20. Cassian
Cassian
Ineed to hit something. Ever since Viv showed up at Belgrave Park, I’ve been wound as tight as the strings of my guitar.
Sitting next to her at dinner Friday night was bad enough, but we’re heading back to the country in a few hours.
I need to clear my head before then, or I’ll end up doing something stupid like kiss the fuck out of her.
I can’t wait to feel the leather of my boxing gloves, hear the snap of them hitting the bag, feel the tension ebb from my body the longer I pound it. Grabbing my gym bag, I head downstairs for a cup of coffee. Bash is sprawled across the sofa in the living room watching TV.
“You’re seriously watching the news?” I say as I walk into the kitchen. “You’re as bad as my dad.”
He hurls the remote at my head, but I duck just in time. “Yeah, well, I have lunch with mine today, so . . .”
“Ah.” I reach for the backup French press I keep in the cupboard. “And he’s going to quiz you on current events.”
“No, but he’ll assume I’m an idiot if I’m not up to speed.”
“News flash: you are an idiot,” I say.
A throw pillow flies at me, but I punch it away with a chuckle, and it falls to the floor.
After a minute, Bash says, “Hey, what do you think of Briar?”
I glance up from my coffee grounds. “She’s great.”
He rolls his eyes. “No shit. I mean more than that.”
“I don’t know her that well.” I shrug and pour hot water into the press. “You two seem good together, but don’t come crying to me when her brother beats you to a pulp.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll love me as much as she does.”
“Ha,” I say, grabbing a mug. “In that case, do what you do best, mate.”
“I will.”
I shake my head and smile. Watching Bash get his ass handed to him by Slate Lawson will be the highlight of my year. “Hey, I’m hitting the gym in a few. Want me to swing by and let him know what his baby sister’s been getting up to?”
Bash swivels around so fast you’d think the house was on fire. “Don’t you dare.”
“Suit yourself.” I pour the freshly brewed coffee into my cup, inhaling the rich scent. Leaning against the counter, I take my first sip and check out the news story Bash is watching—or rather, not watching, because he currently has his head bowed over his phone.
The city elected a new mayor this week, not that I give a shit. The only reason I’m still here is because good coffee deserves to be savored, not gulped on your way out the door.
A Black man with a big smile stands behind a podium covered with the green-and-white flag of Wesbourne. When his victory speech is over, he gives one more wave, then moves to join the two women onstage with him, probably his wife and daughter.
The camera zooms in on their group hug, and I want to vomit from how happy they look, all smiles and shit. I move closer to the screen, trying to figure out where I’ve seen the older woman before.
“. . . Whitaker, his wife Mariana, and daughter Juliette.” The newscaster’s voice drones on as the shot pans to include the rest of the victory celebration going on in some hotel banquet room. I know I should move, but my feet are glued to the floor.
His wife Mariana. The name alone wouldn’t have been enough, but coupled with the face I’ve seen in a handful of photos, I know deep down in my bones.
She’s my mother.
I set my mug down on the closest surface and place my hands on my knees. My breath is coming in short little gasps. I try telling myself to calm down, but it’s not helping.
“Hey, mate, you okay?” Bash asks, looking at me over the back of the sofa.
“Great,” I croak out. “Just need to catch my breath.”
He gets up and moves toward me, but I brush him off. Straightening, I give him what I hope passes for a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “I’m just gonna lie down for a sec,” I say, heading for the stairs.
Once I’m in my room, I beeline for my computer.
The longer I think about it, the more I’m convinced my mind was playing tricks on me.
There’s no way in hell that woman is my mother.
My mum hardly had two pennies to rub together when she met my father.
The woman on the screen is elegant, refined, and wearing designer brands.
The handful of memories I have of my mum are hazy at best, but I remember a few things, like the song she sang to me every time she tucked me in and the smell of her perfume, sharp and floral. Is it possible she’s married to a hotshot politician and has a whole new family?
I fire up my laptop, determined to find out so my brain can rest. I’d probably be better off heading straight for the gym and letting off steam, but I know I’m not going to relax until I figure out whether I’m right or not.
I type “Mariana Whitaker” in the search bar, and half a million results pop up. The top ones are all about the election and have more info about the mayor than his wife. Further down the page, there are articles detailing his campaign, with small peeks into his family life.
Mayor Whitaker lives in one of the really nice suburbs of Wesbourne City with his wife and one daughter.
I can’t find their actual address, but it’s probably a two-story brick house with black shutters and white pillars in front.
I’m sure the driveway is glossy asphalt and lined with perfectly trimmed hedges.
They probably each own a BMW or Mercedes, even the kid.
In every photo, they are smiling with their perfect teeth, perfect hair, and perfect clothes.
Continuing to skim each article for a mention of Mariana, I’ve convinced myself that the whole thing was a fluke and I just wasted half an hour chasing down a phantom when I stumble across a feature on the woman herself.
According to the article, Mrs. Whitaker is an influential member of her community, an elder at the First Presbyterian Church, and sits on the board of several prominent charities as well as local boards and committees.
She was also instrumental in orchestrating her husband’s mayoral campaign, and more than one source credits his victory to his wife’s unwavering dedication and ambition.
This woman is so far removed from the vague memory I have of my mother and the things I’ve managed to wrangle from my father about her.
But then I see the photo.
All the other pictures of Mariana show a curvy but fit woman in her early forties, with thick, shoulder-length brown hair, smooth light brown skin, and wearing a tailored skirt suit.
But buried in this article is a photo of her before all of her ambition paid off.
In it, she’s twenty years younger, evidently pregnant, and smiling shyly at the camera.
Standing next to her is the current mayor.
The only thing that has changed about his physical appearance in the past two decades is his hairline, which keeps scooting further back on his head.
Mariana’s skin bears the faint hint of acne scars hidden by makeup, and her hair isn’t styled with a professional blowout like it is now, but she’s just as beautiful.
The main difference, though, between now and then, is the large birthmark across her right cheek.
She angled her face from the camera and covered it as best as she could with makeup, but I would recognize it anywhere.
It was uncovered in the photos my dad kept for me.
I push my chair away from the desk and stare at the floor. My heart is still pounding hard, but it’s finally started to slow down.
Mariana Whitaker is most definitely my mum.
The most important thing isn’t that I’ve found my mother twenty-one years after she disappeared. I don’t give a fuck where she is or what she’s doing. If I wasn’t important enough for her to stick around back then, I’m sure as hell not going to catch up with her now.
But one thought keeps circling like vultures in the sky.
Somewhere out there, I have a sister.