A Little Too Much

by Lisa Desrochers

  She glances over and sees the surprise on my face. “Don’t even say it,” she warns, holding up a hand.

  I sink into the seat and neither of us says anything as she navigates us through the city to the West Side Highway.

  “What else did they say?” she finally asks just as we’re crossing the bridge into the Bronx.

  “Nothing really.” I look at her. “But she asked for both of us.”

  Her jaw grinds tight and she keeps her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I’ll never forgive her. I don’t care if she’s dying or not.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  When she doesn’t say anything else, I lean my forehead into the window and close my eyes.

  It’s an hour and a half later that Mallory’s GPS informs us we’re “arriving at destination.” She pulls into the parking lot and we go to the information desk.

  “Where is Roseanne McIntyre’s room?” I ask the old woman at the computer.

  She pecks at the keys for a minute and I want to scream at her to move her ancient bones faster, but I bite my tongue.

  “I don’t see any MacEntire,” she finally says.

  “No. McIntyre. M, C, I. She was probably just brought in from Bedford Correctional.”

  She types some more and smiles as she hits pay dirt. “Oh! Here she is. She’s in a secured room on the third floor.” She looks up at us. “Are you family?”

  But I’m already sprinting toward the elevator. Mallory steps up behind me as the doors open. I wait for everyone coming out to get the hell out of our way, then step in and push three. When the doors open again, it’s into a long corridor. Just down from us is the nurses’ station, and across the hall, sitting in a molded plastic chair, is a corrections guard. I hurry toward him, Mallory lagging behind.

  “We’re Roseanne McIntyre’s daughters. She was asking for us,” I pant.

  “ID,” he says, standing from his chair and towering over us. He’s huge, like they think Mom’s a flight risk and they might need a mountain of a guard to wrestle her into submission when we try to break her out.

  I hand him my ID, and I see Mallory’s hand shake when she holds hers out to him.

  “You can see her one at a time. Fifteen minutes each.” He pushes the door open. “Who’s first?”

  “Her,” Mallory shoots before I have a chance to respond.

  I look at her hard. “Don’t you disappear.”

  Her terrified eyes flick toward the door then back to me. “I can’t do this, Hilary.”

  “She’s dying, Mal. You have to.” I step up and hug her. “Go. I’ll wait here.”

  I feel her shake as she lets a sob loose into my shoulder. I hold her for a few minutes, until she gets her shit together.

  “Okay,” she finally says, peeling herself away and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.

  I back off and she steps up to the door, hauling a deep breath before walking through.

  The guard leaves the door open and stands watch outside. I so want to eavesdrop, but instead, I wander over to the nurses’ desk. “Excuse me,” I say to a middle-aged woman sitting there typing into a computer.

  She holds a finger up at me, then types something else before looking up. “Can I help you?”

  “My mom, Roseanne McIntyre?” I say with a wave of my hand at her door. “I was wondering . . . are they saying how long she has?”

  Her expression goes all sympathetic as she stands. “Not long. Hours, most likely.”

  “What . . .” I swallow the pulsing lump in my throat. “What kind of cancer does she have?” I don’t know why it matters, but I want to know.

  Her lips press into a grim line before she answers. “Lung cancer, but it’s metastasized everywhere now.”

  I turn and take a step to the side so I can see her bed through the door. I can’t see Mom at all, just a mound of blankets, but Mallory’s standing about five feet away, at the bottom of the bed. My heart contracts into a hard knot when I see her shoulders shaking as she cries.

  “What are you doing for her? Is she in pain?” I ask, swallowing back my own tears.

  “We’re doing everything we can to make her last few hours comfortable,” the nurse says as I turn back to her.

  “Good. Is there a vending machine on this floor?”

  She points up the hall. “In the lounge at the end of the corridor.”

  “Thanks.” I head in the direction she pointed and locate the door marked “patient lounge.” Inside, I find the machine. I dig through my bag for a dollar and feed it into the slot, then push D6 and the Oh Henry! is pushed of the rack and thunks into the tray at the bottom. I grab it and head back to Mom’s room.

