Whisper Me This(74)

The pressure of his fingers between my ribs is growing into a torment. I want to tell him to stop, he’s hurting me. I want to pull away. But everybody is watching, including Elle, and anything I do is going to cause a scene.

Tony extends his hand for a shake, but his blue eyes have shaded nearly to black, his face set in lines that make him look edgy and dangerous. He’s dressed up for the funeral, which for him means a nice shirt and a new pair of jeans. Unlike Greg, who has every button done, Tony’s got his sleeves rolled up over his forearms; the top button of his shirt is open. His hand is bigger than Greg’s, his forearm about twice the size, the skin multiple shades darker.

Greg winces a few seconds into the handshake, and when they’ve completed that manly contest, he flexes his right hand twice before stuffing it into his coat pocket. His grip on me does not ease.

Tony rolls forward a little onto the balls of his feet, hands loose and open, his eyes never straying from Greg’s.

My brain does its usual thing, diving straight into a brawl right here in Mrs. Carlton’s living room. A left hook from Tony, Greg laid out flat on the floor, me counting out the seconds like a referee.

I need to fix this. The whole scenario is my fault, somehow, although I’ve forgotten what it is that I’ve done. If Tony hits Greg and Greg sues him, that’s my fault. If Greg gets pissed off and takes Elle away from me, on grounds that I’m an incompetent mother who is exposing her to unhealthy influences, that’s my fault. If the day of my mother’s funeral is desecrated by a postfuneral brawl, that is definitely my fault.

But my imagination, so adept at making up stories so real I can see them unfolding in front of my eyes, is a total dud at real-life solutions. All I can seem to do is breathe past the pain of Greg’s iron hand clamping down on my ribs, the looming shadow of his power play over my life, my child, this room.

Mrs. Medina breaks the tension.

“Oh, thank God, you’re here,” she says. “Take this plate from me, Tony. I ate so much I can’t get up off this couch. Come and give me a hug, Maisey. How are you holding up, my girl? Exhausted, I am sure.”

Tony doesn’t move, doesn’t even look at his mother. His eyes lock on mine, asking a question I’m too afraid to answer.

“I can take your plate, ma’am.” Greg releases me, flashing Mrs. Medina an easy smile. “I know exactly what you mean. Edna here has orchestrated quite a feast. I think I’ve gained five pounds myself.” He pats his flat belly and winks at Mrs. Carlton, who actually dimples.

My legs feel a little unsteady, but it’s my wavering reality that makes me want to sink down onto the floor to make sure it’s still solid. I watch Greg take Mrs. Medina’s plate, bend down to pick up a dropped napkin, bestow another extravagant compliment on Mrs. Carlton, and then hug Elle and drop a kiss on the top of her head.

I take a deep breath. It hurts, but it’s a relief and it anchors me back into my body, this room, this time and place.

Maybe I’ve been manufacturing drama out of nothing. Again. Greg is a good man, I tell myself. He didn’t mean to hurt me. I only imagined the tension between him and Tony. Still, I find myself automatically putting distance between us, moving around the edge of the small room and scooching Elle over so I can sit on the end of the love seat with her beside me as a buffer.

The instant Greg clears the room, Mrs. Medina hefts herself up from the couch, no assistance needed. “Go hug your grandpa,” she says to Elle, and then plunks down beside me. Her bulk fills the vacant space.

“I’ll go look for Mia,” Tony says, and vanishes. I catch myself listening to his receding footsteps, knowing they are walking not only away down the hall, but out of my world. He’ll be like Lenny and all the others—poof, gone—which is just as well, really.

So why does his absence exaggerate the empty space in my belly, make me want to run after him, grab his arm, and spill a bunch of apologies and explanations and even a plea to be my knight in shining armor and fight for me?

That’s an image that instigates an urge to laugh and then to cry.

A knight will fight a dragon, sure, or maybe even a cutthroat attorney, but generally for some sort of reward. The hand of a princess, say. I am far from a princess and too much of a failure to be worth fighting for.

Laughter and sadness both give way to a wave of weariness so intense that I want to lie down on the floor, right in the middle of everybody, and close my eyes. But I can’t even let my head lean back, because this love seat is the most uncomfortable piece of furniture on the planet. The plastic cover is an extra diabolical touch. I keep sliding toward Mrs. Medina and the hollow her bulk has made in the seat cushion. At first I fight it, but finally give in and let my body rest up against hers.

She’s more solid than she looks, muscle overlaid with padding. She pats my knee, her hand warm and steadying, and then, as if she knows what I need, guides my head down onto her shoulder and strokes my hair.

I hear footsteps in the hall and know they are Greg’s. My heart lurches sideways, my eyes fly open. When I go to sit up, Mrs. Medina makes a soothing sound and weighs my head down with her hand, not so heavily that I couldn’t easily break away, but just enough to encourage me to stay. I feel safe, protected, and I let my eyes close.

If I can’t see him, he can’t hurt me.

Maybe I’m an ostrich with my head in the sand, but at the moment I’m a very comfortable ostrich.