Chapter 18
“It’s okay, Mom,” I try to sound upbeat as we leave the grand, white building. “There’s still the foundation. Hopefully, they’ll have good news. Let’s not give up. We have options.”
“Of course, baby.” She gives me a weak smile. It was probably meant to be reassuring, but Mom doesn’t quite manage to hide the look of defeat in her eyes.
My heart constricts. My mom is the strongest, most resilient woman I know.
Before her condition deteriorated, she never gave up when faced with adversity in her life.
For years, she held down multiple jobs to put food on our table and keep us clothed.
It was necessary because a large part of what my dad earned went to Lucrezia’s mother for child support.
After Dad died, Mom worked even harder to make sure we wouldn’t be kicked out of our home.
I remember being eight or nine years old, and Mom setting a big bowl of beef stew on the table for me while she had only a slice of toast with peanut butter on it. When I asked why she wasn’t eating stew, too, she told me that her stomach got upset when she ate meat.
There were a lot of similar instances. She wouldn’t eat cake she’d bring home from work because of heartburn.
Tell me to finish off the leftovers of the chicken pot pie because it gave her gas.
For the longest time, I was convinced Mom struggled with digestive issues, while in fact, she was going hungry so I could eat.
Pretending for my sake. She never complained.
As long as she was physically capable, she didn’t miss a single day of work.
And always, whether sick or tired or hungry, she smiled.
I’m worried she’s doing the same now. Giving up and sacrificing once more because she believes she is a burden to me.
“Trust me, Mom, I have a good feeling about this.” I, too, force a smile as we get on the bus. Today seems to be that kind of day—filled with fake reassurances.
The financial transplant coordinator has been helping us explore the various sources of funding. So far, nothing Mom has been approved for. But there is still the charity foundation option. Or, there was.
We’ve been anticipating their decision next week, but, in actuality, I received it this morning. Unfortunately for Mom, there’s another applicant who will be the beneficiary of the organization’s generosity this year.
I’m left with what seems to be my only choice.
Asking Ms. Zara for a loan. Knowing how Mom feels about borrowing money, I left that idea simmering in the back of my mind while pursuing the various alternatives suggested by the financial transplant coordinator.
I’ve also kept my thoughts about asking Ms. Zara to myself because I know Mom would never allow it.
She’s seen what happens to people when they take out a loan from the Mafia and are unable to pay it back.
Trying to convince her that the Spadas wouldn’t hurt me won’t help.
Even if she believed me, it wouldn’t matter.
Mom would never agree to a loan from them.
I hate lying to her, but I decided not to tell her about losing out on the foundation funding. I figure I’ll borrow money from Ms. Zara, but tell Mom the funds are from the charity.
Then I’ll just work to pay it back.
As soon as we get settled on the bus, I text Ms. Zara to see if I could come by to talk to her about a private matter.
I asked for a day off from working at the Spada Estate today, but I really don’t want to wait till tomorrow to have this conversation.
While Mom dozes with her head on my shoulder, I do a bit of rough math to figure out how long it would take me to pay the money back.
If I keep going as I have been with my various jobs, relying on the arrangement with my silent guest—assuming he’ll want to continue meeting every Saturday—it’d take about ten years.
Ten years.
It doesn’t matter. I can do a decade. Even if my silent guest chooses not to continue with our visits, there will be someone else. Someone who might want something more than talking. Maybe someone like the man the other night. I’ll have to endure. I will. I’ll do anything for Mom.
The ping of an incoming message arrives while I’m helping Mom off the bus a block away from our apartment building. While Mom heads toward the corner store, I stop to fish out my phone.
“Are you coming?” she asks.
I stand frozen, seeing that the message is from Ms. Zara.
“Iris? Baby, is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Can you go ahead, and I’ll meet you inside? I need to get this.”
“Sure, sweetheart,” Mom says while I open the text app.
15:03 Zara: Sure! I’m home all day. Heads-up, though… Massimo is on a bit of a warpath. Don’t take it personally if he snaps at you. He’s dealing with an issue that just came up with the IRS, and something about our accounts being frozen.
And there it is… The hits just keep on coming.
I shove the phone back into my bag and hurry after Mom.
I’m about to duck inside the store when a vaguely familiar man in a black suit approaches, blocking my way.
“Miss Fabbri?”
“Yes?”
“I have a message for you from Mr. Ruffo.”
I gape at the man, utterly confused. “For me?”
“He’d like to see you tomorrow morning at his office and will send a car to bring you to him. I strongly suggest you comply with this request, if you know what’s good for you.”
He gives me a nod, and without waiting for my response, gets behind the wheel of a sleek black car parked at the curb and pulls away.
As I watch the taillights get lost in traffic, I realize where I’ve seen that man.
In Capo Brio’s library. As one half of Ruffo’s “dead body disposal squad.”