How long had it been—one week? two?—since I had passed out in the church? Ihadpassed out. I tried not to think about it too much, the memory as painful as my throat had been.
I shifted some, turning to face the golden light stretching through the sheer curtains. Tiny sparks of white drifted in the softness, dust motes, almost as if they were dancing in the warm sanctuary.
Dancing made my heart constrict, so I shifted my gaze, finding an unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar woman sitting next to me in a chair. I had woken up here after my faint in the church, surrounded by strangers and a new room. Compared to this, heaven seemed like an eternal retreat. The only force keeping me here was the one fighting for me on the other side.
I swallowed hard, thankful for the soothing passage. I could still feel the way my saliva burned as fiercely as acid as it had washed down my shredded throat. I thanked God that it was only a memory, not real anymore.
The current room was equipped with medical supplies, even an old pole to hang fluids. It stood out against the light, a stark shape next to the softer-shaped woman.
“Getting comfortable?” she asked in Italian. She spoke slowly, quietly, quite melodic compared to the other voices in the house. She also spoke the romantic language I couldn’t understand, Sicilian, but a few others that I could—French, Spanish, and Italian.
In the beginning she spoke to me in a rush, in my ear.I am here to make you better.
At first I had thought that she was an angel sent to take me to heaven. As the fever wore thin, and my throat started to heal, I realized that she was real—I heard her arguing once with one of the other women. When I started to come to, really settle back into flesh and bone, she whispered again in my ear in French: “Pretend to be sick. Do not let them know you are coming around.”
I could do that, easily enough. I slept. A lot. More than I had ever slept in my life. I doubted that I had slept so much even as a baby. A natural reserve of energy had always come natural to me, never needing too much sleep even when I danced twelve or more hours a day. I was on my mother’s tight ship, though, and a bedtime of eight o’clock was strictly enforced.
The thought of my mother sent an unexpected pang of longing down the center of my chest. Thoughts of Brando almost killed me.
The woman leaned forward, took my hand, and squeezed. She had firm hands, not small and not large. Capable. Everything about her seemed competent, from the long strands of wavy, sandy blonde hair cascading around her heart-shaped face to her fair skin and brown eyes. Her appearance was more soft than commanding, but her strong presence flipped the coin.
I had no ideawhyshe was here. Orhowshe was allowed to stay. There didn’t seem to be an argument about her staying.If there was, I wasn’t around for it. The argument between her and the other woman, Giovi’s mother, was because the woman had accused me of lying about still being sick. I had recognized the worddoctor. It had come out of the mouth of the woman next to me quite a bit during the argument. She was the doctor, not Giovi’s mother, was how she had seemed to present her case.
A few times I had attempted to make conversation with the woman next to me, but she looked down at her book—crossword puzzles, like Uncle Tito—and shook her head. She was comfortable, but not comfortable enough to talk.
As of late, tears came streaming out of my eyes without conscious thought. Even when I refused to cry, the sadness inside overflowed, leaving me no choice. The mind can be strong, but the body has a will of its own sometimes. More so, I found it was the heart.
“Your husband?” she asked, using her thumb to stroke my skin.
I sniffed. The urge to dry my cheeks was strong, but my body refused to move—I needed her hand, her borrowed strength. I needed her to keep talking.
“I—” My voice cracked. I imagined a piece of pottery out in the desert heat, its fibers splitting once cool water was added to it. “Have I been asking for him? My h-husb-band?”
“You cry for him in your sleep. Here—” She stood, keeping her hand with mine. “Try some water.”
With one hand, she used a ceramic pitcher to pour clean water into a glass cup, the flow of it mesmerizing. She left the glass on the table, next to her puzzle books, helped prop me up, and then handed me the water, taking a seat again.
The water looked so pretty, but the memory of it slicing down my throat made me hesitate.
She smiled. “Streptococcal pharyngitis—strep throat is madness. You are all clear now. Only a trace of a cough left.”
She was right, the water was good, and it went down without the effect of razor blades on already shredded skin.
“Thank you,” I said, handing her the cup.
She set it back on the table. We regarded each other for a few minutes.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Nodding, she relaxed into her chair.
I stretched my hand. Both of my wedding rings were still on, but one shake of the finger would send them flying. I had lost more weight than I should have. “You seem to know this family. Is that why they’re letting you stay?”
“Yes. My father was the attending physician to Giovi’s father. He died in this room. He trusts me. To a certain extent.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised by this. She didn’t seem like the type to run with Giovi and his men.
She smiled at me, a definite rueful tinge to the gesture. “Your uncle sent me here.” She said in quick French. “He knew the man in charge would accept me. I am from this village. So it was no surprise that I was there when you needed me. I come home every year for the Easter celebration. If not, my grandmother would spank me.”
