I'd check out books from the library, thick ones with illustrations of ancient civilizations and timelines of wars and empires. I'd lie in my bed in our tiny apartment and read for hours while Mom worked.
One year, for my birthday, she bought me a biography set. Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth I, and Catherine the Great.
I used to fall asleep pretending I was a professor. That I would stand in front of a chalkboard, wearing glasses too big for my face, and talk about ancient cities and forgotten queens.
In that life, I thought I'd grow up to be a history professor.
My mom even told me I could do it. That I could be anything I wanted.
My poor mother.
It's been so long that sometimes I'm scared I've forgotten the sound of her voice. I would never say that out loud, not to anyone, but the thought sticks in my side like a thorn.
What kind of daughter forgets her mother?
I push the thought away. I don't want to cry.
I force my attention back to the screen. The scruffy man is talking now about King Henry's many wives, about how histastes in food were as extravagant as his appetites in other areas. He laughs, gesturing at a fake roasted peacock displayed on a platter.
I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, my eyes fixed on the TV.
The documentary moves on, showing recreations of royal kitchens, servants rushing back and forth with trays of food, cooks shouting orders over the roar of open fires.
I lose track of time, maybe an hour has passed, maybe more, and then the knock at the door nearly sends me flying backward.
My whole body jolts as though struck, my fingers clutching the robe tight against me.
The door opens before I can say anything.
"For you," a deep voice says.
Tommy. The guard who dragged me out of the basement.
He steps inside, sets a large cardboard box on the dresser, nods once, and leaves without waiting for a response. The door shuts and locks behind him.
I stare at the box.
Slowly, I stand and walk over to it.
The smell hits me first.
Cheese. Tomato sauce.
Pizza.
I open the lid carefully, my hands trembling.
Oh my God.
Hawaiian pizza. He actually got it for me.
Golden cheese, huge thick slices of ham, little cubes of pineapple caramelized at the tips. I inhale and the scent is so familiar, so tied to memories I haven't allowed myself to touch that my knees go weak.
I press my hand to my mouth, trying to hold back the tears that are suddenly burning behind my eyes.
How can someone I've been told is an enemy do something like this for me?
I don't understand it and I sure as hell don't deserve any of it after what we've done to his family.
