Violet #2
"How much money did you steal from your husband, Bianca? Around eleven mill are still in your accounts." Marcello drops.
"You have eleven million dollars in your accounts, right now?" Elaine's jaw drops.
"Why did you work so many jobs if you had that much money?" Sebastian shakes his head in disbelief—a disbelief I fully share with him. At times, Mom worked three jobs to keep a roof over our heads.
"It's insurance money. In case we had to run again, I wasn't about to touch it.
" Mom says, but there is a slight waver in her voice and an expression on her face I can't quite decipher when she looks over at Marcello.
His phone dings with an incoming message.
He reads it, then stares straight at Mom, "That's a nice pricey place you have there, in the West Village. "
"What are you talking about? Mom lives in Queens," I protest, but chills break out underneath my skin, telling me this day is far from over when it comes to bad news and lies.
"Okay, so hold on," Elaine's face scrunches up, "let me see if I've got this straight.
You're telling me that I had to babysit these two," she points from me to Sebastian, "since I was eight, while you worked three jobs, and all the while, you had eleven million dollars sitting in your account? " Her voice rises with every word.
"It didn't hurt you," Mom turns from Elaine to Sebastian and me, "or them, to live more humbly."
"Do you have any idea how much the other kids picked on us for always wearing second-hand clothes?
" Elaine continues. "While you… you…" She points at Mom's outfit, which, now that she does, I realize is a lot better than our clothes were when we were growing up.
It's because she doesn't have to buy them for you anymore, I tell myself, but at the same time, I remember the time in high school when I asked for a prom dress, and she sent me to Goodwill.
It was one of the few times I'd argued with her, pointing out that she always wore new clothes.
I have to look professional for the job, was her answer.
Elaine is still talking, but my mind goes back to that prom dress.
The one I saw at Dillard's, where I'd gone with my friends to look for their dresses.
It hadn't even been that much. The others chose dresses in the two hundreds and more, while the one I picked was marked down to eighty, because it had a little stain.
I asked the saleslady to put it aside and went to the hair salon where Mom worked.
Or told us she worked. I remember now that I didn't find her there, and when I asked for her, the receptionist told me I must have been mistaken; no Linda Meade had ever worked there.
She'd been adamant about it, claiming she would know, having been there for thirty years.
Back then, I thought it was a mistake—a crazy receptionist. I was far too focused on the stupid dress to stop and think about it.
But now… now I look at it in a new light.
I tune back into the conversation around me to hear Elaine complaining about a ratty pair of tennis shoes Mom made her wear one summer.
One pair. All summer. Because we couldn't afford sandals.
"How long… how long has she had that other place?
In the West Village?" I ask Marcello. My voice is low, but even Elaine must have heard it, because she stops midsentence.
"Yeah, Mom, how long?" she repeats my question in a hard, cutting voice.
"Twenty years," Marcello supplies.
"Alright, enough." Mom rises. "I won't hear any more about any of this."
"This is un-fucking-believable," Elaine curses, and before she can upset the baby, Lee takes him out of her arms.
"So I carved out some happiness for myself," Mom wails as more tears streak down her cheeks.
"Can you blame me? I was all alone. With three children.
" Mom's voice trembles. She places her hand over her heart, steadying herself.
"You don't understand what it was like. You only saw your side of it.
But I was terrified every single day. Not just of Enzo.
But of the world. Of what would happen if I failed.
I worked myself to the bone trying to give you some kind of life—any kind of life—where you were safe.
Where you weren't pawns in some mob war! "
"Safe?" Elaine shoots back, "Watching you cry over overdue bills that didn't even exist?"
"That was for your benefit!" She snaps, then quickly softens her tone again. "I mean… I wanted you to understand the value of things. Of hard work. You've grown up strong, haven't you? Smart. Self-sufficient. That was me. I raised you that way."
She's crying again, her voice is trembling like it always does when she's emotional. And I want to go to her. God, I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it's okay, that she did her best, that I understand.
Because until today, I believed that. That she was the strongest woman I knew.
That she worked herself raw—three jobs, constant exhaustion—just to keep a roof over our heads and shoes on our feet.
She'd come home smelling like bleach and coffee grinds and cheap perfume, and I thought it was the smell of survival.
But now... I wonder. My chest aches with it—the tug-of-war between love and betrayal, between what I want to believe and the ugly truths that have been laid bare. I look back on the past with newly opened eyes, and I'm confused by what I see.
Mom used to say she couldn't afford to get us haircuts, but hers was always styled.
I thought maybe a friend did it for free.
When I'd mentioned the odd exchange with the receptionist at the hair salon, she told me that she worked there informally, for tips, not wages.
But they'd never even heard of her there.
And that prom dress... My throat tightens.
I remember how hard I begged. Eighty dollars.
It was all I wanted. But she'd said no, that we couldn't afford anything that extravagant.
I wound up wearing a polyester gown from Goodwill that didn't fit right, and she'd said I looked beautiful, said I didn't need anything fancy to shine.
But now I wonder—where was she that day when I looked for her at the salon? Was she ever even there? Why was her phone off? Why did she come home late with fresh lipstick and a bag from Saks with things she claimed she'd found on sale?
My heart screams no, that's not who she is. That's not the mother who sat up with me all night when I had the flu, who cried when she thought we couldn't hear. That's not the woman who told me I was brave, that I could be anything.
But what if it is?
What if she's just... better at lying than I ever would have thought possible?
"Violet," Marcello's voice is low beside me.
His hand tightens around mine like he knows.
Like he can feel the storm gathering in my chest. I can't lift my head, I worry that if I do, if I lean into that comfort, it will mean admitting something I'm not ready to face.
That the woman I idolized might not be the person I thought she was.
And I don't know what to do with that. She had another life, not just before, but in Manhattan, all along.
"I couldn't spend the money," Mom continues, "I was afraid. Every time I touched it, I imagined him finding us. I kept it hidden—untouched—for years."
"You could've brought us with you," I say, not sure where the words are coming from. But they flow out of my mouth, and they're filled with bitterness. "You didn't have to make us suffer while you played house in Manhattan."
Mom's voice breaks again. "But I did suffer, baby.
You think I was happy, keeping secrets from you every day?
Lying to my own children? Living in fear that one of you might ask the wrong question, might go digging?
I hated myself for it. But I couldn't go back.
I couldn't." She clasps her hands like she's begging.
Her eyes dart from one of us to the other.
"I did the best I could with what I had. "
"I don't think I can hear anymore," Elaine says, standing and pointedly not looking at Mom. "Where do we go from here? What do we do now?"
Marcello rises as well, pulling me up with him, "Luciano will take you to a safe house; he'll give you phones and anything you may need. In the meantime, I'll make contact with Enzo and get this whole thing straightened out."
Elaine blinks like she's about to say something else, but then appears to change her mind. She comes over to us and takes me into her arms. "You look good, by the way. That color complements you."
"Thank you," I reply automatically.
Then my sister turns to Marcello, "I'm not sure who you really are or why you're helping us, but thank you."
"I'm your future brother-in-law, and that is what family is for," he replies, creating even more warm fuzzies in my stomach.