Page 93 of My Heart Still Beats
“I won’t lie to you. It is. I grew up in poverty, Tessa.”
Shock runs through me, and not from the cold plunge. “Poverty? I knew you had a modest upbringing, but…”
“Braden and I don’t talk about it a lot, and he’s managed to keep the gossip rags from getting the whole story. I’m sure he’s told Skye, and Skye probably felt it was told to her in confidence, which is why you don’t know. My father used to be an alcoholic, and then there was a fire.”
“Yeah, Skye told me about the fire.”
“We lost everything, and my mother had to take Braden and me to a food bank to get food.”
My heart bleeds for him in that moment. In my mind’s eye, I see Ben as a beautiful little boy, hanging onto his mother’s hand as she peruses the shelves at a food bank.
“I had a humble upbringing myself,” she says, “but nothing like that. We always had good food on the table, warm clothes on our backs. Shelter over our heads. And there was always a little extra.”
“You have a sister, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Eva. She’s two years younger than I am. She just finished college. It was her and my parents, and also my grandmother.”
“Right.” He smiles. “Teresa Maria. How did you come to be called Tessa?”
“From my father. He called my grandmother Teresa, so he called me Tessa to differentiate.”
“You have an interesting look on your face,” he says, “when you mention your grandmother. Just like when you told me about her before.”
“Did I?”
“Yes… Those are happy memories for you.”
“They are. My grandmother was my safe place back then. She still is, even though she’s been gone for years. We had a connection that I don’t share with either of my parents.”
“I can see it when you talk about her.” He looks away, staring out to sea. “I never knew any of my grandparents.”
“Really?” I ask.
He nods. “They were all dead by the time I was born. Braden met some of them, but he was too young to remember.”
That makes sense, of course. If Ben’s grandparents had been alive, they probably would’ve been able to help the family keep them from living in poverty. That’s what families do—help one another.
“Tell me more about your grandmother,” he says.
It’s funny. I don’t talk about her that much. Even though she’s such an integral part of me, I almost feel like talking about her would somehow taint my memory of her. I told Ben about her while we were sitting at the bar at Union Oyster House, and for some reason, I want to open up to him.
“She was an icon. I already told you about her altar, how she burned candles and incense when she prayed to the saints.”
My therapist and I have talked about religion, about whether trying to get back into it would help me. We ultimately decided that it probably wouldn’t because I left that part of my life behind with eyes wide open.
“Her altar, candles, and incense fascinated me when I was a kid. By the time I was nine or ten, I respected her very much, but I was no longer as fascinated by her candles and incense.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I was older, I guess. I had just had my first communion, and—”
I stop abruptly.
My first communion.
That white dress. Those white panties.
God, I hate white panties. And I hardly ever wear white. Is this why?