  I peek through the door again and see Mallory is closer now, at the side of the bed. An arm reaches out of the mound of blankets. It’s bony and it shakes as it extends toward her. Mallory tentatively takes the knobby hand. I watch as she leans closer, as if trying to hear something Mom said. She shakes her head and fresh tears spill over her lashes, but then she sinks into the chair at the side of the bed and holds Mom’s hand in both of hers, pressing the backs of Mom’s fingers against her forehead as she cries.

  And that’s it. I can’t stop the tears leaking from my eyes, first a trickle and then a flood. I lean my back against the wall and cover my face as sobs hitch out of my core.

  But a second later, Mallory’s at the door. “Someone help!”

  The nurse from the station and the guard both rush into the room, and I follow.

  Mallory is back at the side of the bed. “She’s not breathing,” she sobs. “Do something!”

  The nurse takes Mom’s wrist and checks her pulse. “I’m sorry, honey. She’s gone.”

  “No.” I step up to the side of the bed as the nurse brushes her fingers over Mom’s dead eyes. She’s so much thinner than she was even last time I saw her, two months ago. Nothing but skin and bone.

  I can’t reconcile the anger I feel that she didn’t wait for me with the grief that wraps around my heart and squeezes, threatening to choke out its rhythm. I convulse with sobs that I can’t control as everything I feel for and about her erupts out of me.

  She drank. She let a parade of strange men into our lives. She threw Mallory out. She abandoned me and pretended like none of what happened to me afterward was her fault. She was a horrible mother. But she was mine—the only parent I’ve ever had. I wanted her to be so much more. I wanted her to love me.

  The least she could have done was wait to die until I had a chance to say good-bye.

  I drop the crushed Oh Henry! in my hand and spin for the door. Mallory calls after me as I bolt into the hall. When I get to the stairwell, I slide down the wall to a sitting position and pull my phone from my pocket.

  “Il mio amore,” Alessandro purrs in greeting.

  “I need you,” I sob into the phone. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever uttered those words out loud to anyone, but right now, it’s true.

  MOM DIDN’T HAVE any friends. She had one brother, but all I know about him is that he lives somewhere else and didn’t want me after Mom went to jail. I didn’t try to find him to tell him Mom’s gone.

  We don’t do a service, because there’s no point, but I stayed last night at Mallory and Jeff’s, and we go to the cemetery together when they put her in the ground.

  After almost two weeks in Alessandro’s bed, being alone last night was cold and lonely. But Jeff asked me to come for Mallory. She’s still dealing with the emotional fallout of seeing Mom again for the first time in years, just in time to watch her die.

  Despite his insistence, I asked Alessandro not to come to the cemetery for that reason. Mallory’s already a wreck, and seeing Alessandro and me together isn’t going to help. I’m finally ready to open up to Alessandro, as soon as I figure out how, but I’m not quite ready to tell Mallory about it. But it’s harder than I thought it would be to do this without him.

  The cemetery is a few train stops south of Mallory’s house in New Jersey.
I guess it was the cheapest place Jeff could find. It seems a little run down, with patches of weeds between the patches of snow, but overall, not too bad. It suits Mom. It’s quiet right now: only the three of us and the guy with the backhoe.

  I shiver under the gray January sky as Backhoe Guy very unceremoniously cranks Mom’s coffin into the hole. No one brought flowers or anything, so when he asks us if we’re ready, we nod.

  As he climbs onto the backhoe, I feel Mallory’s hand tighten, where she’s holding my elbow. I look at her and her pale face is pulled tight as she stares through the stumpy, bare trees toward the parking lot.

  I follow her gaze and, walking across the grass toward us, is Alessandro. His back wool jacket is closed over black slacks and a blue button-down. I’d been containing my emotions pretty well, but when I see him, I feel the dam start to break.

  He stops across Mom’s hole from where Mallory, Jeff and I are standing, and there’s a question on his face.

