Chapter Violet
"Why all these questions now, Vi?" Mom asks like she always does. This is not the first time we've had this conversation. I've lost count of how many times I've asked her over the years. At twenty-seven, you'd think I'd know when to let it go, but I just can't.
"Because Scott wants children and—"
She cuts me off, all too happy to change the subject. "I thought you two broke it off?"
I sigh. We did break it off. A month ago.
For several different reasons, but one of them was my inability to produce any information on my father.
Scott is a genealogist specializing in children's research.
He isn't about to bring children into this world without fully knowing their genetic makeup.
In other words, he's an anal asshole. If it had only been that, I might have been able to put up with it, but there were other things as well.
"We did, Mom, but that's not the point. The point is that I don't know anything about my father. "
Her hands fly in the air, and her eyes roll heavenward. "His name was Hank Meade. He died before Sebastian was born. There. Happy?"
Not really. She's told me all this before. This and nothing else. "How did he die?"
"Oh, why don't you just go ahead and rip your mother's heart out, won't you?" Her eyes fill with tears.
Shit.
I rush over to where she sits on the couch and wrap my arms around her. "I'm sorry, Mom. I really am."
"Me too," she hugs me back. "So sorry. You have no idea."
This is where our conversation always stops.
My mom loved my dad. I was five when he died, and I don't have any memories of him, save one.
I remember seeing him and my mom dancing by the Christmas tree.
It's fuzzy, and looks more like a scene from a movie, but I know it happened.
Mom can't even say his name without her eyes watering.
A fairy tale love is what she once told my brother, sister, and me.
A real-life Prince Charming. It wasn't so much her words, but the faraway look in her eyes and the wistful smile around her lips as she said it that had me spellbound.
I was still a kid, maybe nine or ten, but I swore I would never settle for anything less than what she and my dad had.
Hah, and look at me now; I nearly settled for Scott.
Still, it would be nice to know a little bit more about Hank Meade, father of three, husband of Linda Meade.
Hank Meade, the ghost. I've searched Google and every other search engine, but there is no trace of a Hank Meade who lived and died in New York City.
I've even expanded the search, first to all of New York, then to the entire East Coast, but there's nothing.
Before Scott and I broke up, he made me take a gene test, including one that claims to find your ancestors.
The results came back a few days ago, but I haven't had the courage yet to open them—I wanted to give Mom one more chance to tell me first. Partly because Scott and I took the test together, and partly because I somehow feel like I'm betraying my mom.
Which is stupid and childish, but there it is.
I might feel better if I had a picture of my dad, but even that doesn't exist. Shortly after Dad's death, our apartment burned down, and everything we owned was destroyed.
Mom said we were at the doctor's office for a checkup on her pregnancy with my brother Sebastian.
I suppose that was fortunate for us, but also unfortunate because we didn't have the chance to save anything.
The entire building burned down, and everything was gone.
One would think I'd have some memories of this, at least, because both were pretty traumatic events, but all I remember is mom waking me and Elaine, my sister, in the middle of the night. Elaine, a year older than me, claims she doesn't remember that either.
Elaine and I spent many childhood hours conjuring up a father who is as mystical to us as a unicorn.
In some of our stories, he was a policeman who was killed on duty while saving children.
In another, he was an astronaut still floating through space, with a small chance of coming home with fantastic tales one day.
In another, he was a secret agent, like James Bond.
He was forced to take on another identity and lost his memories. One day, he'll remember and come back.
My sister says she remembers some of our dad. Black hair, hazel eyes. She says I got his eyes, but my mom's blonde hair. I have to take her word for it.
Mom dabs her eyes, "Come, I've got some of the cheesecake you love so much in the fridge waiting for you."
I'd much rather continue our conversation, but I'm smart enough to let it rest. I'll just have to look at the report later.
Plus, she's right about one thing: cheesecake is my favorite.
She says it's an old family recipe, arousing my curiosity once again, but just like she doesn't want to talk about our dad, our grandparents are off the table, too.
"They're all dead, let them rest."
The problem is, I can't. I'm not Elaine, who's perfectly content to go along with Mom's don't ask edict.
And I'm not a gene-obsessed control freak like Scott, either—but he did have a point.
With all the advances in genetic screening these days, you can catch a lot of inherited conditions before getting pregnant.
A couple of simple tests, he said, and if something serious popped up, we'd at least have options.
I'm still not sure where I stand on any of that. Of course I want a healthy baby, but I'm not about to play God either. Luckily, I never had to dig too deep before we broke up. But I do know I want kids someday. When I find my Prince Charming—hopefully with a better fairy-tale ending than Mom's.
