Ten minutes passed of Archer and Carlo stomping back and forth from the kitchen to the tables, clearing away the dishes, and when the last handful of forks and knives and cups had finally disappeared, one of the younger ones said timidly, “So is it time for dessert yet?”
A round of cheers went up at the mention of dessert, which was apparently the pinnacle of any dinner with the Incittis. Besides, I found that sugar helped brighten any get-together.
It took almost five minutes to cart all of the desserts out of the kitchen. The plates and trays had barely been set down before the tables were swarmed, hands snatching at any dessert they could reach. I had to squeeze my way in around a few of the younger kids just to grab a handful of Italian cookies and one chocolate cannoli. I quickly retreated to the sidelines while the desserts continued to be devoured, a little worried that I might sustain bodily injuries if I accidently got in someone’s way. When I finally took a bite of my cannoli, I almost groaned.
Archer hadn’t been kidding about his family’s desserts. I could only come to the conclusion that God had gifted the Incitti family with the ability to make the best sweets possible. I chowed down my cannoli and finished it in about five seconds flat, and I’d finished two of my cookies before I caught sight of Archer lounging on the bench in front of the old upright piano in the corner of the coffeehouse.
I sighed when I took note of the frown on his face. What was he thinking about now that made him look so pained? More importantly, why was he always doing that—stepping off alone? I wandered over and plopped myself down on the bench beside him.
We sat in silence for a few minutes as we finished off the rest of our cookies, taking in the scene of pleasant chaos around us. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of laughter and jokes everywhere, just as it had been during dinner. I didn’t think I’d ever felt anything like it before. And I didn’t want it to end, because I didn’t know if I would get the chance to feel it again.
“Thank you,” I said to Archer, glancing over at him. “For inviting me. This has been amazing.”
“I’d say my mother forced me to invite you, but I’d be lying,” Archer said, his gaze fixed on his shoes. “I’m glad you could come.”
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. A part of me had suspected Regina told Archer to ask me, because I’d told her about my parent’s ridiculous work schedules and that it wasn’t unusual for me to spend a holiday or two alone. Yet Archer was the one who invited me.
And that made me very, very happy.
“They’ve certainly taken a liking to you,” Archer said, almost grinning as he watched his relatives, who remained crowded around what remained of the desserts.
“Well, I like them,” I said. “They’re great.”
Archer scoffed as he quickly finished the rest of his cookie and dusted off his hands on his jeans. “Yeah, they are. But they can also drive me nuts.”
My cell phone rang before I could respond. Despite the fact that it was Thanksgiving, and so I should’ve expected it at some point, it was still a bit of a shock to see that the incoming call was from my mother.
“Hello?” I answered, getting to my feet, moving off to the side to find what little privacy I could. I tried to ignore the way Archer’s eyes followed me, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Hadley,” my mother said, her voice warmer than usual.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said. “How are things going with you and Dad?”
Obviously, we were both choosing to ignore the fact the last time we’d seen each other hadn’t been under the best of terms, but at least she’d called. She told me a little bit about what was going on with their case and how it should be cleared up in just another day or two, then passed the phone off to my dad.
“Sounds a little loud on your end,” my dad said after wishing me a happy Thanksgiving. “Are you still at your boss’s for dinner?”
“Yeah,” I said. I’d texted them the night before to tell them about my change in plans. “Regina has a big family, and they just brought out the desserts, so the little kids are excited.”
“That’s nice,” he replied. “Are you having a good time?”
“Absolutely,” I answered without thinking. “I was a little nervous about meeting everyone, but they . . . they’re great. I’m kind of wishing I’d taken two years of Italian instead of Spanish, but I’m having a really nice time.”
I could almost hear the smile in my dad’s voice when he said, “That’s really good, kiddo.”
I hung up with my parents after another minute or two of chitchat and returned to the piano bench where Archer was still seated. “Sorry about that,” I told him. “It was my parents. They just called to wish me a happy Thanksgiving.”
