Page 15 of Vows in Sin

S eraphina

I never did answer the call that came in when I was on the phone with Lucy.

Over the next two subway stops, I debated.

I went home. Checked my phone for an email, call, or text from Josie, even when it was way past work hours. Watched Casablanca with Fifi. Went to bed.

I know I need to call my mom back. Just as I knew I needed to go back and check those handwritten notes that proved Magda was wrong. Some things take time. When I finally did pull out the notes from our meeting, there it was, clear as day.

Target teens.

I put off calling my mom all day, watching Casablanca with Fifi, then spending my time cleaning up the apartment. The trash can rattles, empty glass bottles clanking against their drained companions. How much wine have I been drinking?

No more wine. No more Dame. No more writing angry monologues to Magda in my head.

No more checking the phone for Josie.

Most importantly, no more Reign.

Finally, late in the afternoon, with the apartment sparkling, I pick up the phone. I stand in the window, staring out over the skyline of the city that I love. The city that saved me from my mom. From my past.

From myself.

“We were a happy family until your dad left,” Mom says immediately, without a hello or a how are you. Her voice is already tight, already half-crying. She’s hit the gin early, but I guess it’s five o'clock somewhere? “Never trust a man, Sara.”

Sara. The name I grew up with. When I moved to the city, I realized I had an amazing first name that was unusual, and one people would remember.

I began using my full name, Seraphina, and haven’t looked back. Tabitha is the only one I talk to from my old life and she was happy to switch over.

Hearing her call me that, Sara, brings back the pain.

Sissy and Sara. Sara and Sissy. Alessi and Seraphina.

Now, just me.

“I don’t, Mom.” My voice sounds flatter than I intend. She hated men after my father left and often expressed it.

Which is probably why I’ve been single my entire life, with my latest obsession of going after emotionally unavailable men.

First, Dame.

Now, Reign.

Moving on.

“It’s the anniversary, you know,” Mom says.

Weeks ago. Months even. I don’t correct her.

“You, me, and Alessi.” Pain slashes through me when Mom says her name. “It was nice. Three strong women taking on the world together?—”

It was anything but.

My voice is a vice locked with tension. “I don’t want to talk about Sissy.”

“But I do,” she pleads.

“I can’t talk about her. Not with you. Not ever.” I cry out, “Why can’t you understand that?”

“How can you be so selfish?” she snaps. “I need someone to talk to. If I can’t talk to you—my only remaining family—who can I talk to?”

“Get a therapist. Tell a friend. Hell, go online and tell Google all about it. Anyone but me.”

“Why not, Sara? You need to talk about what happened. You’ve never healed from it.”

“Mom, don’t,” I warn.

“I haven’t healed,” she says.

“And I’ve never gotten over the death of my little sister,” I say. “So forgive me for not being your emotional crutch.”

“That’s low, Sara.”

“Sorry, Mom. I tried to tell you. I warned you. But you poked me till you got bit.”

There’s silence on the other end. I hang up first.

The pain curls around me, etching its way inside like frostbite. I press my forehead against my knees and breathe.

Dad left when I was ten and Alessi was three. Mom worked long hours, chasing promotions, burning herself out to keep us afloat. I took care of Sissy. I made her lunch, walked her to daycare, and sang her to sleep when mom worked.

No one took care of me. That was the deal.

I accepted it. Did my best.

Until the day I failed her.

No matter how many professionals I paid to tell me it wasn’t my fault, it was.

And when the memories come, they don’t knock. They flood. Her tiny hand in mine. Her laughter as she twirled in her favorite dress. The way her cheeks puffed when she said “buh-fly” instead of butterfly.

She was obsessed with butterflies.

Butterflies and storybooks.

The worst was the silence of her room. It smelled of her shampoo, but not of her. The emptiness was gut-wrenching.

I stand up, needing to move, to do something—anything. I pace the apartment barefoot, my silk robe billowing. But I’ve already watered my neglected plants. I’ve scrubbed the lipstick-stained mugs on the counter that went untouched for days.

When I have work, I can distract myself with meetings, deadlines, and photo shoots, and then more deadlines. I could go for weeks, months, even years, without experiencing an emotional crash.

Now, this carefully curated, colorful apartment feels more like a padded cell, and grief has returned with a vengeance.

It pours in through the cracks. Leaks under the windows. Pools in the corners.

I’m drowning in it.

I try to shake it off. I redo my makeup, opting for something bold and bright.

Keeping my promise to Lucy, I record a video—dancing to Donna Summer, a banana for a microphone—but it falls flat. I delete it.

I’ll film something so I can fool everyone into thinking I’m okay. But I’m not. That night with Dame tore open that wound.

The hotel’s rooftop bar in Rome overlooked the glittering River Tiber below.

His voice is low and warm. Dame lost his brother in a boating accident. His father was drunk and crashed into a rock in the water. His brother died on impact.

Dame knew his father had been drinking all morning.

Like my experience, the tragedy ‘wasn’t his fault,’ yet he carries its weight nonetheless. He shared with me, and I opened up to him. We connected over our troubled memories.

He made me feel seen.

Mistakenly, I thought he could heal me.

That’s why I went to the club looking for him. Even knowing it was reckless. Even knowing he wouldn’t be looking for me.

And I found Reign.

My fraudulent life is weighing me down. I don’t know if I can bear any longer.

I’m tired. Tired of avoiding my friends’ calls and texts. Tired of pretending PalmVolt went a different direction.

Tired of telling everyone I’m ‘okay.’

Sitting at my dressing table, I slide my phone into the video holder I use for filming.

I hit record. “Hey world. I think there’s something important I should share with you.

I’m a total and complete fraud.” I take a deep breath, then I tell my camera everything about how I messed up the biggest campaign of my life.

Fell for a man who ‘wasn’t that into me,’ then attempted to stalk him, how I’m now stuck on my couch, unemployed and falling into a dizzying Alice in Wonderland hole of despair.

I don’t share Sissy or Reign with the world. Those two are mine alone.

Finished, I turn my phone off. I’ll never post this video. I’ll probably never even watch it.

I do feel better after my confession. But not good enough.

I have a dark, dirty secret in my back pocket: an echoey storeroom where I can lay myself out like a sinner at the altar and beg for no mercy.

Reign is my priest. The one I go to and confess my sins—the man who rules my world.

The man who caught me sneaking in. Who looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve—and maybe break. The man who punished me in ways that made the pain go quiet, the memories go dark.

The man who made me forget Dame, forget everything.

Even my name.

I’m going back.