"So, how's the job? " Mom asks in a fake cheerful way, indicating that our previous conversation is over.
"Good," I lie. Because that seems to be the common theme between us.
The truth is, I've been disillusioned by my job for a while.
I'm a trauma nurse and was promoted to the ICU unit a year ago.
The money is good, really good, but seeing all that suffering, day in day out, is starting to wear me down.
Of course, there are good days when a patient who you didn't think would make it does, but those are few and far between.
Much more common are the ones where you just want to curl up in a corner and cry.
"How's ICU?"
"Intensive," I grin and wink at her. She smiles back in her it's all forgiven, just don't ask any more questions way. "Some days are harder than others."
"But you're saving money, right?"
I take the first bite of creamy heaven and close my eyes. "This is so good, Mom."
"Ought to be, cost a fortune, ten eggs," she laughs.
"I really hope one day you'll give me the recipe." I groan.
"You know it already."
I know the ingredients—well, partially—but not how to make it. Besides the exorbitant ten eggs, there is one kilogram—I've been trained on the SI system, which coincides with Mom's recipe—of even harder to find quark, a German cream cheese.
"You haven't answered my question," Mom prods.
Right. Sure. I wish that line of thinking would go both ways, Mom, but out loud, I proudly confide, "I've got about thirty grand in the bank now."
"Good. That's a good start." She reaches over to take my hand, the one that's not holding a fork, and squeezes it. "I want all your dreams to come true, baby girl. I wish I could help you."
She says that almost as if she could, but it would cost her dearly. Or maybe that's just my overactive imagination, which has been trained with stories of a fictive dead father.
"Only a few more years, then I'll be there," I tell her and myself.
In a few years, I should have enough money to buy myself the fixer-upper of my dreams and renovate it like they do in those shows.
Scott had been all aboard with it—he isn't all bad—there is a reason we dated for over a year and were about ready to get married and start a family.
He had the money, too, to make my dream come true.
"It'll be all the sweeter knowing you did it on your own," Mom says as if she can read my mind.
She's right. It will be. But honestly, I'd rather live it now, even with someone else's investment and involvement, than have to wait several more years.
My phone rings. Since part of my job is to always be on call, I check. Sure enough, it's St. Raphael's Medical Center.
"Violet speaking," I answer, sending an apologetic grimace at my mom, who regards me with pride in her eyes.
"Vi, it's Stacy. I have a new patient for you if you want him."
"If?" This is the first time I've ever been asked if I want a new patient. Usually, they're simply assigned.
"Kelly was assigned to him, but the minute she found out his name, she quit."
That sounds foreboding. Kelly has been an ICU nurse for a little bit longer than I have; besides Stacy, we are the nurses with the longest history. Most quit after three months, at least at St. Raphael's. I've heard the work is less intense at other hospitals, but they don't pay as well, either.
"Who is it?" I ask, seriously curious now.
There is a moment of silence before she almost whispers, "Marcello Orsi."
Marcello Orsi. Orsi? Orsi? The name reverberates through my brain, somehow familiar. And then it hits me.
"As in the Marcello Orsi?" I ask.
Across from me, my mom visibly pales. But I'm too shaken to pay attention just then.
Marcello Orsi is the son of a leading Italian mafia boss in NYC.
His father was accused of gunning down another mafia don during a dinner party, but all witnesses claim not to remember anything.
Currently, the father's on trial for racketeering, a trial that's been broadcasting on one of those twenty-four-hour news channels.
"Yes, the Marcello Orsi," Stacy confirms. "He's still in surgery, but as soon as he comes out, if he survives, he'll need a bed and a nurse waiting for him."
"What happened?"
"All I know right now is that he was shot. Several times, one to the head."
That doesn't sound good. "I'm on my way."
"Thank you, Vi. I owe you one."
I'm still not sure why Kelly quit over the assignment.
A patient is a patient, but I'm not going to question it.
So, he's notorious. He's a gangster. He's not my first, nor will he be my last, patient who probably doesn't deserve to be saved.
But as doctors and nurses, we don't get to make that call.
Our responsibility is to the body, not the person, at least in theory.
At least I won't run a risk of getting emotionally attached to this one, unlike my last, a young girl of fifteen who was hit by a drunk driver.
She fought for two weeks before she died.
That was hard. I got to know her family.
Her parents, her siblings, her friends. That's the part of the job I hate.
Well, no danger of that with this new patient.