Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(5)

She slowly lowers her hands and nods. I’m not sure if it’s my voice that brings her back to reality, or my touch. I’m just glad she hears me and that she’s still with us to some extent. Her mother glances at me, offering me a sweet smile. “Thanks, Sol,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” I answer. Although I sat in on her daughter’s initial assessment, I’m surprised and maybe a little honored that she remembered my name.

I hurry back to the door leading to the rear offices, hoping Miss Hemsworth doesn’t give me a hard time and lets me in. Thankfully, she does, despite the scowl that warns me she’d like nothing more than for God to strike me dead.

As I reach for the door, I steal a glance Finn’s way. As easily as that he catches my stare and holds me in place. He looks . . . amazing, like always. I want to stay longer, but I meant what I said, neither of us are in a good place.

If I have any doubt, they’re quickly squashed by the text I receive on my way back to Mason’s office.

You need to come home. Your mother isn’t well.





CHAPTER 3


Sol



Your mother isn’t well. That’s a hell of an understatement.

My mother wasn’t “well” when I was a child, became “sick” when I was a teen, and now . . . I’m not sure how she is. I only know I have to make her better. Somehow, I have to.

Mason, being the awesome supervisor that he is allows me to leave, assuring me that I can make up my hours later this week.

I promised to return this evening, but as I pull into my little neighborhood and focus onto our street, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my promise. Not with how all the elderly neighbors are standing around, gossiping about what “poor Flor” did now, and how “poor Flor” is holding up.

She’s not holding up. That’s the issue. But as much as they seem to fuss when my mother has an episode, I’m starting to think they’re actually entertained by her erratic actions.

I live on a cross street in Philly’s Fishtown district in a neighborhood packed with well-kept row houses that were erected in the 1960s, long before I was born. My street isn’t fabulous, and it’s not in the “nice” part of town. No lawyers or doctors reside anywhere close to here, and their children would never be allowed to visit. But to me it’s always been home.

Those so-called higher ups of society don’t see past the cracked sidewalks that line the street to the well-swept concrete steps. They skim over the metal railings coated with years of paint and only see the tiny porches. They don’t hear the conversations that take place around those little stoops: those that involve the Phil’s, the Eagles, and the best way to fry an empanada, nor do they see the happy faces of the neighborhood kids when they play stickball in the street. They don’t recognize the sense of family and community where residents distinguish their dwellings by painting their doors in alternating shades of black, red, and even green.

But me, I see it, and I feel it every time I come home.

I pull into the spot closest to my house, struggling to keep my chin up, even though I feel more like cowering. Does my mother embarrass me? If I’m being honest, yes, and I absolutely hate myself for feeling this way.

I want to have that mother my friends do. The one I can gush all over Facebook about on Mother’s Day. The type of mother I can thank for giving me advice, taking me to lunch, and sharing her wisdom with me. I don’t have that kind of mother. But my God, I really want to.

My mother doesn’t give me advice. She gives advice to people who aren’t there. She rarely talks to me, but when she does, she calls me “Laurita” her dead sister. When she smiles, it’s because she sees something that only exists in her mind.

I handle it. All of it. And for the most part I think I do an okay job. But when she weeps . . . I feel those tears down to my soul.

My breath is visible as I hurry along. I step around a patch of ice, careful not to sink my new boots in the piles of snow pushed to the side. When I was little, I thought my mother was fun. She would play dress-up with me and pretend she was a famous actress or singer. But when I became a teen, she would still dress up, except instead of pretending, she believed she was that starlet, that person the whole world over adored.

She was the “eccentric” one for a long while. And for a time, we just accepted her as being quirky. It wasn’t until she attempted suicide that we realized just how sick she really is.

No. My mother isn’t well, and my heart breaks because of it.

I smile politely when I see Se?ora Estefan rush toward me. She was on “Flor watch” today, a job she takes seriously.

“Ay, ni?a,” she says, her hands falling to her sides when she sees me. “I’m sorry to text you, I know you’re working. But I couldn’t reach your Papi.”

“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s likely not. “Where is she?”

She purses her lips, making a face that tells me that whatever she has to show me isn’t good. “She’s in Mr. Toleman’s backyard.”

My eyes widen briefly. “How did she get into his backyard?” I ask, allowing her to lead me forward.

“She knocked on his door, asking if she could pick mangoes from his tree.” Her eyes cut my way. “You know he doesn’t have a mango tree, right?”