Page 2 of In Her Blood
Eleven?If her math was right, her mother would have been eleven when the photo was taken. Why would an eleven-year-old be going to anyone’s engagement party? Family, perhaps, but even then, only close family would make any sense to invite young children. And Nonno had been so strict.
More confused than ever, Evelina set the picture carefully back down, dragged her nail over a few laminated tops, and extracted another. She felt the gasp build in her chest and barely stifled it when she saw the same girls, both sixteen months younger according to the printed time-stamp, sitting quietly together. Her mother, who would have been nine, looked to be sleeping with her head in the other girl’s lap. The other girl, Eleonora, held a book open with the hand not threaded into the child’s hair. But she had turned a small, perhaps tired, smile to the camera. They looked … like sisters. Many years apart, but to any passing eye, that was the first thing they might be taken for.
Evelina shoved all of the photos back into the box, smacked the lid on top, and slid the whole thing aside. She dragged in a deep breath, sucking the fabric of the stupid mask into her mouth in the process.
“Lina?”
She blew out. “I’m fine.” She wasn’t. But he’d keep asking questions if she said anything else.
Sisters? Did that mean— No. It couldn’t mean that. It was just them. Just her and her mother, trapped in the oppressive world of the Nikolaev Bratva. It always had been. Although soon, Evelina supposed, it would actually just be her. The unwanted mixed-blood offspring. Like it was her fault her father had become consumed with her mother’s beauty and his own lust for everything, or her fault her father and grandfather had struck their stupid deal, or her fault that her father’s first wife had proven infertile.
Her chest pinched. No, none of that was her fault. It was just her fault she was the child who’d survived, and not her elder brother.
Evelina blew out another shaky breath and dragged over the second shoebox.Please don’t be more pictures.She craved knowing more about her mother’s youth, but at the same time, she didn’t think she could handle the implications in that photo.
She opened the lid and blinked, staring past the disturbed cloud of dust. It didn’t look like more pictures. It looked like … letters.Am I living a cliché right now?Confused and more than a little wary, Evelina reached inside and sifted through the old, yellowed envelopes. They didn’t appear stacked in any order. But they looked sealed, addressed, most of them even stamped. And, finally, the name on the address seeped into her brain.
Eleonora De Salvo
All of them. Every single one was addressed to the same person, to the same place.
All of them to New Jersey. The realization smacked Evelina in the face, the photo of the state sign she’d found earlier flashing through her mind.
She didn’t realize she had gasped that time, or dropped the envelope from her hand, until Otto was kneeling beside her and gripping on her shoulder. “Lina. Maybe this is enough for one day.”
She set her jaw, refusing to admit he was probably right, and shrugged him off. “I’mfine, Otto. I just … wasn’t prepared for this little foray into my family history. That’s all.” She could feel him scowling at her and she turned her head enough to arch a perfectly trimmed brow.
His own were narrowed with disapproval, or disbelief, and his lips were set in a thin line. But he dipped his chin after only another moment’s hesitation and retreated once more.
The show of obedience, with their continued lack of an audience, should probably have alarmed her. It wasn’t something he was known for after all the years he’d been assigned to her. But her mind was elsewhere, so she took it for what it looked like and dropped her focus back to the letters.
There had to be close to two dozen. The first several were addressed in a child’s scrawl, but slowly the handwriting improved and became more recognizable. There was no doubt in Evelina’s mind they were written by her mother. It was hard to make out the dates on all the postmarks, but as she rifled through, she realized years separated many of them. And the closer she looked, the more it seemed each and every one had been returned unopened.
A piece of Evelina’s heart broke for the child she’d seen in those photographs, and questions rose like mountains in her mind.
Who was Eleonora De Salvo? Why had she returned all of Annetta’s letters, or had she even received them? What sort of relationship had they actually had, how had they met? A lump formed in Evelina’s throat. Her grandfather hadn’t been as abusive as her father, but he hadn’t been a kind man, either. Was it possible her mother had befriended this Eleonora, and tried reaching out to her later?
Her fingers danced along the edge of the envelope in her hand. They were so old, and so clearly abandoned. Asking her mother about this might upset her to the point that it made her collapse, even.What could it hurt if I just took a peek?
Chewing briefly on her lip, Evelina decided to open what looked like the oldest one, hoping that child-Annetta had spilled her heart out in her first letter. She just wanted to understand. And, really, her mother’s youth was a portion of time she knew little about—neither Mamma nor Nonno really liked talking about that history. So she pulled out what she determined to be the oldest letter and carefully dragged her nail through the weathered paper crease. It tore like butter.
Her heart snagged a little at the child’s swirling handwriting inside, but she read anyway.
Dear Nora,
I miss you so much. I miss New York so much. I even kinda miss New Jersey now. Papa’s not the same. We never stay anywhere long and he barely talks to me. He’s told me not to write to you, too, but I’m doing it anyway. He’s not here, again, and he can’t tell me not to write to my own sister! You are still my sister, aren’t you, Nora? Even though you’re married now and you changed your name—
Evelina practically jumped backward, all but throwing the papers off her lap as her heart slammed into her ribs. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.
She had an aunt? Or, at least, she’d had one once. Along with who-knew-how-much extended family. In New Jersey.
“Lina.” Otto’s voice was a bit firmer this time, his hand settling against her mid-back.
Feeling distinctly unsteady, Evelina reached out and latched onto his shirt before finally lifting her gaze to his stare. “Otto,”she whispered, “I … I need to talk to Mamma.” Even if it upset her. There were questions shehadto ask.
Because, above all else, she couldn’t imagine Nonno allowing one of his daughters—particularly his eldest—to marry some rando. Nonno had been too power-hungry for that. Her mother had been given over in an arranged marriage, so that begged the question of whether or not her aunt had, too. But more than anything, Evelina needed to know if she still had this mystery aunt, and who her relatives named De Salvo actually were.Ifthey actually were.
Still, it took her nearly forty minutes to get time alone with her mother. Most of that due to the hovering hospice nurse Evelina usually appreciated.
