by Cam Johns
This could be the person Matteo mentioned he had to tell the truth to. Which means this guy not only knows who I am, but already has an uneasy feeling about me. I’m not sure how that’s possible when he doesn’t even know me.
“Mykel. How are you?” Matteo says, shoving my father’s goon on the shoulder.
The shove barely moves his large stature, as he continues to glare at me. His stare and the fact that Mattie clearly knows him confirms my suspicion: he knows of me.
His mimicked stare is distinct and recognizable considering it’s the same look I used to give Matteo before we became friends. Matteo used to be the kid I wanted to be. I grew jealous of Mattie because my father took a liking to him, more than me. Although I’ve always felt stupid for feeling envious of their connection, I know now it was only because I didn’t have one. Now, here I am, showing up to presumably take this Mykel guy’s spot. If only he knew I wanted no part of this. As soon as I’ve done what I’m here to do, I’m out of here, just as quickly as I’ve arrived. However, I would have no qualms about giving this guy a shiner.
“So this is Gabriel” The giant finally speaks. However, he knows who I am, that I’m alive, and my real name only ignites the fury I’ve buried for so long. My fists form quickly as the anger builds behind the shades I’m still wearing. Luckily for him, Matteo feels my tension.
“Let’s stick to Robert while we’re here, Mykel.”
Mykel chuckles. “You fighting your girlfriend’s battle,” Mykel says, annoyed with Mattie’s interruption. Obviously, Mykel is looking to test me.
“That’s enough!” my father interrupts before I erupt.
Despite my father entering the room, my anger keeps my eyes glued to Mykel’s, and his on mine. I get his position, because I’ve been there, but I was a child, jealous of another child. He’s a grown-ass man, jealous of another grown-ass man.
“Mykel, please tell my wife we have guests.” My father steps in between us, facing Mykel. Mykel takes one last gnarled look at me, before doing what he’s told, like the lapdog he is.
My father turns to face me, and I stare back at the man that had caused me so much grief but had also saved my life. I’m thankful he’s no longer lounging around the house in those awful tracksuits, but instead, has on casual pants, dress shirt, and expensive shoes. I want to hug him, thanking him for getting me away from his world and opening my eyes to more than just what he wanted for my life.
But I also want to stab him in the heart for being the reason for my supposed death. The reason I might have missed out on meeting my soul mate. If that were even possible. Had I not been shot by Santini, I would still be in the position Mykel is in now. Doing whatever my father asked of me, ready to take the throne once someone killed him … or he died naturally. But let’s face the facts, who really dies of old age or natural causes in this life? I’m fully aware there’s always someone willing and ready to destroy you and take the power you hold. It’s just the way of the beast.
“I think you can take that shit off now.” He points to the FBI getup. He can’t stand the cops, but he needs them, and theoretically uses the corruption woven within a few bad apples to keep his name sacred. “Emiliano Matteo Rossi,” he says with a smile, before pulling Mattie into a warm embrace, something I’ve grown accustomed to my father doing with him and not me. “How are you?”
“Living,” Mattie responds simply as my father holds him at arm’s length, with his hands cupping both of his cheeks.
With my father’s hands still on his cheeks, he glances up at me. I stare back, noticing how much he hasn’t aged within our decade’s distance, beyond the silver hair he now has. I remove my hat and shades, staring at his ocean blue, intense eyes. He removes his hands from Mattie’s face and suddenly pulls me into a hug he’s never given me before.
He doesn’t let go. He just squeezes me tight. It’s hard for me to find the strength to return the affection, but Mattie pats me on the back, encouraging me to not leave the old man hanging. So, I do what I promised I would never do: forgive him enough to hold him just as hard as he holds me.
I close my eyes and take a breath, accepting the emotion I wish my father had given me twelve years ago when my mother disappeared at the age of fifteen. Back then, all I wanted was my father to hug me, and even though I knew it might be a lie, tell me everything would be okay. Instead, he gave me a gun and told me it was time to man up.
