His name is written on the front. Odd that Carlos’s handwriting is different from his, but he guesses he should expect that. They have different painting styles. The envelope’s edges are worn, as though it had been stored in a drawer with other items bumping into it. Or perhaps Natalya often held it, wondering whether she’d have the opportunity to give it to him.
He tears it open and unfolds the stationery. The emblem printed on top is from El estudio del pintor, the gallery he sold in Puerto Escondido. Neatly penned on the paper is exactly what Natalya told him it would be. A letter to him, from him. As he reads, his hands continue to shake and his heart goes out to the man who somehow knew that his time was almost up.
Dear James,
When you woke up from the fugue state and realized you lost more than years of memories, I’m sure you were angry at the world and despised your brothers. You longed for Aimee and probably hated me. I’m the guy who refused medical treatment. I didn’t want to remember who I used to be, because that meant I’d forget who I am. But I’ve slowly come to accept that the likelihood I’ll come out of the fugue and become you again is definitive. I have also come to understand that there is more than the self-loathing and shame you feel with your failure to protect Aimee from Phil at play here. There is something deeper in your past, for I see it often in my nightmares. It must be the explanation as to why the fugue has lasted as long as it has.
I urge you to come to terms with past mistakes, to forgive those who have wronged you, and find peace within yourself. You might discover that despite the losses, you’ve gained so much more: two incredible and talented sons, a woman who has remained at your side for years and loves you beyond anything, and the freedom of expression through your art. Perhaps you have already. And perhaps, you have also already found your way home. After all, you’re reading this letter.
C.
James slides the key his mother left him at the front desk into the slot. The lock unlatches and he opens the door to Claire’s suite.
Phil lounges on the couch, arms extended across the back. He wears a peach Hawaiian print shirt and white shorts with flip-flops. Always the tall, lean one of the three of them, prison has noticeably changed him. Deep lines etch a face that hasn’t regularly seen the sun. He carries more weight around the middle and less hair on his head. What he does have is streaked with a lifeless gray. He sips a yellow, frothy cocktail with a blue paper umbrella and grins when he sees them.
James doesn’t know what he expected to feel when he saw Phil. The rage that coursed through him when he’d seen his older brother covering Aimee would have been logical. As would the terror that chilled his veins when Phil put a gun in his face and ordered him to swim as if his life depended on it. Thank God he’d been running marathons since college and had been training for a triathlon. He never would have survived. James would also have understood animosity. It was because of who and what Phil is that he suffered through countless conditioning sessions with his father. Edgar Donato had successfully beaten the bitterness toward Phil into him and Thomas.
But he certainly hadn’t anticipated remorse. Phil never asked for his parentage, and he never wanted anything more than to be considered a respected member of the family. He tried on several occasions to slip into the big-brother role and James had scoffed. The less he interacted with Phil, the less chance he’d make the mistake of thinking of him as a brother. It kept his lower back welt-free.
The man Phil is today is the man his family molded him into. All the extra bits—his anger, violence, and maliciousness—is the armor he wore not only to survive in this family but to let them know loud and clear exactly what he thought of them.
“Hola, amigos.” Phil toasts his drink at them, then waves a finger at James. “You know exactly what I said. I hear you spent six years in Mexico. I knew you liked it there, but seriously? That’s over the top.”
“What do you want, Phil?” Thomas demands before James has the chance to.
“What do I want?” Phil looks at them both. He takes a slow drink and settles deeper in the couch. “Nothing. With you.” His gaze narrows on James.
“Then why did you have us come here?”
“He didn’t. I did.” Claire walks into the room like the regal matriarch she is.
“Welcome to family therapy, Donato-style,” Phil jeers. “It’s a grand fucking family reunion.”
“Do shut up, Phillip.” Claire sits on the couch across from him in a flurry of multicolored silk. She smooths the tunic over her legs. “Dr. Brackman will be here in thirty minutes. He’s a family therapist, and comes highly recommended. I flew him in this morning.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Thomas yanks off his blazer and tosses it over the back of a chair. His words and tone echo James’s sentiments exactly. Thomas rolls up his sleeves as the jacket slides to the floor. He crosses the room to the wet bar.
“Thomas, really, your language.” Claire straightens the toss pillows beside her. “Your father passed over seven years ago, God rest his soul, and we haven’t sat together as a family since. I was not fond of his position on many things, or his methods. We need to discuss this. It’s been forever since we talked.”
“Forever is too soon.” Thomas pours himself a scotch, downs it, and refills his glass. He raises the bottle and a brow at James.
“No, thanks.” James picks up Thomas’s blazer. A billfold falls from the pocket. He folds the blazer over the chair and takes the billfold to the window.
“I have some things to say, Thomas, and you’re going to listen.” Claire’s tone is a mother’s order. “I never agreed with how your father treated Phil. He’s your brother. But I loved your father just as much as I loved your father, Phil. I adored my brother—idolized him, if you must know. He wasn’t around much while I was growing up because he went to boarding school, then away to college. When he came home, though, there was a connection. We both felt—”
“God, Mom. Stop!” Thomas slices his hand through the air. “I don’t think any of us want to hear that. I sure don’t. What I do want to know is where the hell you were when Dad was beating us?”
Behind James, Thomas continues to lob questions and his mother complains. Why can’t her sons get along? Why do they keep hurting each other?
Because there’s too much history. They were never encouraged to treat each other with respect. In fact, quite the opposite.
James opens the billfold that holds Thomas’s DEA identification. Why is he not surprised? His role in exports with Central and South America put him in the perfect position as the government’s eyes and ears. Hiding in plain sight, as Thomas once told Carlos.