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“Sorry. Please say what brought you here.”
He clears his throat again and then says,
"Earlier, at the church, you asked me if I could give you your father back. I can't. He's been dead for fifteen years." Liam’s voice is steady and earnest. "I cannot bring him back, Tony, but I can help try to save your Mom."
The silence is heavy, filling the space between us as his words hang there—a lifeline dangling before a drowning woman.
“Explain.”
“There are some very optimistic studies for the management of pancreatic cancer coming from a hospital in Switzerland. With your permission, I would like to reach out to them and see if I could get your Mom into that program. Don't worry. Everything will be taken care of; you don't need to worry about a thing. Your mother will be at the clinic, and you can stay at my place out there . . . your whole family is welcome to stay there as long as you want, as long as it takes.”
"Switzerland?" I manage to croak, my voice strangled by hope I dare not fully grasp.Is this God's twisted sense of humor sending me hope for my mother, through the man who killed my father? Wouldn't that be absurd?
"Optimistic studies for pancreatic cancer management," he continues, undeterred by my skepticism. "If you agree, I'll make the calls and arrange everything. Even if they don't get to cure her," Liam says, reading my silence as uncertainty, "they will manage her pain and discomfort . . . keep her comfortable."
I want to shout, I want to scream, I want to rip his face off for the injustice of his presence, but it’s his last words that get me. That's what breaks me. Not the grand gestures or promises of recovery but the simple mercy of eased suffering for the woman who means everything to me. A sob catches in my throat, suppressed quickly behind a wall of composure I can barely maintain.
"Okay," I say after what feels like an eternity, each syllable tasting of bile.
"I have to clear this with Dick, Jenny, and Lola. They have a say in this. I hope you know that you will never get a thank you from my mother. No matter how this all pans out, she will never know your involvement in this"
"Of course," Liam replies, his relief evident even in the dim light radiating from my bedroom window.
“And just so you know, this does not wipe out the past. You still killed my father.”
“I understand.”
"Okay," I repeat, more to myself than him. This isn't about pride, revenge, or past grievances. It's about her—my mother—and the unbearable thought of her in pain for even one second longer than necessary. Liam's presence, once unbearable, is now just another detail in the background of a larger picture. This is about my Mom.
Chapter nineteen
SIBLING MUTINY.
TONY
I push open the door to La Terraza, the bell jingling in a way that's too cheerful for my mood. The scent of garlic and oregano wraps around me, a comforting embrace I'm too numb to appreciate. Lola's already here, perched at our usual corner booth, scrolling through her phone.
"Hey," I greet, sliding into the seat across from her. Her eyes flick up, a practiced scowl quickly covering her face.
"Tony. Finally. It’s about time. I’ve been sitting here for hours." Lola sets her phone down, feigning anger, as she gives me a tight hug. "How's Mom?"
"Rough," I admit, fiddling with the paper napkin dispenser, "But let me go into details when Dick and Jenny get here so I do it once."
"Of course," she nods, understanding painting her features. We order drinks, the clink of ice against glass filling the pause.
"Have you seen the new mural on 8th Street?" I ask, steering us towards small talk.
"Missed it," Lola answers, taking a sip of water. "Good?"
"Vibrant. Full of life." I tap my fingers on the table, wondering if such colors exist anywhere but on walls now. "Almost too loud, you know? Makes you think of Miami before . . . well, everything."
"Could use more of that these days," she muses, her gaze drifting past me to the window, where city lights compete with the setting sun.
"Speaking of the city, Marlins are doing well this season," I mention casually, watching as Lola's attention snaps back from the painted skies outside.
"Are they? I've lost track since Dad . . . " Her voice trails off, and she clears her throat. "It’s such a trigger for me—but that's good that they are doing well. He would've been thrilled. He was their greatest champion."
We both smile, bittersweet. Our conversation meanders from there: the unrelenting heatwave, the new Italian place that opened—neither of us has tried it yet—and the persistent pothole on 22nd Avenue. We dance around anything and everything that doesn’t dig too deep, staying safely in the shallow end of the conversation.