Archer looked like he was concentrating very hard on something when he spoke, picking at the cuff of his button-down shirt. He was always fidgeting with one thing or another if something made him uncomfortable. “You and you parents . . . I know we talked a little about them the other day. Am I right in guessing you don’t spend much time with your family?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “My parents are always busy, and the few cousins and aunts and uncles I do have live out of state. We don’t get together too often.”
“So . . . it’s mainly just you, then, isn’t it?” Archer said, finally meeting my gaze.
“Mainly,” I said, growing more and more confused by his line of questioning. “I mean, I’ve got Taylor and Brie and Chelsea and everybody else, you know, but . . . yeah. It’s just me most of the time.”
I felt very lonely then, saying those words aloud and realizing it to be true.
There was a difference between being lonely and being alone. I thought I didn’t mind being alone because it was what I was used to. I just hadn’t realized how lonely I actually felt until I was welcomed with open arms by Archer’s family and treated like I was one of their own. I hadn’t known it was possible to miss something you’d never had.
“No need to look so worried,” Archer said, nudging me with his shoulder. “They like you, so you’re stuck with us. If you’re not at every holiday meal from now on, they’ll have my head.”
I burst out laughing, immediately pleased by the thought. “Archer, I’ll gladly come to every meal your family has if that means no more takeout or TV dinners.”
Archer looked stunned for half a second before he laughed, causing his aunts Sofia and Karin to cast curious glances in our direction.
And that was when there was a loud crash from the kitchen, something like the sound of glass shattering.
I was on my feet and sprinting for the kitchen in a flash, Archer hot on my heels. I skidded around the front counter, through the kitchen door, only to come to a screeching halt.
My hands flew up to cover my mouth.
I could feel Archer freeze where he stood behind me, and heard his sharp intake of air. “Mom?”
Regina was curled up on the floor, her back against the cupboards, and the shattered remnants of what looked like a glass serving bowl lay scattered around her. She was trembling from head to toe, and her face was deathly pale.
She looked . . . Well, she looked as if she had just seen Death.
Regina looked up at the sound of Archer’s voice, and a gut-wrenching sob flew past her lips as she tried to scramble upright. “Archer, thank God, it’s Chris, something—something—It’s . . . Y-you’ve got to . . .”
It was in that moment that the walls Archer had spent years building to keep people out came tumbling down. Emotion was written across his face like a blinding flash of light. He looked distraught. Confused. Hurt. Angry.
For those few short seconds, I saw the boy who tried to act like nothing bothered him only because he needed to be strong for his family, because he felt as if he had to be the one to keep them all together, giving little thought to himself and ignoring his own needs. I saw everything I had ever suspected about him, and more.
Then just as quickly, the
wall was back up again, and nothing remained but a boy whose thoughts were only for his mother.
“Mom, everything’s fine, you have to listen to me, it’s okay,” Archer was saying, reaching out to Regina. “It’s okay, Mom, I’m here, you—”
But Regina was past being able to be consoled. She had her arms around Archer, sobbing into his shoulder, and I kept hearing her saying Chris’s name over and over again in a voice that broke my heart.
“What is going on in here? I thought I heard—Oh, God.”
Victoria stood in the doorway, surveying the situation with a look of shock. She immediately seemed to know what was happening. A second later Vittorio appeared, closely followed by Sofia and Karin.
“Not again,” Vittorio muttered, moving to Archer’s side and reaching out to place a hand against Regina’s face. “She’s still taking her medication, isn’t she?”
“Of course she is,” Victoria snapped. “Every day.” Even though Victoria was being her usual snippy self, I could tell by her hardened expression that it caused her pain to see her daughter like this.
“I swear she hasn’t had a flashback like this in years,” Karin said, sounding distraught. “Not since after it happened.”
