Chapter 35 - Amara
AMARA
“This tastes exactly the way it did five years ago,” I say as I take a bite of pizza margherita.
“Probably because they haven’t cleaned the pizza oven since then,” Bella jokes, and we all laugh.
I don’t care if they have or not. Even with its scuffed checkered floors and cheap paper plates, Diorio’s is arguably the best pizza place on this side of NYC.
“You go to a lot of bougie ass pizza joints in the city?” Gianni asks around a sip of his Coke.
I shake my head, still chewing. “I don’t eat a lot of pizza anymore,” I answer.
“She’s classy now. Her big job pays for better things than pizza so greasy you have to fold it in half so the pepperonis don’t slide off,” Eliza jokes.
“Listen,” I say as soon as I swallow. “That’s how you know the pizza is good.”
All my siblings laugh. I love it. I love being with them. I drove all the way out to their side of the city, an hour’s drive, so I could spend time with them.
I thought Ransome would fight me on it, but when I texted him about it, he sent a very simple go-ahead text in response, followed by a, Be careful. At a glance, it almost sounded endearing. Like he cares about my wellbeing.
But I’ve known Ransome Rozanov long enough to understand what it really means.
Don’t get us into any trouble.
Honestly, I don’t give a fuck. I slipped on some jeans and a comfy cut-off t-shirt and threw on some sneakers and booked it.
“How is the job going anyways?” Eliza asks. “You went pretty dark there for a bit.”
Well, sis, that’s because my boss is a mob leader who holds me hostage when I misbehave.
Obviously, I don’t say that, even though I kind of wish I could.
“I know, and I’m sorry about that. I picked up extra hours just to make sure we all have what we need.”
“Are you still at the same apartment?” Gianni asks, reaching for a third slice of our giant New York-style pizza.
I chew thoughtfully, deciding how to answer that. “I’ve been staying somewhere else. Closer to work.”
“More money and a new crib? Damn, sis, that doesn’t suck.” Gianni grins, and immediately I feel guilty.
They’re such good kids. Such humble people. And they’re still living in our childhood home, which, if I had to take a wild guess, is still a dump. And here I am, bitching on the regular about living in Ransome’s three-million-dollar penthouse where everything is basically brought to my doorstep.
And speaking of that.
“Damn, Amara. Is that Louis Vuitton?” Bella asks.
It hits me that, while I dressed very down today—both so I wasn’t flaunting my new wardrobe and because I wanted to be comfortable for once—I am carrying a very posh handbag right now.
“It is,” I admit.
“Good for you,” Eliza says. “I’m glad you’re using some of your new raise on yourself.”
And another wave of guilt hits the shore with tropical storm force.
In all honesty, I’m not spending much on myself these days. I really do either save the bulk of my income or send it to them. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m walking around in Rozanov luxury.
“Ugh,” Eliza lets out and I look over at her. “Speaking of money…”
“What’s up?” I ask.
She punches in a quick text and puts her phone away. “It’s nothing. Just a call out at the salon. They asked if I can cover.”
“Now?” Gianni asks, clearly annoyed.
“They’ve got three colors coming in tonight, plus it’s homecoming season, so lots of updos. The money is good.”
“Then you should go,” I tell her. “Don’t let me being here keep you from your work.”
“Says the sister who does nothing but work,” Bella mumbles.
“For us,” Gianni reminds her.
“Eliza, if you need to go, you go,” I smile. “And I’ll take the other two home.”
“You’re going to come to the house?” Bella asks slowly.
“Sure,” I say with more whimsy than I actually feel.
“But what if Dad is there?” she asks.
My thoughts exactly. I haven’t seen him in… years.
But I keep a strong lip. “Then he is.”
We pull up to the small white house. For a moment, I only stare.
It’s not as white as it used to be. The shutters are hanging a little loose, and the sidewalk leading to the door is overrun by bushes and vines, most of which look half dead.
“We haven’t really kept up on the place,” Bella admits as I put the car in park. Then she looks at her brother. “I think that’s your job.”
“I’m a mechanic, not a botanist,” he snaps back.
“That’s not what botanists do, idiot,” she snorts.
“It really doesn’t matter.” I undo my seatbelt and open the door. “All I care about is you two and Eliza. Frankly, the yard can rot.”
As can our dad.
“You’re coming inside?” Bella asks.
“Of course,” I answer as casually as possible, considering that I feel like I am going to throw up.
It’s an odd mixture of feelings swirling around in my stomach right now.
I haven’t been here in a long time, and most of the memories I have of this house aren’t good ones.
First there was yelling and fighting, burnt grilled cheeses and birthdays that came and went like any other day of the week.
Then, when she was gone, there was the scent of cigarettes.
And alcohol, stale and sour and consuming.
Whoever said vodka doesn’t have a smell has never been breathed on by a man who is passed out on the couch with enough of it in his system that it seeps out of his pores.
We walk across the gravel and I glance at the open garage with a small smile. Gianni’s car is in there. It’s a hotrod he’s been working on and, while I know it doesn’t run yet, it looks great.
But the smile drops as soon as we walk inside.
The home is… filthy.
Not messy in the sense of laundry hanging around or dishes in the sink.
It’s run down, with peeling paint and stains on the carpet that hasn’t been replaced since I was little.
There’s a pile of mail about a foot high on the counter and the windows are tinged with yellow.
But there’s also a container of Clorox Wipes and a bottle of bleach.
Good intentions from Eliza, I assume, to keep the place as livable as possible.
“Sorry about the mess,” Gianni says, shoving his hands in his pockets as he rolls back on his heels. He must have seen my face drop when I walked in.
