Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89145 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89145 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
She stared up at me in silence, all her worries and fears flitting by. I could tell how badly she wanted to believe me—and that she wasn’t there yet.
She released a breath and reached up to comb back my hair with her fingers. “It’s been a long time since I made peace with how my baby came to this world. We do things when we get cornered—when we’re barely able to scrape by. And I see him in you, you know. I see the Murrays in your eyes and in every freckle. When you were little—every time Grace picked you up and spoke of your Irish eyes…” She trailed off, and I swallowed hard. “Maybe you’re curious and want more. I don’t know. I just hope you remember what happens in their lifestyle too. It’s not all money and fun times. Grace was murdered in broad daylight just a few blocks away. Did even a year pass before her eldest son was killed?”
She took a step back and reached for her purse on the counter.
“It has kept you safe for thirty years to view her as Grace O’Shea, the woman who was married to a big shot in the Sons of Munster. The woman whose brother offered me a way out.” She leveled me with a serious look. “The moment you choose to consider her your late aunt, you are playing a very different game.”
She had nothing left to say, and I didn’t know how to respond anyway.
Without a word, she walked out of the kitchen and left.
When I drove out to Ardmore a while later, I felt…off. Zero anger, zero worries, zero nervousness. Just…like, a blanket of melancholy. A sense of bittersweet.
I lit up a smoke and rested my arm in the open window. Traffic was aggressive as always. People honked and yelled. I barely heard any of it. I was lost in my head.
I took a drag from my smoke, and the sun’s hot beams landed on my arm.
“Those are my genes protecting you from the sun, mijo,” Ma used to joke when I was little.
Sometimes, I wondered how my life would have played out if she had changed to another church when I was a baby.
I didn’t even know if I believed in God, and yet religion had played a huge part in my life.
I’d grown up in a predominantly Irish working-class neighborhood, with a generous dose of people with roots in Italy, Poland, Ukraine, and South America. The gentrification had definitely begun, but you could step back in time when you went to church. Father O’Malley offered a glimpse of what the hood had looked like in the sixties and seventies, based purely on the people who showed up for Mass.
Ma had grown up there too, and she’d stayed when her parents decided to return to Puerto Rico. It wasn’t as if my gramps wanted to go to Italy anyway. He’d visited once, and he often said he’d never felt more like an American.
“My grandparents would roll over in their graves—rest their souls—but the only Italian my folks passed on to me was my store.”
“And your temper,” Nana would tease.
Ma hadn’t made much of an effort to bring our heritage to the surface until I was older. But when we’d introduced her to the kids, she’d proudly claimed the Nonna title.
I should call my grandparents soon. Or fly down with the kids and visit.
Nana and Gramps had been sad to learn about my divorce.
I took another drag from the smoke and exhaled heavily.
Ma’s guess was probably dead-on. I did want more. I was curious. Despite having argued the opposite, I wanted a big family where everyone could be themselves.
For some dumbass reason, I’d been guilty of my own gentrification process in an attempt to make shit easier. To build bridges and bring us closer together.
Our wedding had been a prime example. My grandparents had come up from Puerto Rico. My family on Dad’s side had dusted off their funeral suits or rented clothes. Ma’s brother and sister, and their spouses and kids—all the same. We worked. We were a hotheaded, loud bunch from mixed cultures, but we worked. Because we were from similar neighborhoods and had shared the same upbringing. And then West’s family…? Mother of Christ. The church had been packed, with my side not-so-discreetly complaining that it wasn’t Catholic. And they’d expected a big party afterward. Of course they had. When my cousin Albie got married, all the women had cooked, the children had run around, the… It’d been wild. Colorful. Fun.
West and I had hosted our reception at their country club.
I’d been too blissed out to give a fuck about the food and lack of good music, and in retrospect, I should’ve gotten more involved.
To be fair, West hadn’t been very involved either. His mother and two of his sisters had planned it all.