Neither of us knew what to say.
I wasn’t sure what she was dreaming of when she slept. If she dreamed of anything at all after the doctor at the hospital had given her pills to ease her anxiety. As for me, I had nightmares. That night. It came back to me in vivid flashes, a shocking white light illuminating the hellish scene around me in reels. I was always bogged down, not able to get to my heart. I was always a breath away, my hand too slow to save her from the fall.
I couldn’t find peace.
My heart refused to quit racing.
My breaths refused to calm.
Sitting in the stillness, for me, was a hell I wasn’t even sure the devil himself could design.
The chair cracked and one of the handles broke off. I rubbed that hand against my leg, not sure what to fucking do with myself.
I couldn’t stay.
I couldn’t leave.
I refuse to leave.
If I tried to separate myself from her, it felt as if my heart was going to explode inside of my chest to get to hers. I had to know where she was. If she was eating. If she was still breathing.
Her eyes were still on mine until she fell asleep again.
The sun burned through the curtains, illuminating our entire room, making the woman in the bed glow. Her hair fanned behind her, but in the back, I was willing to bet there was a knot. I wanted to brush her hair. Take care of her. She was so fucking small. Too fucking small. But she kept denying me.
I stood, my hands flexing, going to the window. The storm had left some damage behind. A couple of downed trees. I did my business in the bathroom, and as I was entering the bedroom, a knock came at the door.
Valetta. The nurse from the hospital. I hired her to take care of the villa, take care of my wife, however she needed help. Valetta’s daughter, Giovanna, was a doctor, and afterProzioTito had a conversation with her, we had a new doctor to add to the family list. Mac’s second son, Salvatore, would soon be the lead doctor for the entire family.ProzioTito had spent a lot of time with him. Nonno had approved of them all.
Valetta waited in the doorway with a tray. I nodded to my wife and then nodded to her. She knew the fucking drill. If I wasn’t around when my wife ate, I would know all she did and didn’t finish. As of late, she only picked at her food. To some degree, I think she only did it for my benefit. Once, after she hadn’t finished anything, I knocked the full tray to the floor. After that, she started eating a little.
To give me confirmation she got the message, Valetta nodded back, then began to hum as she entered the room. She’d pull the curtains. My wife would tell her to close them. Valetta would. She would offer to help my wife to the bathroom. My wife would decline. She would hurriedly do her business, like if she had apressing engagement with the bed, and then she’d allow it to swallow her up whole.
The dogs continued to follow her around, like she was a princess in a movie. If they ever thought I was doing her wrong, they would tear my throat out. They had accepted her as a weaker species who needed tending to. Valetta would set the tray in front of my wife, and if I was in the room, she’d meet my eyes briefly and then turn them back to the food. I wasn’t sure whether she was seeing the food in front of her or a life she couldn’t change. She picked at her options, trying to rearrange the pieces, make them make sense.
I tore away from the room, meeting my family in the kitchen. All of them. My parents, my sister, her husband, my brothers, and the women they were attached to, if they had women to be attached to. Angelo and Atta. She had cancelled her tour to be close to my wife.
It was the first time I truly noticed their faces.
How completely helpless they looked.
My old man stared at my mamma as if they were back in a time he couldn’t change—a mold he had been set into that he could never truly break free from. The memories were assaulting him.
Mamma looked thinner, withdrawn, her face pale.
Mamma stood from her seat, her hands twisting. My old man was behind her, as he always was. Maybe he thought I’d blame her for not being able to foretell this. I put the fucking blame where it belonged. On the men who decided on murder.
And myself.
For not being able to fucking shield my wife from what happened to her.
Our son.
“Mariano,” Mamma whispered, her trembling hand barely reaching out.
I shook my head. “The storm did some damage.” I went to move past her, but she seemed to stand taller, her eyes fierce on mine.
“It did,” she said, “but it didn’t destroy everything. Your father and I have something for you and Sistine.” She braved the space between us, taking my hand in hers, holding on tight.