“Don’t be sorry about anything.” I force my words through a plastered-on smile, hoping they sound sincere.
I’m the one who should be sorry.
Sorry that they still live like this while I live somewhere that feels like another world.
Sorry that it got this bad. Sorry that I don’t do more.
Bella must sense it too, because she starts picking things up in the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Gianni gets a call from the body shop and has to step outside. It allows me a moment to look around.
I step into the living room, noticing the fireplace mantle is bare other than a couple empty bottles of whiskey and some tacky Christmas decorations that look like they’ve been there for three Christmases. There used to be family photos there. A photo of Mom.
I swallow back the memory. I knew it would look like this. Feel like this. Smell like this. I guess I just didn’t know it would be this bad.
“Nora?”
The voice sends a chill up my spine and I actually jump, spinning around to find that the lump on the couch is not in fact a pile of dirty laundry.
It’s my dad.
He’s lying on his back, his head cocked to the side, his arm hanging over the edge, absentmindedly holding a bottle of beer that has spilled on the floor.
He looks like hell. Older than I remember, thinner. A shell of the man I saw the last time I was here. He doesn’t even have a beer belly anymore, which tells me beer isn’t fortifying his diet with unhealthy carbs—it is his diet.
His eyes, glassy and red, are vacant. Like he’s seen hell and never forgotten it. He blinks and says the name again.
“Nora? Is that you?”
My throat feels like sandpaper as I struggle to talk to the man who is too far gone to realize I am his daughter, not his wife.
“No, Dad. It’s me. Amara.”
He blinks again, struggling to make sense of my words. “What are you talkin’ about, baby? And where did you go? You went away for so… so long.”
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and let out a small sigh before I walk over to grab the beer bottle from him. At least it won’t make an even bigger mess. “I told you, Dad. I’m not Mom. I’m Amara—”
When I try to swipe the bottle from him, he grips it hard. For a second, both of us are just holding it, forcing our eyes to meet. He blinks again and lets out a hot, rancid breath before his face screws into a new expression. An expression I know and remember and tried to forget.
Anger.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” he mutters, gripping the couch with his free hand to pull himself up.
I yank on the bottle and free it from his hand.
“It’s not your house anymore, dad,” I say as I walk to the kitchen to throw it away. While I’m at it, I grab the empties off the fireplace mantle, the kitchen counter, and the ones he tried and failed to basketball into the trash can.
“The hell it isn’t. I still live here, you don’t.” His voice is getting louder, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s figured out how to stand up or if he’s just yelling. Bella has made her way outside and is now making herself busy by doomscrolling on her phone.
“You might live here, dad, but Eliza, Gianni and I pay the bills.”
“You send money?” I can practically feel his breath on me. I turn around and he’s standing in the archway of the kitchen, one hand on the frame and the other magically holding a new bottle of beer. Not that I am surprised he has a living room stash.
“For the mortgage, yes. And for my brother and sisters so they can eat and buy clothes and things for school and everything else.”
A gritty grin tugs at his lips, showing off a mouthful of slimy, yellow teeth. “Well, aren’t you just the uptown girl now. Too good for us, I guess.” He brings the bottle to his mouth and takes a swig, then wipes his lips with the back of his wrist.
“I never said that. I just said I send money to help. Them.”
“Of course. Because your daddy never did anything for you, did he? You have no reason to help me any, do you?”
His jabs are sharp, but nothing I can’t handle. I keep my stance, my eyes locked on him. There’s no fear. I stopped being afraid of this man long ago.
“I can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself,” I say.
“What a line. Sounds like something they’d feed you in college. Or therapy. You go to therapy now?”
I clear my throat. “I’m not here to talk to you. Or see you. I came to check on my siblings and see how bad things have gotten.”
My dad’s eyes narrow into slits as he saunters towards me, taking another swig of beer. I know that look. He’s pissed off and wants to fight.
But I’m not here for that. I’m here for them.
“To check on your siblings…” he echoes. “And to see if your old man is still a fuck-up?”
“I don’t care what you’re doing. Or not doing. All I care about is them being taken care of, which you are not doing. But soon, they won’t be here anymore.”
“So you’re all going to leave me then.” He stops right in front of me. And I know the next words he is going to say before they even come out of his mouth.
Just… “Just…”
Like… “like…”
Your… “your…”
Mom.
I cut him off before he can finish that sentence. “I’m going home.”
The door slams behind me. Outside, I pause to take a deep breath. My hands are shaking so hard I have to clasp them to make them stop.
Then I look out to find Bella standing next to my car, crying.
I rush over to my sister, pulling her against me and smoothing her choppy, bleached hair. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re okay.”
“I’m worried about you,” she sobs, and I pull away enough to look at her.
“Isabel. Why are you worried about me?”
“Because you’re trying to take care of us and we’re a mess.”
I cup her face in my hands and use my thumbs to wipe away the mascara trails. My baby sister is nothing if not alternative, and I love her for it.
“You are not a mess. He is a disaster and that is not your fault or my fault or anyone else’s. But I am going to get you out of here. I’m going to start looking for another place for the three of you to live, okay? Close to your school and Gianni and Eliza’s jobs. You hear me?”
Bella nods and I hug her again.
I wait until I am back in my car driving home to break down. The sobs come fast and hard, almost so hard that I need to pull over. It’s worse than I thought, and the guilt is unbearable.
As I head back to the penthouse, away from the cesspool my siblings are living in, I realize that I can’t give up. I can’t walk away from this job or the salary that comes with it or the man who owns my soul. The stakes are high, and the people I love most need me.
And I need them to be okay.