Elisa
“He didn’t recognize you?!” asks Mamma, barely looking up from her hand of cards. She and Donatella left the party before I did, and I arrive home to find them playing burraco in the living room of the annex.
“Yes, but that’s not all!” I proclaim. Here I was, worried about how to break the ice. I should have broken the ice on his head. “He spoke to me so arrogantly, as if I were his servant. And then, thinking I couldn’t hear him, he called me a shrew.”
“Did he actually say that?” asks Donatella, perplexed.
“Not exactly,” I correct myself. “He said all I had going for me was my personality. Same thing.”
“You surprise me, dear,” she replies. “You’ve never cared about compliments or beauty standards. Why let this get to you?”
“I think most people would take it the same way.” I don’t know if I’m more hurt by his comment about my looks or by the fact that he didn’t remember me. I never forgot him. He’s in some of my favorite memories. “He made me feel like a nobody.”
“Who made you feel like a nobody?” Linda interjects as she appears in the kitchen. I thought she was already in bed.
“Nobody,” I snap back. Sooner or later, she’ll give me a heart attack. “Are you hungry, Little Cub? Do you want some biscotti?” I say, hoping to change the topic.
“No, I had some when we got back.”
Mamma lifts the cloth from the pan. “They’re the ones with chocolate chips that you like so much!” she insists.
“Okay, I’ll take two more,” Linda says, holding out her hand. Good thing my daughter didn’t inherit my metabolism.
Deep down, Mamma is happy to be able to feed my daughter. That’s how she shows her affection, by fattening people up. And boy did she show me a lot of affection.
“Hey, Little Cub, do you want to sleep in the big bed with me? We can watch aUlissererun on Rai Storia.”
“I don’t feel like it,” she flatly dismisses me.
“Did you have fun at the party?” I ask. Dialogue with her is growing increasingly difficult.
“Yeah.”
“What did you and your friends do?”
“Nothing,” she replies, following what has by now become a script. “Okay, I’m going to bed.”
“Oh, Linda, I wanted to let you know there’s a new guest joining the Bingleys.”
“Michael D’Arcy,” she tells me.
“How did you know?” I ask her in surprise.
“Belvedere’s Facebook page. Everyone’s commenting on the photos from tonight.”
Good heavens, is there anything in this village that doesn’t enter the rumor mill in less than twenty seconds?
“Well, if you meet him, tell him you’re Donatella’s great-niece,” I say.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because ... because ... I don’t quite trust him.” It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s not a lie either. “Tell him your parents travel abroad a lot, and you stayed to study here in Italy.”
Linda shrugs. “Whatever.” In total indifference, she disappears up the stairs. I wait to hear her bedroom door close, then I turn to Donatella and Mamma. “You two as well: not a word to Michael, understand?”
“Elisa, that child is your spitting image. How do you plan to pretend she isn’t your daughter?” Donatella scolds me.
“He’s not exactly observant. After all, he didn’t even recognize me.”
