"It wasn't about you."
"How can you say that?" she asks, her voice growing a little louder, stronger. "She's my mother."
"I didn't want to do it, Karissa," I say. "I didn't enjoy a second of it."
"And that's supposed to make it better?"
"No," I say, looking down at her hand in mine, my eyes tracing the IV stuck to her arm. "Nothing I say will ever make it better, Karissa. What's done is done, and it can't be taken back. I don't expect your forgiveness… I'm not even sure you should forgive me. Forgiveness… that certainly wasn't something I was capable of."
She's crying, quietly, silent tears streaming down her cheeks as she continues to stare at the ceiling. "She didn't know… about what he planned, about what he did, until afterward. She told me that, and I believe her. She didn't know until it was too late."
"That might be true," I reply, "but she spent years after it with the knowledge of what he'd done, and she protected him. She chose him. Despite what he did, she refused to turn her back on that man."
"Like mother," she whispers, "like daughter."
I stroke her hand for a moment, my thumb rubbing circles along her skin. "I'm not saying what she did warranted what I did. I'm not trying to justify it. I'm just saying, your mother made her decision. She knew what it would mean for her. She shot me. She knew this game would end with one of us dead, and I'm regretful it was her, Karissa… I am… but I can't be sorry it wasn't me."
She inhales deeply, as if to calm down, as she closes her eyes. "I don't know what I'm supposed do. They're holding her… she's in Watertown, and they tell me I can come, that I can… have her, but I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"You lay her to rest."
"Where?"
I'm quiet for a moment, mulling over that question, before I let go of Karissa's hand. She lets it hover there for a second before pulling it back onto the bed, resting it against her chest.
"I have a place," I say, running my hands down my face.
She turns her head to look at me. "You have a place?"
"St. John's Catholic Cemetery in Queens. I own a plot there."
"You do?"
"Yes," I say quietly. "I think your mother would like it. Johnny was buried there months ago, so she wouldn't be far from him."
Karissa says nothing, but she isn't arguing against it, so that counts for something.
"I'll make the arrangements for you," I say, standing up. "You shouldn't have to do it."
I start to walk out when she calls my name.
"Naz, why do you have a plot there?"
"I bought it long ago," I say hesitating near the doorway to look back at her. "It's where Maria was buried."
"But don't you—?"
"I don't need it," I say before she even has to ask that question. "I don't belong there. Not anymore. Maria's life was marked by violence… she should be able to rest in peace."
It's two weeks later when Karissa is released from the hospital.
Two weeks later when we stand in the damp grass of the quiet cemetery, in front of the shiny black casket placed over the freshly dug grave. The reality of the situation surrounds the gravesite, a stark reminder of where life led us all. Carmela lived her life in hiding, and her death feels much the same.
Isolated.
There's nobody here.
Nobody to share memories.
Nobody to say goodbye.
Nobody, that is, except me and Karissa, along with a preacher and the guys from the funeral home. In the distance, over the hill, I can see the unmarked police car, but they're not going to come closer.
They're just watching.
Watching me, because despite it all, they're still determined to bust me for something.
"Shall we, uh, get started?" the preacher asks, as the strained silence surrounding us grows thicker.
Karissa doesn't respond. She stands right beside me, wearing a plain black dress, so close her arm brushes mine. Her head is down, eyes fixed on the grass, hands clasped in front of her. She sways a bit. She shouldn't be on her feet. But she's stubborn… so damn stubborn.
She ignored me when I told her to find somewhere to sit.
Tears linger in the corner of her eyes. She just wanted someone to care, someone to show up… somebody else who wasn't me. She wanted her mother's life to matter to somebody other than her.
Sighing, I turn away from her and glance around, freezing when I see someone approaching in the distance. Surprise runs through me.
My father.
He wears his usual work clothes, khakis and a white shirt, his grungy apron still tied around his waist. He came straight from the deli, I realize, and he forgot to take it off in his rush. He's clutching a bouquet of flowers, and when he gets closer I see they're pink roses.