Flashback? I didn’t understand what that meant exactly, but I could put two and two together easily enough. Regina was reliving the night Chris died, and nobody but her could see it. It had been years since Chris was killed, but it was obvious that Regina never recovered from it. And seeing her like this . . . I doubted she ever fully would.
“Take her upstairs, Vito,” Sofia said, and it sounded as if she was crying. “The kids don’t need to see this.”
Vittorio scooped Regina up into his arms and made for the back door. The way her head seemed to loll against his shoulder made me think she had fallen unconscious. Victoria, Karin, and Sofia immediately rushed them.
I made to follow suit without thinking, to see for myself that Regina was going to be okay, but Archer threw out a hand and caught my arm when I’d taken only a few steps.
“Stay here,” he said, lowering his voice.
“Archer, I—”
“Please.”
I wanted to ignore him and go upstairs with the others despite what he said, but I forced myself to stay put. Everything about Archer screamed that he was hurting, even if he was going to deny it. I didn’t want to make it any worse.
“Okay,” I said softly. “Okay. Just . . .”
Archer seemed to understand, even if I wasn’t sure what I had been trying to say.
He gave a short nod, and then he was out of the kitchen and up the stairs after his aunts and uncle. I watched him go, feeling even more hopeless than I had moments before.
“Hadley? What’s going on?”
I turned and saw Lauren and Carlo hovering in the doorway, each with anxious expressions on their faces. I wondered if they knew the extent of what happened that night all those years ago and just what it had done to their aunt.
“I . . . don’t know,” I said. “She’s . . .”
“She’ll be okay,” Lauren said with a nod, trying to convince herself. “Zia Regina. She’ll be fine. She’s strong.”
I wasn’t expecting Lauren to throw her arms around me in a hug, but I hugged her back. Carlo gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze when I pulled away from Lauren, followed by a tight smile, then turned and left the kitchen. Lauren and I stood in the kitchen for a few tense, silent moments, not knowing what to say. What was supposed to happen now?
I knew what I wanted to do—go upstairs to try and help Regina. No wonder Archer was so protective of his mother. I couldn’t even begin to understand how Archer had shouldered the burden of protecting his family for so long.
“We should go,” Lauren said, glancing over at me. “Play with the kids or something. Standing around won’t help.”
It took a second for me to come out of my distracting reverie and return to the present. “The kids,” I said. “Sure. That . . . It’s probably best.”
Lauren nodded, and we left the kitchen together, coming back around the front counter to where the rest of the family was settled. The younger ones didn’t seem to notice that anything was amiss. They were running around and screaming and laughing, no doubt on a sugar high from all of the desserts they’d just consumed.
Karin, Sofia, and Vittorio’s significant others—Art, Ben, and Anna—were huddled off to the side by the fireplace, their heads together as they talked quickly and quietly with one another, already aware of what had happened. I took a seat on one of the overstuffed chairs by the couch while Lauren and Mia—Sofia’s daughter—tried to keep the younger ones from running back to lick the dessert plates.
I heard the sound of approaching footsteps on the creaky, hardwood floors, and when I looked up I saw Art DiRosario standing in front of me, a concerned expression on his face.
“I take it you didn’t know about Regina,” he said bluntly, getting straight to the point.
I shook my head. “No. I mean, I knew what happened to Chris and everything. Archer told me, but not about . . . about this. Has Regina . . . always . . .?”
I was struggling to come up with the right words, but Art seemed to get what I was trying to say. He perched himself on the edge of the couch a few feet away, sighing as he said, “Yeah, Regina’s always had a rough time with her PTSD.”
“PTSD?” I repeated, frowning.
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Art clarified. “It can cause some pretty nasty flashbacks.”
I immediately thought back to my psychology class last year. My teacher, Mr. Hathaway, told us soldiers returning home from overseas often experienced post-traumatic stress disorder—and it wasn’t too pleasant of a condition. Your husband’s murder would surely stick with you long after the fact.
“Does Regina have flashbacks often?” I asked Art.
