Page 23

SAUDI ARABIA

ONE MONTH LATER

NATALIA

Despite Nefeli’s annoyance with my tantrum in Santorini, ARJ has been putting me up in great hotels.

For the first race of the year, I was booked at Sofitel Bahrain Zallaq Thalassa Sea him: salmon Benedict) and reminiscences of our favorite childhood breakfasts.

I told him about the smiley-face pancakes my aunt would decorate with raisins and how my favorite topping was aerosol whipped cream.

He told me about the deep-fried apple rings his mother made with beer batter (!) and topped with powdered sugar.

I asked if he had any childhood photos on hand, and he sent a picture of one he carries in his wallet—he and his mother in a little green rowboat on a lake when he was around four years old.

I saved it to my photo file, and… yeah, I’ve looked at it a few times today—not gonna lie. He was an adorable kid, all big dark eyes and mussed curls.

I go ahead and send a quick message:

Me: Hope this doesn’t wake you if you’re asleep, but if not, I’d love a quote for the piece I’m wrapping up.

Charcoal Suit: I’m in the car, riding back from the paddock. I’d have messaged you but thought you might be asleep. Such a treat to see your name on this screen. Thinking of you today, even amidst the pre-race pandemonium.

Warmth spreads in my chest. With a shaky little delighted sigh, I type back.

Me: You just might have crossed my mind one or two (hundred) times too. :)

Me: Can you address what Drew Powell said after quali today?

There’s a long pause, and I’m worried I shouldn’t have said anything.

But I’m taking Klaus at his word—the reassurance in Santorini that I don’t have to be gloves-off.

I send him a screenshot of the piece from Sky Sports, showing the brash Powell quote: “If Emerald had pinched one of our sponsors rather than our car design, maybe they wouldn’t be in financial trouble. ”

Moments later, Klaus’s reply:

Charcoal Suit: The heat from having Cosmin in his mirrors must be getting to him, to lash out with such an absurd accusation. The next thing Cosmin will “pinch” is the WDC title—that is Allonby’s real fear.

Me: Ooh, nice one. Aggressive, yet artful. I think I’m a little turned on.

Charcoal Suit: My god, I wish I could go to your hotel rather than my own. If I didn’t have to wake up in four hours to return to the paddock, I’d love to indulge in some “aggressive yet artful” acts.

I’m about to send a cheeky reply when a new email chimes on my laptop, popping into the corner of the screen. Before it slides away, I note the sender:

Pinkie_evans.

My father’s nickname for my mother, “Pinkie.”

My heart thuds so hard I can feel it in my throat. I reach for my tepid juice and choke down a sip before dashing off a goodbye to Klaus.

Me: Oh shit—message from my editor. Must get the article in before midnight! Sleep well. I’ll dream of you.

I sink back on the pillows and try to calm my pounding heart.

This is it. The email I’ve been dreading for months…

Our Christmas morning “family reunion” didn’t end much better than it started. I was stiff and formal when I thanked my parents for coming and wished them the best of luck in their post-incarceration life.

Basically, I looked like a jerk. Especially since Sherri cried and I didn’t.

For a few minutes, I watch the city-light-studded shadows outside my hotel, steeling my nerve, then sit up and jab open the email.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: It’s your mom

Hi baby, hope you won’t mind your aunt gave me your email. I’ve done a lot of thinking since Xmas trying to figure out a way to talk that you wouldn’t reject. Jace said maybe it’s not in the cards for us to be a family, but I have to try.

So I’m going to give you my stories, and I hope you’ll take it for what it is—me trying to make a connection and fill in 28 years of blanks, not being manipulative.

If you’re at all like me, you might have a weakness for what my granny called “a two-hankie tale of woe,” so I want to make it clear this isn’t an appeal to your pity.

At that I stop cold, breath stalled in my throat.

My mom is a sucker for a sob story… just like me? I guess in my selective memory, I’ve imagined my parents to have been hard people. Unsentimental. Lacking empathy.

Settling my tensed hand over the center of my chest, I go back to reading.

I didn’t tell you on Xmas why I didn’t want you to know when you were little that I was in prison.

First I hoped to get out on an appeal, which I lost. After that, I was afraid I might die there—the medical care was awful.

After I almost died from an abscessed tooth, I figured there was a chance something would take me out before I’d served my time.

If I didn’t ever come home, it’d be years of you counting down for nothing. It seemed kinder to go away.

I’m taking online classes and got this laptop for that, so I figure I’ll write out stories for you about what happened in California. I attached the first one, about how Jace and I got the idea to move to California, and what happened when we ran out of money. Please don’t delete it.

You may not want to hear it, but I love you, my baby girl.

The feeling in my chest is something worse than crying.

It would be a comfort to cry, but my eyes won’t do it.

I’m not one of those stubbornly dry-eyed people who stare impassively at a movie when everyone else is blubbering.

I’m more the type who gets misty over a stupid ad for arthritis medication featuring an elderly couple dancing.

Maybe the attached document will bring on the waterworks and give me some relief…

No. I can’t look yet.

I start a new folder, just titled “Sherri,” and move the doc there.

She waited to speak.

I can wait to cry.