So I did. At fifteen, I shot my first gun, aiming it directly at some guy’s head. Because my father told me to. How ridiculous is that shit?
As I open my eyes, however, rage returns once the shadow of a woman enters the room. The rage I’ve been unable to bury as of late. I blink in the sight I never thought I would see again. My hands fall from my father’s back, and I forcibly push him off of me. I stare over at Mattie, who has already backed away from me, knowing I’m about to blow, and there is nothing he could do.
The look on his face also tells me this was a lie he’s been keeping from me. I’m surrounded by fucking lying assholes. Before I know it, my fists have already balled and landed on my father’s face, and he falls to the floor.
I stare down at him, angry he has kept this secret from me. Angry I’m stuck with him as a father. Angry he’s brought me back here and has continually interfered with my life, as I’ve tried to move on.
But most of all, I’m angry he has kept my mother from me, Elena Liliana Calgrone.
9
Lies You Tell
“Son! I can’t believe you just did that!” my mother yelps, as she runs to my father’s side, helping him up.
He stumbles back, eyeing me approvingly.
“Son of a bitch!” Mykel angrily charges for me, and I’m willing and ready to give him the beat down he’s been craving since he opened that motherfucking door.
My father turns just in time to shove him back so hard, he almost falls to the floor. My father stands in front of me, pushing my mother off to the side. He stands between us. My father, mother, Matteo, and I on one side; Mykel faces us on his. My father calmly takes a firm stance, with his hands in both pants pockets, and stares through Mykel, who bows his head, ashamed. “Surely, you weren’t getting ready to touch my son, Mykel.”
Matteo and I stand identical to my father, at his sides, pushing my mother further behind us. I may hate my father, but I would never let some idiot I don’t know touch him. Or anyone for that matter.
We all glare at Mykel, who is no doubt upset he has now been quickly cast aside. However, we need him to remain loyal to my father. All I need is a bruised ego leading this guy into doing something stupid, like telling Santini and his people that not only am I alive but Matteo also.
As hard as this will be, I need to try and make things right with this guy, or I’m sure there will be unforeseen consequences.
I step in front of my father, who reluctantly allows me to take control. “Mykel, clearly, you are loyal to my father. I appreciate that and your situation.” I pause, waiting for him to lift his head and look me in the eye. The fury exuding from his dark brown, hooded eyes only compels me to believe this won’t change his attitude toward me.
Regardless, he can not like me all he wants. I need him to remain quiet about this, even if it’s just because he loves my father. “Let’s start over.” I extend my hand, hoping he’ll shake it, calling a truce of sorts. He somewhat snarls at me but makes a quick facial change once my father clears his throat. He shakes my hand, squeezing it tightly,as if that would intimidate me.
“C’mon, Mykel. Let’s give them some privacy,” Matteo says as he relaxes and pats Mykel on the back.
I watch them disappear into the next room and shut the door. I hesitate to turn around, not ready to face my past, which has become my present. I don’t want to be angry, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with this situation. I’ve assumed my mother was already dead, or she wanted nothing to do with me, or my father, or either one of us.
I grew up thinking she was as
hamed of the man I let my father turn me into. But what was I supposed to do? It wasn’t like she was the world’s best mom. She fucking sucked. She was always drunk or about to get drunk. Fuck the fact she had a starving, growing young boy at home. For a long time, I thought she resented not only me but also my father, who left her once I was born. I thought she drunk the pain away, instead of facing the constant reminder of her not being good enough in my father’s eyes.
So, what am I supposed to do with this now? She’s obviously with him, but why? He’s a fucking dickhead. I’m sure he’s constantly cheating on her. Not only that, but what the hell has he told her about me? Did she know I wasn’t really dead? She must’ve known because she didn’t seem shocked at all to see me in her house. They’ve all just been lying to me. Isn’t that just fucking fantastic! I can’t trust anyone except my wife and kids … and Sanchez.