  Do I want him to stay?

  Mallory splits an anxious glance between us, then drops my arm and grasps Jeff’s hand tightly. Jeff looks from her to Alessandro and his eyes widen in understanding. There’s no way anyone close to Henri is going to miss the resemblance.

  I walk slowly around Mom’s hole and stop in front of him. He reaches for my gloved hand and squeezes. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay away.” He bites the corner of his lower lip. “I can’t stand the thought of you in pain.”

  I sink into his arms. “It’s okay.”

  Alessandro glances at Mallory as Backhoe Guy cranks the engine loudly to life, then says into my hair, “Would you like me to say a word?”

  I look at Mallory and her face is paler than it was a minute ago, her mouth fixed in a tight line. “That would be great. Thanks,” I tell Alessandro.

  He lets go of me and crosses himself then bows his head, suddenly looking very priestly. I bow mine too. “Oh God, you do not willingly grieve or afflict your children. Look with pity on the suffering of this family in their loss. Sustain them in their anguish, and into the darkness of their grief bring the light of your love. Through Jesus we pray, Amen.”

  When I lift my head, Mallory is curled into Jeff’s arms, sniffling into his shoulder. We all step back as Backhoe Guy starts plowing dirt on top of Mom, and I feel my throat thicken with tears. I swallow them.

  “You need to let yourself grieve,” Alessandro says, softly into my ear.

  I bite my lips between my teeth and I continue to fight the tears.

  He smooths a hand over the back of my hair. “She was your mother, Hilary. No matter what happened between you, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t hurt.”

  A single hot tear trickles over my lashes and courses down my frozen cheek, and he pulls me to his shoulder. And that’s all it takes for me to totally lose it. He holds me close and hands me a tissue when I start to snot all over his jacket.

  When I get my shit mostly together and peel myself off Alessandro, Mallory and Jeff are already walking back to their car.

  “Are you going back to your sister’s?” Alessandro asks.

  I shake my head and look at him with pleading eyes. “Take me home?”

  He takes my hand and we start toward the road. “I expect the taxi I took from the train station is long gone.”

  I lean into him and he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close, knowing I need his support without my having to ask. “There’s a bus stop just up the road,” I tell him. I look toward the parking lot and see Mallory and Jeff waiting at their car. Mallory is glaring so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t cut Alessandro down on the spot.

  Alessandro must see it too, because he squeezes my waist. “I hope didn’t create a problem by being here.”

  “I’m glad you came.” And it’s true. But it’s also hard, because it means I have to come clean with Mallory. I was hoping to put that off as long as possible.

  Alessandro lets go of me before we reach Mallory. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he tells her.

  She huffs out a derisive laugh. “You can’t lose something you never had.”

  Jeff’s grimaces and he grasps her elbow. “Mallory.” His tone is low and soft, the voice he uses when he’s trying to talk her off the ledge.

  “What are you even doing here?” she spits at Alessandro, ignoring Jeff. “Haven’t you done enough damage to this family?”

  “Let’s go,” Jeff coaxes, tugging gently on her elbow.

  Alessandro stiffens next to me. “I’m sor—”

  But that’s as far as he gets before Mallory rips her elbow out of Jeff’s grasp and launches into him, shoving him back. “I want you to stay away from Hilary, and I want you to stay away from Henri. I don’t want you anywhere near my family. Do you hear me?”

  Alessandro splits a confused look between me and Mallory, trying to decipher where the venom is coming from.

  Jeff grabs Mallory by the shoulders and physically puts her in the passenger seat of the Volvo as she thrashes against him, dissolving into tears as he closes the door. “I’m sorry,” he says, scratching the top of his head. “She’ll never admit to how hard this is hitting her, but she’s barely holding it together.”

  “It’s understandable,” Alessandro answers, but his tone is pensive, and when I look at his face, his look tells me he’s still trying to puzzle out Mallory’s overreaction.

