Ilaria

Everyone tells lies … and the unspoken lies cut the worst.

 

Blood. My hands were covered in it. Each time I looked at the pale-pink flesh of my palms, I could only see the bright-red smears left behind. Rationally, I knew I shouldn’t feel that way, but I can’t help it. She was gone—between one breath and the next—and had I been here, I may have been able to stop it.

Red and blue lights danced a jig across the faded yellow walls of the apartment my mother and I called ours. I cringed as an officer eyed the cabinet door precariously hanging near his head. We never had the money to fix it, and I’d been out every night the last two weeks trying to get a job in the bars or clubs as a waitress or bartender. But nothing panned out. All they wanted were parts of me I wasn’t willing to give, and I didn’t have the right documentation to for high-scrutiny jobs.

“You said your name was Ilaria Giuseppe and you are twenty-three years old?”

I lifted my head, taking in the hard look the cop leveled my way. “Yes, sir.”

He stared a moment longer before he nodded, and I released a pent-up breath, my nerves stretched thin. “Do you have anyone you need to call?”

Who do you call when there is no one? My mother was the only family I’d ever known, and my father had left before I was born. He must have been a great man; my mother smiled, soft and sad, anytime she talked about him. But he left us with nothing but a life where we were always on the move.

Never stay too long, Ilaria. It’s harder to keep all the lies straight and what you’ve told the truth about.

Yes, I’d learned to tell the truth only about my first name, ignore my last, mess my date of birth up by a year or two, and lie just above the truth. It was easier to remember things that way. But we’d gotten comfortable and stayed in New York longer than we should have, all because my mother had been making plans.

Plans that would go nowhere now.

“Ms. Giuseppe?”

How many times had the cop called me that and I hadn’t realized because it wasn’t my name? Shit. Don’t lose it. Not now. “Yes?”

“I said do you have anyone you can call?”

I shook my head and leaned back on the threadbare sofa, the only piece of furniture in the living room. “No one.”

It hurt to say it aloud. My mother was gone. A slip in the kitchen and her temple slamming into the corner of the counter ruined everything. What am I supposed to do without you madre?

“Your mother will be taken Presbyterian, and you can work with them there to make plans for her remains.” Officer Richardson, according to his nametag, flipped open a notepad and poised his pen above a clean, white page. “I know this is hard, but I just want to go over things with you one more time. You say you came home and found your mother like that?”

“Yes, sir.” Gone. She’s gone. I dug my nails into my palm to keep focused. All I could see was blood dripping slowly off the side of the counter. They hadn’t even cleaned it up. It was all that physically remained of my mother in these walls. Drips no one by me could hear.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

My chest tightened, and I sucked in a breath, ignoring the wheeze. I couldn’t lose it. Each breath was faster than the last, and my lips tingled. Focus on something else.

“Where were you before you came home?”

He was asking because I had on a skin-tight, higher-than-hell skirt with a bright-red corset top to match. Crossing my arms over my chest, I lifted my chin. I would do what was necessary to help my family survive.

“I was out looking for work.”

His frown made my teeth clench. “What sort of work, exactly?”

“Bars and clubs. I’m a bartender, but it’s a bit light on opportunities right now.”

“Know how to make a Hot Toddy?”

“Only if you tell me you’re a Jameson man.”

For a moment, his surprised look nearly made my smile. For just a few seconds, the world wasn’t folding in on itself. Yeah, that time I told the truth. He ran through a few more questions, gave me his condolences, and then I was alone. The sudden quiet after so much activity petrified me.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I find myself getting to my feet and heading into the kitchen. I need to clean, to find something to do with my hands before I pull every strand of my hair out. In a matter of an hour, I have the kitchen sterilized and nothing is left of my mother’s last moments.

Nothing.

But that was a lie too. I could still smell the subtle kiss of rose in the air from my mother’s cheap perfume. The remains of the dinner she’d been making made my stomach roll, and I raced to the bathroom. Finally, I could let it out—the rage, the helplessness … the pain. I cried out and bang against the door, fighting alone in the small confined space. The ache in my knuckles steeled through me, stiffening my spine and drying my tears. What am I supposed to do now?

If I were one for praying, I would’ve hit my knees. It never worked for me before. Instead, I stumbled to the single bedroom, my mother’s, and crawl onto the bed. There, the roses were stronger, and I screamed into her pillow. If I hadn’t been out looking for a job, would I have been here to save her? Would she have been waiting with chicken parmesan and crusty garlic bread? My questions weren’t answered, and I was fighting again, ripping her covers and throwing pillows. Figurines crashed to the floor, and only the sound of something heavier stopped me.

A single black box, like a safety deposit one from banks, was on the floor near the foot of the bed. I’d never seen it before, and I lifted it to inspect it. Nothing on the outside told me what was inside, and a slender keyhole kept it locked tight.

“Mother’s necklace,” I whispered.

She always wore a silver chain around her neck with a small, black key. When I asked her about it, all she told me was it wasn’t time to know. It seemed now was different. Her necklace had come off in her fall, the chain snapping, and I’d picked it up before calling the police. I carried the box into the kitchen and found the key.

“What is this?”

A large metal piece, about the size of my palm but hefty, was emblazoned with a red lion standing on his hindlegs in the center of a coat of arms I’d never seen before. Clenched in his teeth was a singular rose. The rest of the metal was gold. Nothing else was in the box, and I flipped the medallion over to see if there was a clue. When I turned it over, the front and back parted like a twisted locket. Inside were two dark-red fingerprints of blood.

“What the hell?”

I dropped it, swearing I’d touched hot lava, but a small piece of paper sticking out made me reach for it again.

Ilaria,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m so sorry. I never meant to let things go this far. I never had the time to explain, and it wasn’t safe. Find Oren Demetri and give him this. He’ll know what it is, and you’ll be safe. Your entire life will change, and another child, somewhere out there, will find his place again. I love you, and I wish I had more time, more courage to tell you what I did. What your father and I ruined.

Mother

Oren Demetri? What she’d done? I was alone in the world—no money, job, or family—but I had a name. A direction. Survival, for a liar, was all that mattered.

I would survive.