I stared at the floor, unable to move, to even think.
“Ah.” Jack’s voice cut through the room.
It was a deep exhale. As if he suddenly understood. As if all the pieces of a puzzle suddenly slotted into place.
“You witnessed it. Yousawyour father’s death.”
My panicked inhalation was all the confirmation Jack needed.
No one knew. Not my brothers. Not my mother. It had been my crushing burden to bear. The horrible memory of watching my father die.
Wet drops hit my hand.
Stupid tears.
I scrubbed my face. But it did no good.
More tears followed.
I bit my lip, but a sob still escaped.
I buried my face in the Cinderella pillow, unable to endure the sympathy in Jack’s eyes without cracking into brittle shards. The man practically vibrated with pity and concern.
Ugh.
Ihatedcrying. I hated being the weak one. The pipsqueak that everyone else had to watch out for.
Careful of Chiara. She’s so little. She breaks easily.
You’re too small, Chiara. How can you help?
Turns out they were right . . . in every way.
I couldn’t save the person who mattered most. My love for Babbo wasn’t enough.Iwasn’t enough.
The quiet tears became a torrent.
A thousand images crowded in. Scenes I had long ago cast out. Or avoided thinking about.
Babbo sneaking away with me to buy pastries, because I was, ‘too sweet not to have some.’
Babbo holding me after stupid Marco Benito broke up with me in second grade. Dad cuddling me close and telling me that I would always be his girl.
It all came out. Messy. Ugly.
Years of mourning and sorrow crashing over the dam.
Like my father would have, Jack let me cry. He didn’t tell me to buck up or feed me dumb platitudes like, ‘It’s going to be alright.’
It wasn’t alright.
It would never be alright.
My dad was gone and the aching hole he left would never be filled. His absence wouldalwayshurt.
The memory of his death never left me.
That fateful day, I had spent the afternoon melting in the sweltering summer heat. Storm clouds threatened. Which given the warmth seemed like a good thing. But summers in Tuscany aren’t like summers in Oregon. In Italy, rain is usually as warm as the sun and just makes the humidity that much worse.
