“Help me.”
I couldn’t explain it to him. She was the only one who could understand. The connection. She’d feel it, and I’d find her. I’d be there in the darkness with her. But I didn’t bother to tell him that. It was our secret. Something that existed but had no name.
I’d either catch her, or death would take me with her.
19
Brando
She didn’t look like herself. But I had been warned ahead of time that she wouldn’t.
Swelling, bruises, stitches.
Then there was all the equipment keeping her alive.
Tubes, needles, complicated monitors.
She had been in trouble before. She had hemorrhaged and almost died when she lost our first son, Matteo, who our second Matteo was named after. The loss had come after Nemours had assaulted her, punching her in the stomach.
But nothing. Nothing like this.
The swelling would go down. Bruises would be absorbed by the skin. Scars from the stitches would lighten and fade with time. None of that was the real problem. What afflicted her went even deeper. All the internal wounds had pushed her close to the edge.
“We don’t expect your wife to make it through the night. She might never walk again if she does. She’ll never dance again. We don’t know the extent of the damage at this time—if she makes it, we will have to assess the damage more completely. As of now, though, we do not foresee a positive change in her condition.”
Then it was medical jargon. Terms that sounded as serious as they were, leading to a prognosis that led to an outcome that they claimed they were grieved to give. It was in their medical opinion that she would not survive the trauma of what had happened.
“Over my dead body,” I’d said, staring past the doorless room. Then I rolled my shoulders and walked in.
I’d taken a seat, holding her hand, and I hadn’t moved since. I was so quiet that the medical staff allowed me to stay at all times. That, and since they believed she would die, they felt sorry for me, giving me as much time as possible.
If visitors came, I heard their voices, but didn’t truly see their faces.
Days rose and set.
Nights came and went.
Books had been left behind, and as I had done many times before, I quietly read to her. I took her hand and spoke to her—whispered things, things I would’ve told her while we gazed at the stars.
I reminded her of her promise—that we’d have five children. How happy we would be with five. A family of seven. A lucky number. What she had always wanted.
Her dreams had become mine.
Most of the time, the words I spoke to her were forgotten a second after. The words weren’t important. The feeling behind them was.
A hand came over my shoulder, squeezing. I called out for Tito, wondering if he had come. In times like these, I craved his presence. When he was around, I had no doubt that she was in the best hands.
He had a healing touch that couldn’t be rivaled. He understood something about life that no one else seemed to, but this time, not even he could help her, which was why he stayed away after going over their findings.
The look on his face when he looked at her did nothing to help my resolve, though he told me not to allow them to take her off life-support.
Something had dimmed in him after Venice, and he had never been able to claim it back—and that was the confidence he used to have when it came to what he could do with his two hands.
“No, son,” the voice seemed to come from far away, but was so close. Italian. Familiar. When he squeezed my shoulder again, my head hung, too tired to keep it upright anymore. “Your father is here. Rest yourself.”
“I can’t,” I answered in the same language. The words seemed to come from an automatic place. “She might wake up.”
“She will,” he said, confident in his response, where the others were halting, their uncertainty sharp enough to pierce bone. “Right now, she needs to sleep. I will sit with her for a time. I will not let harm come to her.”
