Releasing a deep sigh that didn’t lighten the pressure, I narrowed my eyes against the spring sun. How we made it this far, I wasn’t too sure.
The hills were overtaken by wildflowers, so vibrant they were almost blinding. Blankets of purple and red and yellow rolled with the green hillocks. The roses had revived themselves, a mixture of white and pink blooms, their perfume heady and sweet when the wind blew. Even the lemon trees had started to reproduce, small suns that smelled citrusy.
My wife.My wife was frozen in the thick of winter, unable to remove herself from its claws.
The brightness that spilled through the window was short-lived. Dark clouds moved across the sun, blocking out all light. Though winter had left the rest of the world, its lingering temperature kept everyone in warmer clothes and in constant need of rubber boots and umbrellas. It had been a wet season. It was about to come down now.
“Nephew?” Tito said, emerging from our room. “It is time for you to put up that barrier. She is not—it is overtaking her. I am concerned with her emotional and mental well-being. I will no longer prescribe medicine for her, though she begged me to. Physically, she does not need it. She is afraid of feeling. She is hiding from emotional pain.”
I went into our room. Violet sat before the bed, Scarlett’s left foot in one of her hands, painting her toenails pink. One of those buckets that women put their feet in was pushed to the side, an assortment of creams spread out all over the floor. Scarlett hardly looked at her, a frown on her face as she gazed toward the balcony doors.
“Scarlett,” I said.
She refused to look at me. Violet went to get up, but Scarlett stopped her, telling her to stay.
“I’ll be back,” was all I said. My wife glanced at me before I turned to go.
The house was alive with homey sounds: Eunice in the kitchen talking to Lola about dinner, Carmen and Rosaria talking about the wedding, Rocco on the phone with his office. Dario and Romeo were in a debate over a car race. Mick was at work—a local mechanic had hired him on. Mitch strummed his guitar—maybe in the dining room? Everett was in the office, making a business call.
Pnina had gone out shopping. Charlotte and Travis had gone home to America. Small mercy. The kids were in the other room watchingThe Goonies. Livio sat crossed-legged on the floor in the middle of them, staring up at the TV as if he was eight.
“Why did they not just kill the Fratellis? Steal their hearts from their chests!” Livio snatched at the TV.
Peter looked at him and shook his head.
“Steal their hearts from their chests!” Paul agreed, mimicking Livio.
“Weal their…” Mary frowned, trying to remember. “I don’t like this movie. Let’s watch a rincess movie. Can we, Wivio?” She had a habit of leaving off the first letters of a word or replacing it with a W.
I found the noise in the house soothing, a peaceful buzzing that seemed to swell and fill the empty spaces. Even in the thick of night, when the silence sometimes taunted me, close to driving me to the brink of madness, someone would get up, grab a cup of coffee or a snack.
Eunice asked me if I wanted a bite to eat, but I shook my head, opening the door to a gust of cool air, laced with all the scents of oncoming moisture. Rain started to patter against my head. I paid no mind to it, going to the stone building where we kept all of the tools, snatching a shovel from the pegs along the wall.
Rain fell onto the rose petals. Some of the buds filled with small puddles. Bubbles popped and then slid along skins like water against velvet. The smell of them made my stomach clench and then hollow. It reminded me of her, my wife, the woman who was an echo of her former self.
Tito had placed the small box that was never supposed to disintegrate on the small, covered work area that Scarlett used to hold her gardening tools. Next to it was a brass placard, angel wings etched into its metal.
The shovel sliced easily into the rain-softened ground like a hot knife going through butter. It didn’t take me long to dig deep enough to reach a spot that would be sufficient. Scarlett had dug this place up before, right after she bought the villa, to prepare for the roses, but she had dug a grave then. She left the roses to die. We had replanted them together once all had been settled between us.
Placing the shovel against the work area, I took the box, opened it, and then placed it in the hollowness of the ground.
Refusing to look up at the balcony, in fear that she might not even notice, but hoping regardless, I removed the frayed blue ribbon from my pocket. It had been with me ever since that night in the snow. It was hers, from her first pair of ballet slippers. Time had thinned the fabric, my blood staining its fibers, along with hers. If I were an ancient knight, it would have been the lucky charm to see me into battle—it was almost religious to me, a consecrated piece of cloth. My wife was the one who gave it her blessing.
It meant the world to me, and it was the only thing on this earth to give that was meaningful enough.
I knelt down next to the box, clutching the ribbon to my heart, praying for forgiveness, among other things. The sound of footsteps stopped me. I didn’t open my eyes. I knew her and the scent of her—candied roses. A raw instinct to locate her heart was mine alone. I could see her behind closed eyes, watching me, then looking over the placard, before she—
She knelt down beside me. I felt the mud shift and heard the clank of metal as she moved.
I opened my eyes. She was removing the necklace I had given her from around her neck. The key to our house on Snow dangled at the end—the key to home. The only place she ever found true peace. I caught the back of Tito’s head. He must have walked her out, disappearing from view to give us privacy.
“Do you want to say anything?” I said quietly.
She shook her head, her fist closing over the key, knuckles turning red from pressure, before she kissed it and then let it fall from her fingers. It landed with a soft clink in the velvet-lined box. I kissed the ribbon and let it fall without so much of a breath at all. Using my hands to cover the box until the dirt was packed tightly over it, I left the roses to stand guard.
I set the placard over the spot. Before I could adjust it, her trembling fingers came down, situating it, dusting off any fragments of mud, revealing the inscription:
Matteo’s Garden.
