Page 14 of Roaming Holiday

Ophelia Elias, Former Queen of Maldana

A name.

That’s all Dad had to give me. I knew my birth mother’s name was Ophelia, but I never knew her maiden one. Searching Ophelia Elias tells me everything I ever wanted to know about her. Height, favorite color, what she was like as a daughter and sister. But nothing of what she was like as a mother. Maia and I don’t exist in the recounts of her life. The Ophelia Elias biographies believe she died childless and of cancer. It makes me feel disconnected from her all over again.

When I come across a biography that says she used to paint, I leap from the table and shove my feet into slippers, eager to share this with my sister. I swing open the door only to see Maia dashing down the hall, too.

“Did you know she played volleyball?” she asks, phone in hand.

“Oh my god, really?” I squeal. “I was coming to tell you she used to paint!”

She gasps. “No way!” She takes my wrist to look at my screen as I do the same to her.

“Come on, I ordered extra room service,” I say, urging her through the threshold. Beck continues standing at attention without ever saying a word. With a curious glance at his profile, I disappear into my room. What type of experience does one need to be a bodyguard? I would go crazy having to stand in one spot for hours at a time and then follow someone around.

Maia and I spend the next hour eating and sharing random facts we’re discovering about Mom. A knock at the door cuts into our conversation.

“It’s just me,” Ruby says, her voice muffled. “Can I come in?”

We exchange glances. The last hour was the first today that this news about our family felt good. I shrug and say hesitantly, “Come in.”

Ruby inches into the room wearing the same linen pants and blouse as earlier, but she wiped her brown skin clean of makeup, and her pressed hair is twisted into a bun. “I just wanted to see how you girls are doing.”

“So you can report back to Dad,” Maia says, curled up on the divan with a pillow.

“No,” my stepmom replies firmly. She lowers onto the edge of the bed. “What you tell me stays between us. Ask me anything and I’ll tell you what I know.”

I’m sick of asking questions. My college years consisted of figuring out what I would do once graduation came around. Would I find a good job? Would I have to move back home? Would James and I stay together? I found answers. Yes, no, and no. I may not like this job for a language app I’m starting in a couple of months, but it was good enough to take care of myself. Now I have a whole new list of questions and a blurry future.

“How long have you known?” I ask.

“He told me right before I moved in.”

“Why didn’t he tell us sooner?”

Ruby inhales. “I don’t know. He always said he would do what Ophelia wanted.”

A dozen arguments fill my mouth, but I swallow them. Ophelia didn’t know she would die when I was five years old. “Still,” I say, “do you think he should’ve waited this long?”

“I think he did the best?—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I didn’t lose my spouse when my children were toddlers. There’s no way I can say what he did was right or wrong.”

She has an opinion—the way she does about everything. But she’s always made a strong effort to stay out of my relationship with Dad. I don’t know if I respect or resent her for it.

“No one said this was an easy thing to digest,” she continues. “Your father knows that.”

I rise from the table and start gathering the dishes to load into the dumbwaiter. “My anger goes beyond what happened today.”

“He lied to us,” Maia says.

“Your stay here isn’t about him. It’s about the two of you learning more about your mom. Your dad anticipated you’d need time to process, so he says there’s no pressure to spend the next few days or however long with him.”

Ah, the real reason she came. I lock the dumbwaiter door and turn to her, arms crossed. “Duly noted.”

9

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