Page 152 of Ruthless Chaos

She gives me a small smile. “What was your mother like?”

It takes me a while to come up with an answer, because nobody has ever asked me that. Graham was almost an adult when she died, so we didn’t grieve the same way. My father refused to talk about her death at all.

I’ve kept a silent vigil alone for the past decade.

I don’t know where to start.

“She was the kindest person I knew,” I say, emotions welling up in my chest. “I was a mischievous child, but she never got angry at me. No matter what I did. If I got into trouble, she was always there to patch me up and remind me that one mistake didn’t make my whole life.” My lips tremble. “She always saw the good in people, even when they didn’t deserve it.”

I don’t look at Alize, afraid that I’ll see more pity on her face. She puts her hand on mine. Her palm is warm and soft. I close my eyes.

“I always preferred her,” I say. “I am his second son, so my father never really paid much attention to me growing up. The only time I remember him talking to me was when he thought I was doing something that he thought was too feminine.”

I scoff at the memory of my father casting my crochet set into the fireplace when I was seven. He poured bleach on every pastel-colored piece of clothing my mother bought me until she stopped.

“My mother wasn’t like that, though. I knew she loved me, and always would. Regardless of the choices I made.”

I don’t tell Alize this, but it was my mother’s belief in my good that kept me afloat despite living with a man as tyrannical as my father.

“I still don’t know how they ended up together,” I say under my breath. “They were total opposites.”

Alize starts kneading my wrist with her thumbs. "She sounds like a remarkable woman, Alex,” she says with a slight smile. “I get why you come here. That kind of grief would eat me alive, and I would want to be close to her in any way I can.”

I nod, clenching and unclenching my fist absently.

“It doesn’t get easier,” I say. “You just learn to live with it.” I locked away that part of myself years ago. I had no choice. But whenever I come here, I can allow myself to feel it for a while. “There is no safe space in the world for people who have lost someone important.”

Alize laughs bitterly. “Yes, they expect you to move on. To continue as if nothing happened. They tell you it’s been years. They expect you to forget because they have.” I chance a look at her and find that she seems to be talking about more than just my situation. “But grief never leaves. It only changes shape.”

“Who have you lost?” I ask quietly.

A flicker of the light reveals the glassiness of her eyes.

I don’t know much about her life, but it never occurred to me she could be carrying the same burden. A different kind of sadness fills me at that moment.

I remember how lonely I felt. I don’t want her to feel that way.

Alize is silent for a few heartbeats.

“I never knew my mother,” she says, looking down at our joined hands. “My father told me she died giving birth to me. So, I guess I’ve always felt a sort of sadness since I will never know my biological mother’s love.” I cherish the memories I have of my mother. I can’t imagine not having them at all. “I lost the person who was like a mother to me a few months ago in the attack on my house.” Her voice is beginning to sound warbled. “She practically raised me, and every time I think about it I feel like…I killed her.”

Tears streak down her cheeks.

I reach out and wipe them away with my thumbs.

She squeezes her eyes shut, and I put a hand on her jaw and pull her closer to me. I press a kiss to her forehead, massaging the back of her neck with my fingers.

“You didn’t kill her, Al,” I say. It doesn’t seem adequate. I’m upset at myself that I don’t have the right words to get rid of what she’s feeling. “I sometimes feel that way,” I say. “I wonder what would have happened if I had just skipped school the day she died. I was twelve, but maybe I could have stopped—”

A murmur from Alize cuts me off. “They would have just killed you too.”

The corner of my lip twitches. “Then why do you think you killed….”

“Dolores,” she says. “Her name was Dolores.” She takes a deep breath, and her body shivers. “They attacked my house because of me.”

“You?” I question, leaning back so I can see her eyes. I tip her face towards mine with a finger. “I don’t think your house was attacked because of anything you did.”

She doesn’t respond, only lowers her eyes.