I turn to face them. My father sits on the couch; he’s leaning forward, looking at the floor. I guess waiting for my outburst.
My mother is still standing in the same spot, waiting for me to say anything. She fidgets with her hands, nervously awaiting the tongue lashing she deserves for abandoning her only child. She actually looks just as I remember, but with more of a glow. She must be sober because there’s no way my father would let her in his house if she weren’t. Her long brown hair hangs in front of her face; a tear slowly creeps down her pale, blushed cheek. She’s still so thin, wearing a ton of jewelry with an all-white, fitted outfit. She looks beautiful…and healthy…and somberly happy.
I stand in front of her and grab at her fidgeting hands to gain her attention. She finally looks up at me; the tears become more abundant and find their way down her face. She stares through me, with sorrowful light brown eyes.
This look, I know. I saw it many times growing up as a young boy. I would always tell myself I would never make a woman feel like this. But here I am, watching her do the same thing. I grab her quickly, pulling her in close to me.
She holds onto me, wailing in my arms. My heart only melts for her, as I think of how she must’ve felt being without me all those years. Before and after my death. Now, finally being back in my father’s home, with him, but unable to be with me. I can’t stay upset with her. I have to let go of that loss—of the lonely little boy who always craved for a complete, normal family. Although she was the entire reason I was stuck with this life for so long, I forgive my mother.
As she calms down, I release my hold on her. I grab both her hands in mine. “I’ve missed you, Mom.” I smile and kiss her on the forehead.
She smiles. “I’ve missed being called that. I’m so sorry.” She sniffles as a tear falls again.
I wipe it away. “Seems like there’s a lot that needs to be said.”
She nods her head and leads me into the living room, where my father waits for us. We sit across from him on another gaudy couch. There’s one thing that never changes with my father’s homes: the furniture. Everything is so large, bulky, and expensive. There’s gold trim everywhere in here. It’s ridiculous. But that’s his personality. He likes everything to say he’s got money and power, to gain the respect he craves. Respect he needs from everyone but my mother and me.
I stare at her, taking in my new reality. My mother is alive and sober. Something I have wanted for her since I could remember. Something I suppose I couldn’t give her but had to be attained on her own. I just wish this happened before my murder. Before I had to start a new identity. Before I found my soul mate. Before Jackson and Jonathan.
But had she come back in my life, maybe my life would be different. I prefer not to think about it. Or think about the fact that she can never know that part of my life. The part I’m the proudest of.
I mean, I took a complete one-eighty. I went from a life of committing crime to a life of solving it. It’s funny how things come full circle. I’m back to committing crime.
Isn’t this some bull shit? I smile to myself as the thoughts ramble on in my head.
One thing is certain, I can tell my mother is happy now. Now that the tears have stopped, she continues to glare at my father. The same warming glare my wife gives me. What’s even weirder is my father staring back at her with the same ardor. This is very unusual for me. Could my father actually have a beating heart beneath that cold stone that’s barricading it?
“I have questions,” I say, interrupting their intensity.
“I’m sure you do. I’d like to show you something first.” My mother squeezes my hand then disappears from the living room.
“Son. We need to talk about tomorrow.”
I don’t understand how his coldness comes so easily to him. Toward me, anyway. I just found out my mother’s alive, and he wants to talk about business as usual. Fuck business! He’s nuts.
I angrily stand, balling my fists and pace the large room. I used to fly off the handle, without a second thought, but being married to Lynn, taking care of two growing boys, and being a detective has taught me patience if nothing else. I’ve learned how to control my anger in most situations.
However, these past couple of days have tested it, and I’m just not sure how much longer I can contain my disappointment. Disappointment in my inevitable return. My father. My mother being kept from me for God knows how long. My angry outbursts. I’m disappointed.
