Tangled In Strings

Chapter Twenty-Eight

As the priest begins to speak, I'm consumed by last moments.

I've known Norman for years. Before he was my father he was a friend. He was a constant reassurance in my life that I will no longer have. He won't be around to yell at, to get advice from, and reminisce with. He's gone. I know that. But my mind, so desperate to heal itself, insists on remembering him, especially in the last months...because that is when he meant the most to me.

How he'd always try to be awake when I'd get to the apartment, no matter how late I arrived. Or how he'd get himself out of bed, even on his worst days, just so he could trick me into believing that he was alright, that he would last even just a little bit longer than I expected.

And it's not just memories that fall upon me. It's feelings, it's smells, it's noises.

The gut-punch to my stomach that occurred when I looked at the picture of my mother and him for the first time. The sound of him arguing distantly into his phone with clients echoing in his massive office stacked full of awards, life achievements. The tightening I feel now around my shoulders seems like his arms, even though he is not here. Not physically.

I wonder if he's here in other ways. I'd like to believe so. I'd like him to be here, to give me strength to make it through his moment, and then I'd like him to be gone, on to better things.

I hear evidence of tears all around me, a quiet soundtrack to today's ceremony. I listen to them, whoever is crying, with a straight face. My tears have abandoned me, disappearing the moment I walked out of Norman's bedroom, leaving his body behind. It was like a switch.

One minute I was heaving, face pressed into Giovanni's chest. The next, I was pulling back, void of any extremities. I pulled myself together, walked to the table while the medics began to take him out, and began to call people who would need to know.

Monica. Connor, who's in the crowd here somewhere. Rebecca and Carlos.

They asked me how I was doing, how worried they were because I was so calm.

I didn't tell them the pain was so excruciating, so traumatizing that my brain physically transformed it into shock. I didn't tell them what it was like in the end, to hold him as he passed.

Instead, I told them I had spent time preparing for this and that I was alright.

I fooled all but one.

Giovanni leans in, his mouth by my ear. His fingers are squeezing mine. "Scar."

I glance at him, dazed from being in reflection for so long. He's in a black suit, white shirt, black tie. It's a normal, insignificant choice, fit for a funeral, but he wears it well. His hair is gelled back, not wild like it usually is, and his eyes are tired.

Tired from nights he's fought sleep to hold me, knowing I couldn't.

We're both so tired. So beaten by this year...so much older than we actually are. Giovanni's been in and out, having to deal with this, and with the government. Audits, interviews, lengthy calls. We've been lucky that they've remained discreet about the case other than the initial press release. They've informed Giovanni that the space for his studios, Maria's home and tree farm, his mother's home, and an apartment in Naples will be seized, as all were under his father's name. Smaller items such as vehicles, stocks purchased, gifts given will also be totaled up. Giovanni pays rent on his house, so that is not included.

His entire family is paying for his father's decisions. We've both been so busy, we haven't discussed the will. I know I have to really think of the best way to encourage him to take what was left to him because it could fix so much of what's been lost. I want to relieve his burden, because I only seem to be adding to it.