I wander because I can. The rooms are familiar and strange because they’re mine now. The hallway light is a soft yellow, the ottoman the same one I used to climb on to reach the high shelf.
In the bedroom, Nonna’s scarf lies over the back of the chair like she just took it off. In the closet, her dresses hang, the navy one for church, the print for events. The dresser smells like lavender; she kept little pouches in the drawers and scolded me for crushing them when I was hunting for a clean shirt.
I sit on the edge of the bed where I used to nap after school while she prepped dinner. The bed gives under me with a familiar sigh. I hold the key in my palm and feel the shallow tooth bite into my skin.
On the nightstand, there’s a framed photo of me at graduation with my ridiculous hat and my giant grin, and Nonna’s mouth wide. Under the photo, a thin paperback with the spine cracked: Lidia’s Commonsense Italian Cooking. She pretended to scoff at celebrity chefs, but she dog-eared the recipes anyway.
In the living room, I stretch out on the couch. The plastic-free upholstery is cool under my cheek. I am so tired my bones feel like hollow pasta that will break if you look at it. I hold her letter on my chest. I close my eyes.
I tell myself I am only here for the funeral. I repeat it until the words go thin and make no sense at all. I listen to the house breathe. Somewhere, a pipe ticks. I sleep like a person fouled by grief, heavy and hard and full of dreams where my apron strings are tied too tight and I can’t get my hands clean.
In the morning, I will go to the restaurant before anyone else does. I will open the front door, stand in the doorway, and listen to Regalia tell me what it needs. I will pour coffee for the first person who knocks, even if it is only the bread guy who never knocks, just yells.
The key in my pocket burns against my hip. I turn over on the couch and tuck the letter under my pillow the way I used to tuck notes to saints under my mattress. I imagine the fig tree outside opening its leaves to the dawn. I imagine the sauce pot waiting, empty but expectant.
I imagine my life in Italy and my life here like two burners on low, steady, waiting for me to turn the knobs.
I sleep.
Chapter Four
Giovanni
My brother Luca’s house is quiet in a way I recognize. Not empty. Just settled.
I let myself in through the mudroom. The guard at the gate already waved me through. He doesn’t ask questions when it’s me.
I follow the smell of espresso to the kitchen, passing the shrine of photos that have appeared in the home since Luca came back.
There’s Luca at twenty with a hand on his late wife’s back at some banquet; there’s Carlotta by herself, eyes like summer rain; there’s Vito in a Halloween cape showing his teeth; Nico with a fishing pole, patient even then; Caterina, small and ferocious, chin up like her mother; and Lucia at two on a kitchen floor, curls everywhere, cheeks fat with a meatball in each one. A few of Robert, Antonio, and me.
Then there are the new ones. Luca and his fiancée, Elena Pennino. And the newest member of our family in her arms.
Luca is where he always is: at the island, tiny cup in one hand, baby Alessandra tucked in the other, her head cradled in the crook of his elbow.
“Knock knock,” I say, which is stupid because I never knock. But, even though I lived here for a time after Carlotta passed, this is not my house. There’s another woman who lives here now, and a brand-new human with sensitive ears and loud cries.
He glances up, sees me, and the line between his eyebrows disappears. “Door’s open,” he says out of habit, then tips his chin toward the hallway. “Elena’s taking some time down. If you slam anything, I’ll break your hands.”
“When do I slam?” I ask. I walk closer and keep my voice low. “How is she?”
“Running on fumes,” he says. He looks down at Alessandra like that explains everything. It does. He takes another sip, sets the cup in its saucer, and rocks the baby without thinking. “Foura.m. and six a.m. belonged to this one. Eight was the gallon of coffee.”
“She worth it?” I ask.
“Every minute,” he says, not even trying to play tough. He kisses the baby’s forehead. “This one knows what she wants.”
“She’s a Conti,” I say.
He snorts. “God help us.”
I check the room. Same layout. New high chair in a box against the wall. A basket on the counter with little socks, a burp cloth hanging out. Two bottles in the drying rack. A pack of wipes next to the espresso machine because, apparently, babies need supplies on every surface. The marble island has a hairline crack that I don’t remember in one corner. Otherwise, it’s the same kitchen we bled and ate and argued in for years.
“You eat?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
He shifts the baby to his left arm, pulls out a pan with his right, and reaches for eggs. He cracks them one-handed like it’s a card trick. I’ve seen him do it a thousand times. He salts with gusto. I don’t bother to ask if he wants me to take Alessandra. It’s all very practiced. He moves easily, like a man who’s done this every morning for a month. The baby watches him like a TV show. Henarrates under his breath. “Eggs for your uncle. Don’t tell Mom how much salt we’re using.”
