Page 111 of Damaged

“Two years apart. My mother’s was genetic. Her mom died of ovarian cancer, too. But my father’s was preventable. He had exposure to chemicals in laboratories in Estonia.”

“He had work there?”

“He was from there. Both my parents were immigrants in the seventies.”

I frown. “Okay, but your last name definitely isn’t Estonian.”

James smirks. “My dad was as ambitious as I was. Only… not so focused. He was a bit of a madman. Journals filled with inventions. Desk buried under papers and books a mile deep. When they immigrated, he wanted a strong name. An American-sounding name. He didn’t think the name Abayantsev would open many doors. His brother who immigrated, the uncle I ended up living with, was a janitor here, after all.”

“Was your father a chemist?”

“Yes, and a professor by the time he was sick.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I heard you grew up in a rough part of town was all.”

“Academics don’t make that much money in the first place. Couple it with the medical debt of two cancers, and we were destitute by the time my father went to hospice. He was always bad with bills to begin with.”

“I’m sorry, James.”

“It was hard to see my old man’s dreams die like that. He always thought America was the end goal. The dream. Maybe he would’ve done something with his life had he never gotten sick. But regardless, I made a promise to myself to not end up the same. Not end up under a pile of debt. To have enough money to get sick and die and then some. So, I know what you’re thinking… Isn’t this big penthouse lonely? But I can almost hear my father’s laugh. His big mustached smile when I walk into this place. His American son, his only one, made it.”

I can’t imagine losing both parents. And then the girl who ended up taking James under her wing was murdered. I have no adequate words because there are none. I put my face in the crook of his neck.

“Thanks for telling me, James. It means a lot.”

“Well… thanks for listening, snowflake. What about your folks?”

“They’re alive. Separated. They have been forever. My dad is Chilean; my mom is from the UK. They had me during an affair in New York. It ruined their marriages, but they never even dated each other after. They just raised me like two friends with a baby. I was born here, and I lived here, most of the time. Not long after I turned eighteen, they both moved back to their respective countries.”

“That can’t be easy.”

“Yeah. It felt like once the job was complete, they were gone. But they’re not bad people.”

James’s face is a mask of amusement. “It’s an interesting story.”

“Are you surprised?”

“A little.”

“I don’t like to talk about it that much. I’m part Chilean but don’t speak a lick of Spanish. It’s sort of embarrassing.”

“Do you like your parents?”

The bluntness of the question gives me pause. I suppose it’s a fair question to ask. I might harbor a lot of resentment from not being born into a happy family. “I do like them. They’re both very flawed, but they know it.”

“Hmm. Life is funny, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“That the flaws of two people created the most beautiful thing in my life.”

I want to tease him for being sappy, but there is something about his tone, the way he spoke lightly with the rasp of a whisper, that melts my heart.

This.

---