He frowned in thought. “You know, not much anymore. It used to be a lot worse right after it happened. It didn’t help that she was pregnant with Rosie at the time. Even the smallest things would set her off, like seeing some of his old clothes or smelling his cologne. I can’t imagine what would have caused one now.”
My heart ached for Regina all the more. It wasn’t fair that someone as kind hearted and good as Regina Morales would have to deal with something like this. It wasn’t something anybody should have to suffer with.
“Isn’t there anything we can do to help?” I asked Art. “I mean, Karin said she’s taking medication, but can’t we do something else?”
Art gave a small, grim smile. “There’s not much we can do, Hadley, when she refuses to go to counseling.”
“But why?” I said, confused. “There’s nothing wrong with counseling. I bet it’d help if she tried.”
“Believe me, we’ve brought it up more than once, but she pretends not to hear every time. She just likes to put on a happy face and act like nothing’s wrong. And Archer’s no better.”
“What?” I said, taken aback. “What do you mean, Archer’s no better?”
Art exhaled, shrugging again. “Archer inherited more than just his mother’s looks. He’s about ten times as stubborn as she is. He likes to pretend his own problems don’t exist.”
“And I bet he won’t go to counseling either,” I said, already knowing the answer.
“I think Archer would rather gouge out his eyes than talk to a shrink,” Art said.
He paused for a moment. “On a lighter note, it does seem like spending time with you is doing him some good. We were very surprised when Regina said Archer’s friend would be joining us for dinner.”
“Is it really that unusual?” I asked. Surely they had met one of Archer’s friends before.
Art wasted no time saying, “Yeah, it is. Archer doesn’t like getting close to people. My guess is because he’s afraid something will happen to them, like Chris.”
A lot of things were clicking into place tonight. No wonder Archer pushed people away. I couldn’t imagine how lonely
Archer must have been. He’d profusely deny it, but that wouldn’t make years of isolation go away. You couldn’t just close yourself off from the rest of the world because you were afraid of getting hurt. Some people were worth the hurt.
“I hope this doesn’t change your opinion of them,” Art said, watching me with a curious expression on his face. “Archer and Regina, I mean.”
“Absolutely not.” I didn’t intend to sound as severe as I did, but it got my point across. “Some days Regina is more of a mother to me than my own mom, and Archer is a great friend.”
Art smiled, looking pleased with my little outburst. “Glad to hear it. Stick around, okay?”
“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” I assured him.
He got to his feet and reached over to give me a friendly clap on the shoulder. “At any rate,” he said before going to join his brother-in-law, “it sure is good to hear that boy laugh again.”
CHAPTER 18
You Don’t Understand
We ended up keeping the kids entertained with games of tag and hide-and-seek for more than hour, and by the time their parents came back downstairs to cart them home, almost all of them were half asleep. I helped as best I could, rounding the kids up to get them into their jackets. While it would’ve been an exaggeration to say it was a tearful farewell, I felt a little sad, saying good-bye to all of Archer’s extended family. I wasn’t sure if I would ever see them again, and that was a depressing thought. Literally everything depended on how the next twelve days went.
I didn’t want to go home without having at least one small scrap of reassurance that Regina was okay, so, looking for any excuse to stick around, I headed to the kitchen to start cleaning. Ignoring the perfectly functioning dishwashers, I cleared out one of the sinks, filled it with hot, soapy water, and got to work on the dishes. As I cleaned, my mind kept wandering back to that scene I would never forget in my entire life, no matter how long I lived.
Despite my best efforts, I could not comprehend what happened. One sophomore psychology class did not make me an expert on mental health. I knew psychological disorders were generally unpleasant. But Regina had been somewhere else entirely—a dark, frightening place that only she knew about. It was locked away in her own mind, and when it made itself known, it became reality to her. I couldn’t help but wonder if Archer felt the same way. He had been there that night. He had seen everything, things no eleven-year-old ever should.
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