Those words plagued me. I never used to think about them as more than a plea to stop working so much and spend more time with me. We were all each other had without her. It meant we needed to be there for each other when it mattered. Now, I didn’t think that was what she meant at all.
Be better.
Maybe that was why I’d repeated it to myself so often. It was like my mother had meant it for both of us even though she’d directed it at my father…at what he was doing. As morbid as it was, maybe it was better she didn’t witness his demise. She’d be disappointed that he didn’t listen to her last wish.
Tears stung my eyes as I inhaled a long, deep breath. It eased the pain my lungs had succumbed to at the thought that always influenced my subconscious as I slept.
The dreams were awful. If I didn’t wake up right away from them, I silently pleaded to, so I didn’t have to relive the torture. When I did wake up, it was always the same. I would realize it may have been a dream, but it was so very real.
My parents were dead.
The ballet dancer in me was dead.
And my mother’s last wishes were ignored, leading to my father’s demise.
It made me wonder how much my father really loved my mother. I knew, at one time, he loved her so much it almost felt like what he felt for me wasn’t enough—like I was somehow second best to their love story. Maybe I’d gotten it wrong though. If my father’s feelings were as strong as I thought they were, he would have listened. He would have tried.
Be better.
“Della?” My aunt’s worried voice clouded the train of thoughts that left me spiraling. Sucking in a deep breath, I gave her a fake smile and stared back at the painting, trying not to give away the truth in my eyes. Our family was said to give everything away because of them. One look was all it took before the world knew…everything.
Lydia stepped away from the canvas and toward me, reaching out and taking my hand. The squeeze was what had me looking down at our joined palms, her fingers interweaving with mine. Our skin tone was almost identical, but hers was slightly darker. I remembered her tan in the summertime too. Just like my father, it didn’t take long for them to get color when they went outside.
“Lydia…” I hesitated—my voice barely audible between us. “Do you think that my father was a bad person? That my parents should have been better than who they were?”
Her hold on my hand tightened. “I’m not sure it matters what I think.”
“But it does.”
Her head shook, kind eyes directed at me as if she were trying to tell me something without saying the words themselves. I needed to hear them though.
“Everybody has an opinion,” I pointed out. “We should know that better than anyone. What I want to know is yours. You loved him.”
There was no pause that time. “I did. I still do, Della, but what matters is you. You were hurt by them. And I may not know the extent of your mother’s knowledge over your father’s business, but I’ve had my own suspicions for some time. That shouldn’t change anything for you, though.”
How could it not? Just as I was about to argue that she hushed me. “I don’t think your parents were bad people. I think they both made bad choices that they couldn’t come back from. If your mother knew, she could have stopped him. If you father wanted to, if he felt he was strong enough, he would have ended his dealings. What they chose to do impacted you in an unfair way. I’m sure he held a lot of regrets over it because he loved you very, very much. Do you know that? That he loved you?”
I blinked, heart heavy over her sure words. There was no way I could tell her I believed her when I had my doubts. They’d weaseled their way into every nook and cranny and settled into my bones to taunt me when the time welcomed it.
Lydia pulled me into her, the hug not unwelcomed but taking me by surprise. She whispered, “Oh, Della. I know it may not feel like it, but it’s the truth. And if…if what Theo thinks is true, then your father was trying very hard to get back to you,