  I’m wondering about it too. I know she’s on edge, but she just came closer that I ever have at giving away our secret.

  “You’re okay to get home, Hilary?” Jeff asks.

  I nod. “We passed a bus stop just up the road.”

  “Thanks,” he says with a little bit of a grimace. “I think Mallory just needs some time to sort everything out.”

  We turn and head for the bus as Jeff slides into the driver’s seat and pulls away.

  The trip back to the city seems endless. I sink into Alessandro’s side and think about how I want to do this. I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that it’s not until we’re through the front door of my apartment, and I finally have the right words, that I turn to Alessandro and I notice how drawn his face is.

  My heart skips, and instead of saying the, “There’s something I need to tell you,” I’d been planning, I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  He levels me in his sharp gaze. “How old is Henri?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  AT HIS QUESTION, and the intensity of his expression as he asks it, my stomach drops to my shoes. “What?”

  “When was he born?”

  “Um . . . why?”

  “He’s adopted.” It’s not a question.

  I start to ask how he knows, but then I remember him scrutinizing the photo of Mallory’s family when he was at their house. Henri looks nothing like either of his parents. My insides pull into a knot and the totally irrational urge to deny it flashes through my mind. But I can’t. “I wanted to tell you.”

  His jaw tightens and he leans heavily against the inside of the door, his eyes closing. He rubs a hand down his face, and when he opens his eyes again he’s got that rabbit-in-the-headlights look, like he wants to bolt, but he’s frozen in place against his will. “Lorenzo’s . . . or mine?”

  My racing heart feels like it screeches to a stop as a cold sweat breaks over my skin. I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation. I focus on breathing. In. Out. “I don’t know for sure, but . . .” I feel my face scrunch, because I know what I’ve always believed. “I think I had a period after Lorenzo and . . . he looks just like you, Alessandro. The hair. The eyes. Everything.”

  “But you don’t know for sure.” It’s slow and measured—a statement, not a question—as if he’s feeling around a dark room for his way out.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He blows out a breath and I swear he blinks away tears. “Does he know?”

  “No. Mallory doesn’t want him to.”

  “So . . . when you went to Mallory’s . . . she knew you were pregnant.�
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  I nod. “I was way too screwed up to take care of a kid, so she and Jeff decided to get married and adopt him. They’ve been really great parents to him, Alessandro. He belongs with them.”

  “But he’s ours.” Again, it’s not a question.

  My thoughts are a chaos of hope and fear, colliding in my head and obliterating my ability to sort through any of it. I want him to get why I did what I did without having to explain it. I want him to fold me into his arms and tell me it’s okay. But from the look on his face, I don’t think that’s going to happen.

  Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I swallow them. “Yes.”

  He drops his head and weaves his finger through his sable locks, gripping tight to the hair on the top of his head. “This is why you’ve avoided answering me when I’ve asked you repeatedly to tell me what happened after I left.” His voice is low and ominous and my heart collapses at the betrayal in it. He lifts his head and his eyes stab through me. “How could you keep this from me? You took me to meet him,” he says, pounding a fist into the door in frustration, “and you never thought to mention that he was mine?”

  Suddenly, it’s too much. First Mom, and now this; everything happening all at once is more than I’m equipped to handle. His anger pushes me over the edge, and all the fear and pain I’ve stuffed down for years floods my sensibilities. The old defenses rise, the walls snapping back into place around my heart as if the last few weeks never happened.

  “You’re the one who left!” It lashes out of my mouth like a whip before I even think it. “If you’d stayed like you promised, none of it would have happened!”

  His eyes narrow and his gaze slices through me. “None of what, Hilary? What else happened after I left?”

  I sink onto the couch, my legs too weak to hold me anymore. In my anger, I’ve said too much. He needed to know the truth about Henri, but it was never in my plan to tell him the rest.

  Alessandro stays where he is, braced against the door, waiting for me to answer. I know from the look on his face that the only chance I have to make this right is to tell him everything. He’s always seen too much, and he’ll know if I’m holding back.