He adds the tomato and avocado to a slice of bread and then grabs lunch meat from the fridge. Either he brought more groceries, or Abe’s dad made a trip. There’s a stack of Tupperware indicating how he spent his day here.
“Your mother told me she had gotten a job as a bank teller. That your grandmother had agreed to watch you. I’d never felt so ashamed in my life.”
“Mom was just trying to help,” I reason. That’s what they both did. Living a humble life, within their means.
“Yes,” Dad agrees, sliding a sandwich over to me. “But I’d had a plan, and it frustrated me when it all went to shit.”
My dad rarely curses.
“Your mother told me to get over my pride. That being a two-income family meant more savings. Layoffs were common back then, and I’d just started with the city. Looking back, she was wise to realize it’d be a good idea in case something happened to one of our incomes. But it took me a long time to realize that,” he clarifies. “Because for months, if not longer, I carried around that failure. The knowledge that I’d moved us into a home and had almost lost it after only a year.”
“You’re the one who taught me to keep going,” I say, swallowing the first bit of food I’ve had in twenty-four hours. “To make a plan andstick with it.”
It’s why I’ve got soccer trophies in my childhood bedroom.
“To put in the practice,” I add, thinking about all the time I spent in the gun range.
“And what did your mother teach you?”
I think for a moment. “That sometimes to achieve your goal you have to make changes to the plan. That it’s okay so long as you get to the end result.”
She told me that when I broke my wrist in the ninth grade. I should’ve made the varsity soccer team, but the injury meant I wouldn’t be able to until my sophomore year.
“This is a setback, son. I know it frustrates you, seeing Isolde hurt. You take after me and hate failure.”
That’s what the swirling, crush of unease in my chest is. I failed to keep Isolde safe.
Dad makes another sandwich, passing it over to me. I take it without a second thought, giving in to the gnawing hunger.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, aware of the Fujimori’s in the living room.
“Even if you did, it’s not just about you,” Dad says. “This is Isolde’s life, isn’t it? How does she want to move forward?”
I suck avocado off my thumb. I’m inclined to believe Isolde isn’t in any position to be making plans, but Dad corrects me.
“Jane got her to sit up,” he says. “The doctor says she can move around.”
But she doesn’t want to. It’s natural when the body goes through trauma, depression can hit hard and fast. Those texts from Lennie and Adeline stick out in my mind. Adeline had sent Isolde contact information for a therapist before yesterday’s attack.
Isolde’s in the thick of this. And I’m praying she’ll find a life raft before another Spider shows up.
CHAPTER 28
Tristan
Ren calls me ten times before I pick up the phone.
“She’s fine,” I grunt, locking the door after the doctor leaves. Jane got Isolde to eat, and they took her off the IV. She’s quiet but says she’s comfortable.
We’ve yet to really speak, and I don’t like Ren monopolizing my time now that I’ve got Isolde alone.
“What in the fucking fuckery, Trevino. Do you not know how to answer your fucking phone? Jesus Christ. Isolde gets shot. What the fuck am I paying you for?”
“You aren’t paying me.”
“I am totally?—”
“Did you sign a contract?”
