My soul feels as roughly calloused as my hands, worn with exhaustion. Yet, I push myself out of the room, clearing my eyes, easing the throbbing in my chest, focusing on stopping her shaking… not my own.
Will this whiplash ever cease? Will I live with it forever?
I can’t fathom bringing her to the manor tonight. Neither of us is ready for it, although she would never admit it. We can address all that tomorrow. For now, I guide her into the family penthouse, with the entirety of New York City stretching out behind us—elevated above the city of lights.
Sophie walks through the foyer, facing this reminder of our past head-on. Less enthusiastic, I beeline for the kitchen, seeking something to distract me from what I just overheard.
“Drink?” I rasp, already pouring aged whiskey over ice.
My temple throbs, my fingers massaging pressure into the ache as I guzzle the liquid fire.
“What happened to your mother?”
Get your shit together. “Brain tumor. She was gone in a matter of weeks.”
I wish I could convey what losing my mother so suddenly did to me, but my response escapes through clenched teeth.
My eyes find Sophie by the fireplace, holding the funeral announcement. A deeper glance into the room reveals expressive details of my mother’s final days: a hospital identificationband I couldn’t bring myself to throw away, a partially knitted blanket still draped over the rocking chair by the floor-length window, forever unfinished, and the note she wrote in perfect penmanship on the coffee table.
Mio figilo,
You are my one true joy.
Smile. Life is too short not to.
“I'm sorry,” Sophie says quietly.
She probably doesn’t think I answer. That’s how low my voice has deepened—nearly non-existent. “It’s fine.”
How many times have I told myself that over the past four years… How many times?
Leaving the malt that could get me rip-roaring drunk, that could ease every uncomfortable ache within me, I join her in the living room, needing sobriety to get out what comes next.
“Your mother is in California. Santa Barbara.”
Sophie doesn’t react, her eyes perusing the familiar space. “She always did like the sun.” Silence fills the room momentarily before she finds the courage to ask, “Did she ever call?”
I wish I could lie and craft another family for her, one less evil. “No. Neither did Vito.”
“Did Victoria ever call you?”
“No.”
“It’s all the same,” she says, sounding as numb as I feel.
She’s been emotionless since she unburdened her traumas onto Courtney. I'm unsure whether it’s exhaustion or something else, as I watch her vacant gaze drift to the panel of windows, staring out at the sleepless city.
Her heartache expels everything else. My battles. My own ravaged heart. My world narrows, honing in on sparing her anything else, evenonemore moment trapped in that bottomlessabyss. She is my salvation, the sole being on this Earth that has the power to exorcize these terrors tearing at me from within. I must be that for her, even when I'm just as low.
“Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
My hand slides into hers. “To the beginning.”
The Met at night consists mainly of dimly lit corridors, where darkness envelops the artwork, creating moving shadows on the marble sculptures and displayed artifacts. In every room, spotlights highlight the pieces, serving as our only navigational aid through the gallery.
This was once Sophie’s favorite escape, back when we first got married. My father never granted me enough time to experience this with her, assigning draining duties during the day and club surveying at night.
