“You’re my sister. I would go to the ends of the earth for you.”
“Be careful.”
He stands, peering down at me. “You too, sis.” Silence engulfs us as he stares at me, looking like he’s contemplating saying more. Mateo drills me with a knowing look, speaking after a couple moments of tense silence. “I know you love him, Nat. I suspect he loves you too.” My heart thumps behind my chest cavity.
Are we so obvious that others can tell?
“But that shit can’t happen.” He pats my cheek. “Leave this up to me. If there is a way to get you out of the marriage to Greco, I will try my hardest to pull it off. You and Leo starting something could fuck it all up, so you need to stay away from him. It’s too risky for both of you.”
“I understand, Matty.”
“Good.” Crouching down, he kisses my cheek. “Finish your soup. Then sleep.”
* * *
“No, Mama,”I sob the following afternoon as the four of us sit in our living room, discussing the findings from the hospital tests. “Papa.” I turn glassy, pleading eyes on my father. “There has to be something you can do! Specialists we can hire to cure her?”
“I would hire all the specialists in the world if it meant my Rosa would be saved,” Papa says, curling his arm tighter around Mama’s shoulders. “But it’s too late,principessa. It’s stage four and at a very advanced stage.”
Ovarian cancer is known as the silent killer because the symptoms are often mistaken for other conditions or illnesses and it is often too late before a proper diagnosis is delivered. Which is exactly what has happened in Mama’s case.
“What about chemotherapy?” Mateo asks, the strain clear as day on his face.
“Oh,ragazzo mio. It is too late for treatment and I don’t want to spend my last weeks or months too sick to spend time with my family.” Mama gets up, coming around to sit on the couch in between me and Mateo. In turn, she kisses our cheeks. “We all die eventually.” A serene sort of calmness settles over her beautiful face. “My time has just come a little earlier than expected.”
“How can you be so calm?” I cry out with tears streaming down my face. “Why aren’t you angry?”
“I cannot change the outcome,cuore mio. Battling a certainty is a futile exercise. I have accepted this is the fate of my God and he has given us time to say goodbye.”
“No, Mama.” I sob, throwing my arms around her, ignoring the throbbing ache in my ribs. “I don’t want to say goodbye. I love you. You can’t leave us.”
Mama hugs me close, whispering in my ear, promising me I will be all right. Papa stares straight ahead, a shellshocked look appearing at intervals in between his stoic expression. Mateo sits forward with his elbows propped on his knees and his bowed head in his hands.
“I need you to be strong, my love,” Mama says, smoothing her hand up and down my hair. “You will be the woman of the house now, and I need your help to make arrangements.”
A strangled cry travels up my throat, leading to another bout of crying, and then Mateo is crying too, and Mama bundles him into her other side, hugging him and whispering reassurances in his ear. My eyes lock on my father’s face, and I’m startled to see tears filling his eyes.
I have never seen my papa cry, and he rarely gets emotional.
A shared understanding filters between us as Mama remains the only strong one, her assurances ringing out confidently in the room. But as Papa and I silently communicate, we know it’s not the truth.
Everything isn’t all right.
And nothing will ever be the same again.
15
Natalia
“Come sit,” Mama says, her voice fragile and the movement of her hand sluggish as she pats the space beside her on the bed. It’s been one month since her diagnosis, and she’s deteriorating rapidly, much to our dismay. I begged my parents to let me be homeschooled for the rest of the semester, but Mama won’t hear of it. She is insisting we lead our normal lives, and she complains if we fuss over her too much.
I race up the stairs to her bedroom every day after school, eager to spend as much time with her as I can. Every Thursday, I attend a dance class at a prestigious dance school in NYC. I used to love it, but I hate it now, as it delays me from seeing Mama. Mateo and Brando took me there today because Leo was reading to Mama.
My heart swells when my eyes find his. He’s seated in a chair beside Mama’s bed with a book open on his lap. Every day, Leo finds time to sit with her, and if I didn’t already really fucking love him, his tender care of my dying mother would seal the deal.
He doesn’t protest as she makes him read numerous classic love stories from her weathered collection. He brings her flowers from the garden and homemade treats from his mama, Paulina. His thirteen-year-old sister, Giuliana, has taken up cross-stitch lately, and she stitched a beautiful angels picture. At the bottom, it reads “Moms are angels,” and the meaning is crystal clear. Mateo got it framed, and it’s now on the table beside Mama’s bed.
“I can take over,” I tell Leo, reaching for the worn copy ofA Room with a View.
