Page 16

Past

“ H ere you go, hon,” Mrs. Biggins says before dropping two folded blankets and a pillow at my feet. “Feel free to take the back cushions off the couch if you need too.”

I stare up at her thankful. “Thank you.” How different it might have been growing up with someone so warm and soft in the house with us.

She arches a brow at me. “Anytime dear. Tomorrow, though, you and I are going to call your dad. Okay?”

My eyes fill with tears, but I manage to hold them back. I’d love to call Papa. I’d give almost anything to hear his voice just one more time. Truman squeezes my hand, and it brings me back to the moment.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer.

Truman and I are alone in the living room with the television on. His mouth twitches every once in a while, like he wants to say something but he never does and I’m grateful for it.

I don’t like questions, and I don’t have answers. The silence would be awkward but the TV fills the silence so it’s alright. It’s nearing 10 p.m. when he finally stands and shuts off the television.

“You all set?” he asks.

I nod my response. He shuffles his feet, thumbs stuck in his pockets. “Okay then. Night, Kid.”

“Night Truman,” I say.

When he’s gone, I pull the back cushions off the couch and drape a sheet over it. I set the pillow at one end and then spread a blanket across the length of it. I wander around the room.

Happy family photos. Mom smiling, dad smiling, kids all arranged by height in front of them. Trips to different places. Memories .

It stings. I have no photos of Papa. Nothing tangible to look back on and remember our lives together.

I sink into the couch and pull out the sealed envelope. I let its weight settle in my palm before turning it over and over, unsure I want to read what has been written.

Finally, when I no longer hear the bathroom water running upstairs, or the creaking floorboards, I open the envelope.

Kid,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone and can no longer protect you. I’m writing this as you sit in the living room coloring. I’m writing this because someday you’ll need to know the truth and I can’t seem to bring myself to tell you. You’re much too young now anyway.

But you deserve the truth.

My name is Antonio Scarfo. I am not your father.

I’m no blood relation in any way that counts.

I snatched you up. I don’t know why. I was ordered to do a job and I did it, but when I saw your tiny face and big brown eyes, I just…

couldn’t. I picked you up and we disappeared together. For both of our safety.

Please forgive me.

Your real name is Evany Testa. You’re from Miami and your parents are dead. I’ve given you everything you’ll need to survive to get to Miami. You still have family there. I caution you… don’t believe everything you’re told.

If I’d had my way, you’d never know the life you were born into, the one you and I both came from.

You have a choice Kid, you can seek out your family in Miami or you can disappear into the wind. Change your name. Tell no one what is written here.

I urge you to disappear, but I know you, even now, at nine, you’d choose the truth over running.

You’re smart, skilled, kind, and beautiful and you will need to use that to your advantage.

Trust no one. Be safe and stay alert.

Love, Papa

My thoughts swirl around messily, trying to make sense of Papa’s words. A picture rests in the envelope, so I pull it out.

Through watery eyes, I see a clipping. From a newspaper.

A picture of me at maybe three or four years old being held by a beautiful woman with a broad, easy smile.

A handsome man has an arm wrapped around her, and two dark-haired boys stand in front of them.

I know those faces. I know those smiles. I know that family.

They are from my dreams. My nightmares.

But the nightmare happened to them, not to me.

My gut constricts, and I roll to my stomach and push my face into the pillow to scream.