Page 84 of The Butcher's Wife
Mom wrings the damp paper towels between her hands before sighing and setting them on the counter. “I know it might take a few tries, but you know me and Aunt Karen got pregnant young. The sooner you can get pregnant, the better.”
“Dom will stand up for me.” My mind flashes back to Don Salvatore’s basement. I load up another plate. “He’s not Dad.”
“Serafina, do not be rude!” she calls after me as I walk to the dining room. Like it’srudeto remind her she only gotDad to stop cheating on her so much when she baby-trapped him with Carlo, instead of thinking it’srudeto send ovulation tests to her grieving daughter.
When I come back, Mom’s loading a plate for me, taking her time to arrange everything beautifully. She finishes, sets it on the counter, and reaches for my arm to rotate me toward her.
“Serafina.” She cups my face, and I have to shut down the urge to pull away. “Dad and I are doing everything we can to keep you safe. You need to be doing your part.”
I’m training, I want to tell her.I can use a gun.
I know it’s not enough, but it’ssomething.It’s at least more than waiting around at home for my husband to shoot his load into me.
I swallow my protests, resisting the urge to argue with her—like our arguments have ever done me any good anyway. Mom will just cry about what a terrible mother she is, like she always does when she’s against a wall.
Instead, I jerk off her ring from my right hand, and her eyes widen when she spots my new engagement ring on my left. Without a word, I drop her ring on the counter, take the plate, and walk to the dining room.
I don’t return to the kitchen after I sit down between my brothers. Mom brings the rest of the food out, with a smile plastered across her face.
“Buon Appetito!” she exclaims. She sits and pours herself a glass of wine to the absolute brim.
Carlo immediately points his loaded fork at Red. “What’d you think of the Bulls’ game?”
Dinner passes quickly while Carlo and Red get into an argument about the latest game, which Dad eventually settles by telling them to shut their yapping. Mom and I clean the dining room table in silence, and the guys leave tostart a game of poker. Once the kitchen’s cleaned, I feign the need to go to the bathroom, leave Mom with her bottle of wine, and go upstairs.
The day I’d moved out to live with Frederico, Serafina had told me Mom and Dad had all my things packed up from my old room. She’d rescued a few items, but most of my stuff got thrown away or donated. What was the point of a young, virginal bride if she brought literal baggage with her? I was supposed to be shiny and brand new. If I needed dresses or equipment for hobbies, my new husband would supply what he thought I needed.
I pass by my room and slip into Serafina’s old room, shutting the door softly behind me.
Her room is like a time capsule.
I run my finger along the top of one dresser, and it comes away with a light coating of dust. The housekeepers haven’t been allowed in here. A pang of guilt strikes my chest at how I spoke to Mom earlier—she’s grieving too, even if it makes her a bigger pain in the ass. Does Dad hold her in the shower while she cries like Dom does for me? Somehow, I doubt it.
The empty wine glass next to Serafina’s bed confirms my suspicions and twists the knife in a little deeper. I hate that I have to be the one who has to be gentle with Mom, and not the other way around. I know she’s trying her best. She just can’t imagine a relationship that’s not built on babies.
A hint of dried flowers permeates the stale air as I kick off my heels and walk through the room. I don’t think Serafina would’ve understood either. She loved thinking about the little family she’d have with her future husband.
I swallow past the ball of wool in my throat. She would’ve made a great mother.
I wipe away an errant tear as I open her closet, a littlesmile twisting my lips. She would always share any of her clothes with me, but she never liked anyone to be in her closet, even the housekeepers. The one time I teased her about hiding her nonexistent vibrator in there, she got red in the face and refused to talk to me for the rest of the day.
That memory used to make me so mad, and now I’m smiling and a little heartbroken thinking about it.
The plastic bins I’m searching for are stacked in the far corner of her walk-in closet, and I pull off the top one with a grunt. Most of my cookbooks are in here, and another one I haven’t seen before, about vegetarian cooking. I pop off the plastic lid of the storage bin and reach for it. As far as I know, Serafina had never taken an overt interest in cooking. She used to tell me that if she hadn’t married a man who didn’t give her a personal chef, she hadn’t done her job right.
Did she want to be a vegetarian? My stomach sours. She never told me.
The book’s much lighter than it looks, shooting upward when I misjudge its weight.
“What the…?”
Pill bottles tumble out from a hollow center. I don’t know why my heart’s racing as I pick them up and read the labels.
One of the bottles says it’s Xanax, prescribed to Serafina. Since when did she take Xanax? She never told me about that. Why would she even hide this from me? I knew she had panic attacks, but I wouldn’t have judged her for the Xanax. The bottle’s nearly empty, with only a few white pills at the bottom. The other bottle’s nearly full to the brim with tiny blue pills. The label says it’s Adderall for Russell Wilson.
So that loser was giving her drugs?
A knock at the door has me scrambling to hide all the pill bottles back in the book and tucking it away.
