Two hours later, I arrive in Springvale. It’s still raining. The landscape is familiar, but I don’t feel any connection to the town. My only tie is to the Torreses…and Mick.
I drive by the blue house where he grew up. From the outside you’d never guess at the dark violence that went on behind those doors. There are toys on the front lawn and a pink bike. Maybe happier memories are being made there now.
Another hundred yards down, I pull up to the white wooden house I lived in from fourteen to eighteen. My breathing is fast and shallow. Not much has changed. A fresh coat of paint. Blinds instead of curtains hang in the window that used to be my bedroom, where Mick gave me my first kiss. He was my first everything.
The rock garden I planted with the girls is still thriving, and the weathered cedar swing still hangs above the porch, suspended by metal chains. Papa T would often smoke his after-dinner cigars out here. I’d sometimes keep him company, not minding the smell the way Mama T did.
I step out of the car, breathing in the damp air, and I nervously smooth my hands over my black pants and herringbone blazer. I considered dressing more casually, but business attire gives me that added layer of composure, or at least the illusion of it.
As if she’d been waiting for me, the door swings open, and Mama T comes running out. Just the sight of her, a little older, a little plumper, and a little grayer, has my tears falling before she reaches me.
“Oh,mi preciosa.” She takes my hands and stands at arm’s length to get a good look at me. “My beautiful daughter is all grown up.”
“I’m sorry, Mama T…so sorry for everything.”
“Hush,” she says, hugging me tightly. “You’re here now and that’s all that matters.”
I bask in the comfort and security of her embrace. After my mother died, Rita Torres didn’t just hold me while I cried. She worked it out with Child Protective Services to take me home. No one had ever done anything so kind and generous for me. As much as I held back, afraid to let myself love my new foster family, I still knew then that this woman would always be there for me. I wish I had let her be there when I needed her the most.
“What a pair we make.” She pulls back with a wet smile, lighting up her lovely, lived-in face. “Blubbering on the walkway in the rain.”
“There’s so much I need to tell you,” I say around my sniffles, “so much I need to explain.”
Hooking her arm through mine, we head toward the front door. “I’ll put on some tea and we’ll talk.”
We spend the morning doing just that. We grieve for the baby we never knew, for the ones I’ll likely never have, and for all the lost years. She takes me to visit Papa T’s grave site, so I can say a proper good-bye.
When we return, Mama T makes us lunch. She fills me in on Gabi and Maria. I stare in disbelief at the pictures of the little girls I knew at three and eleven years old, respectively, now young women. Gabi in her senior year of high school, living with Victor and Isabelle as a show of independence. Maria married with three children of her own. I peer into their sweet young faces, and it hurts my heart that I’ll never have that.
Mama T tells me the family has kept up the tradition of Sunday brunch, rotating locations, and invites me to Maria’s for the next one. I’m not sure yet how Victor’s going to respond to me or if I’ll be ready to see Mick again in a matter of days, but I nod in agreement because of how much it means to her.
After putting the photo albums away, she brings me up to speed on the local gossip and who’s doing what. Malcolm Peters is still the sheriff, only now he lives in a mansion up on Sunset Hill. A gift from Mick for pretense I would imagine. Maybe to keep the media hounds from sniffing out a story.
J. T., my high school tormenter, hasn’t amounted to much. No surprise there. Molly, the closest thing I had to a girlfriend, is still single and works at a Chicago TV station as the producer of a women’s talk show. And Johnny Tyler, the holy terror I used to babysit, is now a pastor.
“God help us,” I say, and we burst out laughing.
“Johnny grew up well,” Mama T assures me. “But sometimes I remind him of his antics when he’s being all serious and pastor like.”
“Remember the time he was seven and locked me out of the house when I went to pay for the pizza delivery because he said he was too old for a babysitter?”
“I do.” She chuckles. “You called from a neighbor’s in a fit, and I came over with Vittorio and Micah as reinforcements.”
“While you and Victor tried to reason with Johnny through the front door, Mick scaled the house as though he were Spiderman to get to the open window on the top floor.”
“Lord,” she says and presses her hand to her chest. “I thought he was going to crack his fool head open.”
“So did I.”
“That boy would have done anything for you.” Her wise eyes touch mine. “He still would.”
A bittersweet warmth pumps through my veins, and I swirl the Diet Coke in my glass. “Mick would do anything for the people he cares about.”
“True.” She nods thoughtfully. “But it’s different with you. He called before you got here.”
I take a sip of my drink. “That’s why you were expecting me?”
“Uh-huh. He knew you’d keep his secret about the girl—the one you saw him with—and he wasn’t about to let you take all the responsibility. He pegged you right. You didn’t tell me that part.”
