“If you what?” she prompted when I broke off. Her brow furrowed. “What did Leggy actually tell you?”
“That she killed herself because Papa died in an accident.”
Lavinia snorted, but her hand came out. The gnarled fingers grabbed mine, and she twisted our digits together. “Child, I don’t pretend to understand why your grandmother did what she did. I didn’t understand why she took herself so far away. The next town over would have been far enough to ride out the gossip, but she was insistent. She wanted a fresh break for both of you.
“She, for whatever reason, decided it was best you didn’t know the truth, but here you are, and when I got my diagnosis, child, I made myself a promise.”
“What promise was that?” I whispered, wondering what one had to do with the other.
“All these years, I’ve been a good girl. Even after I lost my best friend, I did what I was told by my husband. I raised my children, did good by them, did good by my people and the community, and what do I get? Something eating away at me like I was already in the ground.
“I thought to myself, when the doctor told me—”
“The doctor? You went to a doctor?” Our people were suspicious of nurses and doctors. It was why Nanny going to the doctor had been such a big deal when I was a kid. This went deeper than a phobia. It was a cultural distaste for the medical profession.
Lavinia pulled a face. “I didn’t want to, but the pain was that bad. Maybe if we weren’t so scared of doctors, I’d have been all right. But it was too late. By the time I went in, things had progressed too far, and to be honest, child, I don’t have the money for the care I need anyway. The community has a kind of insurance, we had to when Obamacare came in—the fines were ridiculous for people like us—but the copay on my treatment—”
“Surely there’s a charity?”
She sniffed. “Charity begins at home.” She wagged her fingers. “Lavinia Byrne gives to charity, she doesn’t take from it.”
There was no debating that kind of logic, so instead, and with the vain hope that it would keep her on track—my mother wasn’t fucking dead. What the actual fuck?—I asked, “What was your promise, Lavinia?”
“All these years, things ate at me like this fool disease is. I bit my tongue so many times it was a wonder I didn’t cut through it. I stayed quiet every time my husband went off and saw that floozy Kaitlyn Bellamy, and I’m telling you, they didn’t go and pick strawberries, child.” Her lips pursed again. “I stayed silent when I found out Allegria’s man was whipping her—” A rough exhalation escaped her before she started coughing. Out of nowhere, a handkerchief appeared, and within seconds, it was dotted with blood. She ignored it as she dabbed at the corners of her mouth, before rasping, “I was a good woman. A good Romanichal. But there’s a freedom in death, child, remember I told you that?” At my nod, she dipped her chin, and a resolve was pasted on her features that put me on edge. “Well, I promised myself that I’d say whatever I wanted from that moment on. Whether it hurt people, whether it revealed secrets that should be kept hidden, I told myself no more. No. More.
“So, while your grandmother thought she was acting in your best interest, that goes against my promise to myself. Now, when we’re in heaven, she can slap me in the face if she wishes, but I’ll deal with that once I’ve met my maker.” Another sharp breath gusted from her. “Child, Nicodemus was many things, and abusive was one of them. Whenever Genny came back from one of their trips, she was battered to buggery. Your grandmother’s heart broke every time she saw her, but what could we do? We’re taught to turn the other cheek. Literally. Even if that means we give the bastards something to aim at.” She sucked in a breath. “They’re not all like that. I made sure my sons wouldn’t lay a hand on their wives, because I’d have stabbed them myself if they did. But that came at a cost of being beaten by my own husband.
“I love my people, love our community, and I’m proud to be Romanichal, but it’s wicked what our men can