” Mila grimaces, turning to leave.
Mom watches her while my attention moves to the large cross hanging over the fireplace, gifted to us by Deacon Beech. The fact that Mom still displays it proudly makes my stomach churn more than the sight of any other cross. And sometimes I wonder why she still has it here. For me or for Alex? Maybe to remind us all what happened.
And what came after.
My gut coils into a tight spring as I trace over the intricate details carved into the wood. Religion was never a comfort when my mom used it as a form of control. It was one more reason to bow my head and listen. One more way to feel guilty, whether I should or not. In her eyes, I’ve never been innocent.
The library door clicks closed behind Mila, and I turn to find my mother watching me.
“Your brother is testing us.” Mom takes a sip of her drink. “He knows bringing that girl here will irritate your father.”
“Or Alex just likes her.”
Mom scoffs. “She grew up with a carnival. Did you know that?”
“Yes.” Even if I only found out recently. “Why does that matter?”
“This is your fault.” Mom ignores my question, shifting her irritation from my brother to me, like she always does. “If you were here, you could keep these whores from distracting him.”
“Mila isn’t a whore.” I barely hold my composure. “And I don’t control him any more than you do. Alex does what he wants.”
“You’re being selfish running off to LA. Flitting about in that terrible city.”
“I’m allowed to pursue something for myself.”
“You are a member of this family.” Mom’s voice sharpens. “And you will remember that.”
“Or else what?” My eyes narrow.
Mom taps the stem of her glass in an unnerving standoff. We both know what she would have done when I was younger, but that ended when I started living in the dorms at Briar. She couldn’t risk anyone finding out and it tarnishing her reputation.
“I used to be like you once, Patience. You think I don’t understand you, but I do. Except, I accepted my obligations without so muchfight.” The word comes out through gritted teeth, like it irritates her to have to say it. “But I suppose that’s because my father wasn’t nearly as lenient as I am.”
Lenient isn’t a word I’d use for my mother. Although, compared to my grandfather, it’s not an entirely inaccurate statement. My grandmother was kind to her core, but my grandfather was the exact opposite. His personality was adistilled version of my mother’s dark side. Pure hate and callousness.
Mom pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a quick breath to collect herself. “Your father was a good match. I knew what had to be done, and I accepted it with grace.”
“But you didn’t love him.”
Mom’s eyes snap to mine, all warmth gone. “I was seventeen. I didn’t know what love was, and it didn’t matter.”
I’m surprised she says that much when it’s rare she talks about her relationship with my father. He’s always been in love with my mother. Fawning over her and protecting her above all else. She’s the one person he listens to outside of the House. But it was clear to me from a young age that love was one-sided between them.
“Did you love him eventually?” I ask, knowing I’m pushing it, but something about the wrinkles between her scrunched brows makes me wonder what’s bothering her.
“Him?” Her stare moves up to the cross as she rubs her rosary. “Love is never that simple, Patience.”
It’s not an answer, and if anything, it leaves me with more questions. But she avoids my stare, and I know better than to continue trying to push it. I shouldn’t care at all. My mother doesn’t have a heart; I’ve learned that firsthand. It’s ridiculous to think she could have ever loved anyone but herself.
Of all the things I’ve done tonight, asking my mother about love might be the most absurd.
What would she know?
