“You said you were taking me to the market,” she said. “I’ve drawn up a list, and we should go to the yarn shop as well. There’s this chenille stuff, it’s like butter through your fingers.” She continued stroking her hand through my hair.
I didn’t mention how she’d changed her tune. She’d slept on it, she’d gone through the initial telling me no, and now she’d accept my help. I wondered if she’d noticed it was me topping up her bank account each month, or whether she’d amassed a small pot of savings from not noticing it there.
Part of me wished I could’ve had somewhere to be attached to, somewhere I could’ve strolled the streets of as if I’d grown up there and experienced a childhood with my friends tossing balls to each other—or whatever was normal. I guess not having a normal childhood helped when I joined the FBI. They liked my adaptability, and how the only civilian contact in my life was my mom—and that she never checked in with me. On the other hand, I liked to make sure she was doing okay.
Breakfast was thin sliced gammon, scrambled egg, and toast. I’d brought it all with me, knowing she was only eating cereals and soups for all her meals. I was trying my best to make sure she was fed, and getting vitamins into her, but I don’t thinkshe’d touched the little pills since I was last here over Christmas, months ago.
We sat with plates on our laps as a sitcom played on the TV, my mom scratching her knife and fork against the tough gammon. It was tough to hear, and to be the adult about it all, when my soul craved to be home in my small apartment in Brooklyn, where I was able to exist in the comfort of my little palace, a soft cloud sensory playroom.
“How long are you staying?” she asked.
“I’m not sure, Ma,” I said. “But if you want, I can get a hotel.”
“Oh no, you can stay as long as you want,” she said. “But you might have to put toward the utilities. It’s expensive running a home.”
“Whatever you need.” In a way, I was placating her, because part of me knew she wanted to argue or test me. I’d grown a lot. I had the nerve now to not give in when she wanted an argument. Watching her eat, the aggression she was putting into her utensils made me want to cut the meat for her.
“Have you heard anything from your dad?” she asked.
Oh, god. She really wanted to argue aboutsomething, anything it seemed. If it wasn’t fighting not to take my money, it was fighting to take it, and now, conversation about my dad. “No, nothing for a few years now. Think he might be dead.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say, Kalen.” Her eyes turned to daggers before becoming soft as she smiled. “If he is, I’ve not heard anything.”
“I don’t think you’re listed as his next of kin,” I said. “You got divorced because of his gambling debts, right?”
She waved a hand at me, her fork sending bits of scrambled egg flying everywhere. “Even if we are divorced, it should count for something.”
“Well, I’ve not heard anything,” I said, and I knew I could find out if I asked any of my friends at the agency to look for information on him. But I wasn’t going to do that to myself, or her. Closure would’ve been nice, but he’d decided to leave several times, and each time we thought it was the last—so maybe we’ve already had our last time.
She shrugged. “He knows how to contact us if he needs us,” she said. “As long as he doesn’t need money.” Her brows rose. “I’m surprised he hasn’t been in contact with you, big fancy job and all.”
“Ma, you know I’d rather keep that to myself,” I grumbled. “The last thing I need is for him to be getting into trouble and trying to call to and see if I could bail him out.”
It brought out a little laugh from her, which was a win. Although it was sometimes impossible to know what I was going to get from her. Whether she was going to be the mom I thought would be all sweet and cuddly, or the one with a razor jaw that snapped and spit venom for even looking at her. Sometimes—most of the time—I felt like I had to be there as a parent to her. And it never felt nice saying that.
“You know I haven’t done anything like that, right?” she said, her brows rising up her forehead. “Because I’d never do that. I’d never stoop as low as him.”
I nodded. Of course it was all I could do. I really didn’t want to get into it right now. I knew it would turn her sour in only a matter of minutes. “So,” I said, slapping my thighs. “What else is on this shopping list?” I asked. “We can go anywhere, and get anything, as long as it’s close enough.”
***
Despite all my mom’s faults, she had great taste. It was never expensive taste, which my bank account preferred, but it wasdefinitely good, like the taste of someone who could’ve been huge in the fashion world if she’d been given the chance and had the confidence to go for it. Most of my clothes growing up were thrifted and tailored, and even now, she was tailoring for a bit of spare cash for the neighbors—wherever we went, she worked for the neighbors.
In a second-hand clothes store, my mom pushed a cart filled with clothes, and each item she put into the cart was accompanied by an anecdote about how people throw away good clothes every day, and how easily she could make them intothis,that,andthe other.
“I could make you a really nice suit for work,” she said.
“I have a large enough wardrobe,” I chuckled back. My eyes scanned every aisle and every door. Having her with me was great for getting around town and seeing if I could spot any of the Bianchi members following me around. I just needed to show them a little area of my life they could exploit before I could find my in. I never left my Ma in any real trouble, though. The door was triple locked with a camera, and that was before I even joined the FBI. Growing up with paranoia like that brought on a large bout of anxiety that I think the Feds appreciated. It meant I was always looking for exits, and was aware of people. “But if you want to make me something, I won’t stop you.”
“Good boy,” she said, patting my cheek before going back to wheeling her cart. “Keep up.”
“We gotta be quick,” I said. “We’ve still gotta go to the butcher for the good meat before it’s all gone.”
She wandered away, and that’s when a warm breath landed on the back of my neck. “Nice day for a shopping spree,” the voice said in a growl. “You’ve not left Boston, I see.”
I turned to see and feel the warm presence of the semi-giant Rocco Bianchi. There was a hint of smoke and gin on his breath. It made my insides twitch. I was feral for him in a waythat made any investigation tricky. If he asked me to bark, I’d yap, and if he asked me to jump, I’d be an Olympian over the pole. “Why would I leave?” I asked. “I’ve got a job at your bar. Right?”
He shook his head, but stopped as I placed my hand on his chest. A single finger slipped between the buttons of the white shirt he wore. “You work for the Feds, you’re not coming back to my bar.” His hand wrapped around my wrist.
