Page 61 of Levi

“That’s the irony.” His lips twist, almost to curtail a sharp pain. “After the guy stabbed her, he dragged my mother’s body outside. I guess he was using her as a shield or bargaining chip. He dumped her bleeding body right outside the doors to the hospital, jumped into the parked car of a guy who had the motor running as he was wheeling his wife and newborn son to his vehicle––”

“He got away?” I ask, irate.

“He didn’t get far,” Levi tells me. “As he was making his getaway, he ran through a red light. A transportation truck slammed right into him, on the passenger side, dragging him for miles until his vehicle slammed into a Jersey wall. He died on impact.”

“Oh, my God, Levi, I’m so sorry for the tragic way you lost your mother,” I sympathize.

“No one should die like that,” he says.

“I agree.” What a senseless and macabre way of dying.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “My mom died on November second.”

I’m still uncertain how that relates to his tattoo, but I’m not brave enough to ask. Not after what he just shared.

“I was twenty years old when she died. My father, brother and I were devastated. The days that followed Mom’s funeral, I cried so much, I thought I wouldn’t have any tears left––” his voice breaks.

“You don’t have to continue,” I tell him. “I understand your pain.”

He caresses my cheek. “I know you do. That’s why I’m okay telling you. I don’t talk about Mom’s death to many people. I’m quite guarded about that part of my life. It’s too hard to relive.”

“I understand,” I tell him.

“I look back sometimes and I wonder how Dad, Linc and I were able to function because we were so lost in our sorrow. My uncles, aunts and cousins were instrumental. So were mom’s parents––they’re dead now––and our parents’ friends.”

“Those pillars of strength are everything when you’re grieving.”

He nods. “They really are.”

A long beat passes between us.

He doesn’t talk. He just keeps staring at the ceiling.

I remain quiet.

When memories claim my mind, it does a number on my heart. I’m sure it’s the same for him.

“Eventually, life goes on,” he continues. “I finished school, joined Linc’s business, and I started dating. Annmarie and I were right for each other. It didn’t take long before I popped the question. We were young, but for me, she was it. Not long after the engagement, my fiancée surprised me with a life-changing announcement––she was pregnant.” An uneasy sensation settles in the pit of my stomach. “On a scorching hot day, Annmarie stopped at a convenience store to buy a bottle of water on her way to work after being trapped for God knows how long in LA traffic. Innocent enough, right?”

“Right,” I say cautiously.

“Unfortunately for my fiancée, she was at the wrong place, at the wrong time. She stepped out of the convenient store, just as two cars were barreling in, screeching tires and all. The police told us witnesses said everything happened in a blink of an eye. The cars parked. Doors flew open. The passengers stepped out, fume shooting out of their nostrils. And then, fury rained. Road rage doesn’t always end in violence. Many times, it’s a lot of cussing, yelling and flipping the bird, but not in this case. One of the angry drivers pulled out a gun and started shooting at the other guy. He got him in the chest. A bullet went astray, and Annmarie was shot in the kidney.” My hand goes to my chest, and I gasp. “As she crumbled to the ground, her head hit the cement parking block, and that pretty much sealed her fate. There was no chance of survival for our little girl since Annmarie was only four months pregnant.”

The poor man. That’s beyond tragic.

My lips part in shock, but no words come out. I’m stunned in silence.

He heaves a deep sigh. “Annmarie died five years ago on November second.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

He nods, and continues. “Rod Wolfe was getting his life back on track after one too many visits to rehab. He had a lot of time on his hands back then, so he checked up on me a lot to make sure I was holding up.” Levi traces the tattoo etched on his chest. “The tattoos are his idea. In the Mexican culture, November second is the Day of the Dead—Día de los Muertos.”

“Was your mom Mexican?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. She wasn’t. Neither was Annmarie.” He answers my next question. “As Rod pointed out, I lost two women I loved––and my unborn child––on the same day––a day that’s very significant in the Mexican culture. He’s way more into tattoos than I’ll ever be. He suggested these tattoos as homage to my mom, my fiancée, and the little girl I’ll never know.”

A tear trickles down his cheek.