gestured to the couch. “Have a seat.”
I sat. The couch was stiff. I shifted back and forth, trying to get comfortable. I now faced the open kitchen, which held nothing on the counters save an espresso machine.
My father followed my eyes and gestured at it. “Can I make you some espresso?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I drink tea.”
“That’s right. Green tea.”
I couldn’t remember if I’d ever told him that or if it was one of the things he’d learned from watching me. I was just coming to understand how much he’d observed me, on and off, for most of my life.
“Mom told me she used to see you sometimes,” I said.
If he was surprised by the shift in topic, he didn’t show it. He said nothing.
“That must have been intentional,” I said.
“It was. But it was also a failure, a weakness.”
Now neither of us said anything.
“I’d give you a tour—” he gave a little polite laugh that sounded unlike him “—but it’s just this room and the bedroom.” He gestured toward a short hallway.
“That’s okay.”
The apartment made me profoundly sad. My father had lived an incredible life—incredibly tragic, incredibly exciting. This empty shell of an apartment didn’t fit him.
He seemed to sense my thoughts. “I’m just here until I decide…”
I nodded. I understood what he was saying—until he decided what to do with himself.
“Let me get you some water.”
I watched him go into his kitchen and open and close cabinet doors as if unsure where the glasses were. Or if he even owned them.
Finally, he found one made of orange plastic. “This is all I have,” he said over his shoulder in an embarrassed tone.
“Anything is fine.”
I heard him opening some drawers. When he came back with the water, he put it on the table, then placed two other items there.
I looked closer. My old cell phone and my old ID.
“Those were in the building. The one we were in with Aunt Elena.” The one that exploded.
There had been an explosion in Chicago earlier that summer, and my Aunt Elena, my dad’s sister, had been one of the last people in the building that was blown to smithereens. Long story. Really long story. My dad had told me he got word that she was uninjured and in Italy. The body found after the explosion was male, likely either Dez Romano, the boss of Michael DeSanto, or the guy who worked for him. Dez was a gangster I’d gotten mixed up with thanks to a gig from John Mayburn. Dez had once made it clear he’d wanted to kill me, and so although I’d never wanted anyone dead before, there was a part of me that hoped that he was enjoying himself in gangster heaven. But it was more than likely that the body was that of Dez’s lackey. I tried not to think about the fact that Dez could still be out there.
My father’s head bobbed in a single nod toward the items on the table. “I retrieved them before we got out.”
“You’re just giving them to me now?” I made an irritated sound. “Do you know what a pain in the ass it was to spend half a day at the DMV and the other half at the cell phone store?”
Without pausing, without expression, he said, “Do you know what a pain in the ass it would have been if the police learned you were there that day and confiscated them as evidence? Or if they had tracked a call from your phone and then you’d used it again?”
“That’s why you told me to get a new phone number.”
He nodded.
I looked at the phone and ID. So he’d been protecting me. “Thanks.”
Again, he said nothing.
I put the cell phone and ID in my purse. “So…” I looked around. “It must be strange to be so out in the open now. I mean, since you were almost—” what was the word? “—invisible before. Mostly.”
I regretted it as soon as I saw the strange expression on his face.
“I don’t mean that in any critical kind of way,” I said quickly. “I guess I was just thinking about it because Mom and I were talking and…” I shrugged. “I’m just wondering how you’re doing.”
My father looked around his new apartment, then back at me. “I still feel invisible.”
I felt the weight of his words, and it nearly flattened me. “What do you mean?”
“I’m used to either blending into the background or starting over. But this is different. This feeling I have, it’s more about Chicago.”
I scrunched my face in confusion.
“Chicago is one of those towns,” he said. “One where you need to know people. More than any town I’ve ever seen, even in Italy. You Chicagoans are part of your city. Either you have family here or your friends become your family, and you all seem to move forward together.”
The statement was left unsaid—and I have neither friends nor family.
“Do you know the best thing about Chicago?” I asked.
He shook his head no, looked hungry for my response.
“The best thing is that people want more friends and more family. They want to grow. They want the city to grow. They’re not trying to keep people out.”
My father frowned. “I don’t know if that’s true.”
“It is. For the most part. People want to know interesting people. They want others to be a part of their web. It’s not exclusive.”
He crossed his arms. “So what would I do to join a web?”
Was he asking me personally because he wanted to know my world and Charlie’s? Or was he just looking for advice about making it in the city? The answer to either, I figured, was the same. “It’s up to you to stick your foot out and stop a couple of people from walking by.”
“My whole life, I have tried very, very hard to blend. I kept myself closed off.”
I saw how uncomfortable his admission made him and I knew then we were talking about more than the move to Chicago.
I nodded. “I know. But other people have done that, too. Maybe not in the way you have, but they’ve closed themselves off just the same. And they’ve gotten past it. Maybe this is your challenge now. I’m sure it’s one you can handle.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“Oh, I’ve got tons of this stuff. I just need to apply it to myself now.”