I stop pacing the room when I notice the large mocked painting above the granite fireplace. I stand there, astonished of how real it actually looks. We’ve never taken a photo like that…ever. Although, it somehow depicts a loving, connected family. The type of photo you would find in magazines or on television. It’s just as fake as it is portrayed. I’m not sure if I should be angry or not, but it pisses me off because I could find no other reason for the photo, other than my father wanting to keep up appearances. To make it seem like he’s actually grieving my loss.
“I had an artist render this painting from three individual photos.” My father stands beside me, placing his hand on my shoulder.
I want to shove his hand off of me, but I allow him this tiny form of affection. “Dad, why is this here?” My body trembles, fighting back the fury that won’t stop building. I want to believe he has actually missed me, but I can’t get past the father I’ve grown up with. He doesn’t love me. I’m just a pawn.
“I don’t understand the question.” He removes his hand and stands beside me in an intimidating stance.
I turn to face him. “This is not us.”
He looks at the painting. “What?” He chuckles.
“You took the one photo you found of my mother and me smiling, and had some fucking fake ass picture done.” I point at the photo. “That is not us.”
He places his hand on my shoulder again. “Gabr—.”
“That’s not my fucking name!” I interrupt him, shrugging his hand off of me. I step closer to him, staring at him acrimoniously. “You fucking killed him, remember?”
The look of shock comes over him, maybe even a little remorse. But that is quickly replaced with the same anger I’m failing to fight. I’m actually surprised he hasn’t hit me back from my punch earlier.
“I’m going to let this whole morning slide, but you might want to have a seat before you say or do something you may regret.” He stands there, crossing his arms, waiting for me to say something else stupid, but I realize I’m losing control.
I’ve already hit him, now I’m accusing him of shooting me in the back. He’s an asshole, but he’s still my father. I turn and sit abruptly on the couch, with my head down, leaning forward. I’m tired of holding all the resentment and anger inside. I need to let this go, but I can’t do that until I know everything. I need to know why. Why I’m supposed to be dead right now. Clearly, Santini targeted me for a reason that wasn’t told me. I want to know that reason. I need to.
“Dad,” I say, finally looking up at him.
He hasn’t moved from the mantle, but with my tone, he takes a seat beside me.
“What are you not telling me?” I
stare at him quietly, hoping he will find the courage to tell me the truth.
He stares at me briefly, then turns away from me and sits back further on the couch. I do the same, silently waiting for an answer. Whatever it is, I know by his slumbered posture that it’s something I’m not ready to hear. Either way, it’s something that must be said, or I will never be able to let go of this anger. So, I’ll have to press for the answer. It’s the only way.
“The lies you tell will continue to haunt the both of us. It’s time for the truth. Regardless of how harmful you think it may be. You have to let me make my own decisions, and not take them from me.”
“I agree.” My mother returns with a large book in her arms. She walks over to the couch and hands it to me. “You deserve answers, and your father will tell you them right now.”
My father scooches back up to the edge of the couch. He’s anxiously staring up at my mother, who obviously already knows the truth. Again, I’m the only one not knowing what’s going on. However, instead of getting angry again, falling back into the same rage that has always gotten me nowhere, I take deep breaths and let my mother do the convincing. Apparently, she’s on my side with this.
She grips my father’s chin, raising his head to face her as she stands before him. “Tell him now. He deserves to know who Jackson really is.”
What?
Maybe this is what Mattie was referring to. I stare at my father, trying not to be angry, but he’s hiding something about my son now. My son. All the deep breaths in the world won’t keep my hands from his throat if he is putting my son in danger. I refuse to be the father he has been to me. I actually give a damn what happens to my family, and so does my wife, who will help me hide my father’s body if it comes down to it.
“Dad.” My hands tremble. “Please … Jackson is my son. I need to know what you’re hiding from me.” I stare at both of them, my head bobbing back and forth as I patiently wait for an answer.