Chapter 15 #2
Tre reaches out her hand with the IV attached while her other arm continues to fist the back of her mother’s coat.
“Joaquin.” Kathleen’s warning me away as strongly as Tre’s begging me to approach.
“No, Mom. I need him.”
“Chica—”
“Mo chuisle?—”
“Mom, I want my boyfriend. I may be the pulse of your heart, but he has mine.”
Kathleen leans back, perched on the edge of the bed. She stares at her daughter as I warily approach.
“Considering the monitors you’re attached to, I suppose I should be saying the pulses of my heart, shouldn’t I?”
She emphasizes the second “s” in the word. It fills the space that now feels cramped when it hadn’t with six of us hovering over Tre.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Did you do this, Joaquin?”
“Mom, we did it together.”
I want to die.
Seriously. I want to die.
I’ve wished for death before.
Grief and survivor’s guilt have been constant companions since I was a tween.
Pain from nearly fatal wounds is no stranger to me.
This? This is far worse.
Kathleen’s as brutal as any O’Rourke woman. She’ll show me no mercy. I’d rather face Frank Vizzini, Tre’s father, in a dark alley than Kathleen in a hospital where people would be foolish enough to revive me.
“I know how babies are made, Trish.”
My girlfriend’s pallid face flushes nearly fuchsia. “I just meant…”
We all know what she meant.
I’m as mortified as she is. This isn’t a conversation I pictured having with Kathleen three months ago. I hadn’t pictured having any conversation with her ever. Once I did picture it, it wasn’t happening in an emergency room bay.
“Is Dad on his way?”
“Yeah. So is everyone else.”
“Everyone? The guys?”
“No. They’re busy. Your aunts and uncles.”
?Qué mierda de vida!
“Mom, you can’t let Dad get too angry. Not here.”
“When are they moving you up to a room? I assume they’re keeping you for observation.”
“They are, and I don’t know.”
“Tre, I can check on that. Let you have some time with your mom.”
I’m certain they only suggested keeping her for observation because they recognized her last name, and I might be hovering a little excessively.
They likely don’t want to take any risk that Tre leaves and winds up miscarrying or right back here.
I think the average woman would be sent home within a few hours.
“No. That’s what a call button is for. Stay. Please.”
She softens her tone at the end. I don’t know if she fears being alone with her mother, the rest of her family showing up, or me running for the hills.
“If that’s what you want, but I really think you should talk to your mom in private.”
“I’ll just tell you everything later.”
I don’t mind either of them seeing me cringe. It’s the only reaction that’ll keep Kathleen from killing me. The last thing I need is for her to think I’ve already coerced Tre into sharing things.
“How about some ice chips?”
“Joaco, if you really want to go…”
“I don’t, chiquita, but it’s the right thing to do.” I lean over and kiss her forehead. “I’ll just be on the other side of the curtain.”
“As an open target? No!”
“No one’s going to shoot or stab me here, Tre.”
“Yes, they would. It’s the easiest place to dispose of a body.”
“Mo chuisle, you have a morbid sense of humor.”
“I get that from you, Mom, and I wasn’t joking.”
I observe Tre, and I can tell all of this is overwhelming her.
As though everything so far hasn’t been horrific enough.
I lift the chair from my side of the bed and carry it around for Kathleen.
She barely cracks a smile and doesn’t get off the bed, but she nods.
It’s enough acknowledgment to reassure me she won’t let Frank kill me. She won’t kill me.
At least, not right now.
I move back to my side of the bed and interlace my fingers with Tre’s, careful not to touch her IV lines. Tre squeezes my hand but keeps her focus on her mom as Kathleen speaks.
“How far along are you?”
“Seven weeks. Well, nine technically.”
Kathleen’s quiet for a moment, and I can tell she’s doing the math. “Vittoria and Alejandro’s wedding?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t mention you were dating Joaquin when you said you would be a bridesmaid.”
Fuchsia turns to magenta.
“We weren’t.”
“Paola and Cesare all over again.”
“No, Mom. We are not them. We’re us. Joaquin’s family won’t force us to marry, and I know you guys won’t either. We’re not nineteen either. We both have careers and the means to decide for ourselves how we proceed.”
“But you are proceeding?”
“Yes.”
I wait for her to clarify, but Tre offers nothing more. I’m more than happy to remain the strong, silent type. Kathleen sighs silently. I see it rather than hear it. It’s not exactly resignation. At least it’s acceptance.
“You’re staying in New York for good.”
Something passes between them that I can’t identify.
I watch them even more intently. Tre’s been keeping something from me, but I haven’t pressed to find out what.
Now I’m certain it has to do with why she moved to NYC.
I ran her background when Toria gave Alejandro her guest list and her bridesmaids’ names.
I admitted as much at the reception. Nothing popped up that made me suspicious, but now I’m certain I missed something.
Did Tommaso send her to spy on the Mancinellis?
Did he send her to spy on the O’Rourkes?
Did he send her to spy on Tía Elle?
Was she to infiltrate the Mancinellis or my family?
The brief exchange between mother and daughter tells me Kathleen knows whatever’s going on.
That’s why I believe her family sent her and not someone outside it forcing her.
These questions attempt to chip away at my trust, but I refuse to allow even the tiniest crack.
If I’m wrong to trust her, then I’ll pay whatever penance there is for the disaster that’ll inevitably happen.
But I won’t ruin what’s growing between us with unsubstantiated accusations or baseless fear.
After all, it could be something entirely unrelated to the syndicate world.