“Miss Marieles!” the lovely Miss Hemsworth yells at me from behind her desk.
Okay. Here we go.
“This is your internship, not a social hour,” she squawks.
“One moment please, Miss Hemsworth,” I sing.
“Internship?” Finn asks me.
I don’t mean to blush, but the fact that Finn sounds impressed has me doing just that. “I’m graduating with my master’s degree in May. I’m interning here as part of my final requirements―”
“Miss Marieles!” Miss Hemsworth snaps yet again.
I glance over my shoulder and smile. “I’m coming, Miss Hemsworth. Sorry,” I whisper, leaning in close. “She hasn’t been the same since the last of her flying monkeys flew out of her ass.”
I turn as Finn busts out laughing. I want to wish him well and tell him that I hope he’s okay. But I don’t want to upset or embarrass him. He’s probably already going through enough.
My charting awaits, and I don’t have much time before I meet with my next client. But as I make my way back to the office, I pause beside Zorina, the little musician lost in her own world. Her elbows are up and out as she plays her make-believe cello.
I place my hand carefully against her shoulder, hoping to reach her if only for a moment. “Hey, sweetie. I know you love your pretty music, but we’re here in the office now. Can we talk about what you’re hearing inside?”
She slowly lowers her hands and nods. I’m not sure if it’s my voice that brings her back to reality, or my touch. I’m just glad she hears me and that she’s still with us to some extent. Her mother glances at me, offering me a sweet smile. “Thanks, Sol,” she says.
“You’re welcome,” I answer. Although I sat in on her daughter’s initial assessment, I’m surprised and maybe a little honored that she remembered my name.
I hurry back to the door leading to the rear offices, hoping Miss Hemsworth doesn’t give me a hard time and lets me in. Thankfully, she does, despite the scowl that warns me she’d like nothing more than for God to strike me dead.
As I reach for the door, I steal a glance Finn’s way. As easily as that he catches my stare and holds me in place. He looks . . . amazing, like always. I want to stay longer, but I meant what I said, neither of us are in a good place.
If I have any doubt, they’re quickly squashed by the text I receive on my way back to Mason’s office.
You need to come home. Your mother isn’t well.
CHAPTER 3
Sol
Your mother isn’t well. That’s a hell of an understatement.
My mother wasn’t “well” when I was a child, became “sick” when I was a teen, and now . . . I’m not sure how she is. I only know I have to make her better. Somehow, I have to.
Mason, being the awesome supervisor that he is allows me to leave, assuring me that I can make up my hours later this week.
I promised to return this evening, but as I pull into my little neighborhood and focus onto our street, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my promise. Not with how all the elderly neighbors are standing around, gossiping about what “poor Flor” did now, and how “poor Flor” is holding up.
She’s not holding up. That’s the issue. But as much as they seem to fuss when my mother has an episode, I’m starting to think they’re actually entertained by her erratic actions.
I live on a cross street in Philly’s Fishtown district in a neighborhood packed with well-kept row houses that were erected in the 1960s, long before I was born. My street isn’t fabulous, and it’s not in the “nice” part of town. No lawyers or doctors reside anywhere close to here, and their children would never be allowed to visit. But to me it’s always been home.
Those so-called higher ups of society don’t see past the cracked sidewalks that line the street to the well-swept concrete steps. They skim over the metal railings coated with years of paint and only see the tiny porches. They don’t hear the conversations that take place around those little stoops: those that involve the Phil’s, the Eagles, and the best way to fry an empanada, nor do they see the happy faces of the neighborhood kids when they play stickball in the street. They don’t recognize the sense of family and community where residents distinguish their dwellings by painting their doors in alternating shades of black, red, and even green.
But me, I see it, and I feel it every time I come home.
I pull into the spot closest to my house, struggling to keep my chin up, even though I feel more like cowering. Does my mother embarrass me? If I’m being honest, yes, and I absolutely hate myself for feeling this way.