“Oh, well why didn’t you say so?” he blurts out. “What kind?”
“What do you mean?”
“What kind of pads?”
Wait a minute, no one told me there were different types of pads. That is, of course I know how they’re made, I’ve seen the adverts on TV with women who claim to go skydiving, save cats from rooftops, and defuse bombs thanks to whatever miraculous pad they’re wearing, but I’ve never paid particular attention to the object itself. “I have no idea. What types are there?”
“I can give you these for medium flow,” he says, placing a package on the counter. “These are for heavy flow, and these others are for lighter flows.”
Flows? What do I know? “What is the difference between flow and leakage?”
“Plus,” continues the pharmacist, “we have a contoured variety, with simple wings, or night wings, lady wings, thin with wings, cotton with wings.”
I am overwhelmed by the wings. “I, here ...”
“The cotton ones are the best,” interjects a lady who, if I recall, is among those who came to the estate the day after my arrival.
“I prefer the contoured,” says another, placing herself to my right.
“You should get the heavy ones. You never know,” advises a third.
In short, the supreme court of mothers gathers around me, and instead of clarifying things, they confuse me even more, inundating me with questions.
“Who are they for?” “What do you need them for?” “Are they for a period or for incontinence?”
“They’re for ... for ...” Oh, to hell with it. “They’re for me!” I exclaim.
“For you?” the pharmacist asks me, amazed.
“Yes, they’re for me, because I wear them ...” Where do I put them? What am I saying? “I ... I ... I put them under my armpits to stop sweat stains, that’s it!” I declare. I’m not even sure if that makes sense. I take advantage of the moment of general perplexity to take a box at random and slap it in the pharmacist’s hand. “These’ll work great,” I say.
I have no idea which ones I chose, but I have to get out of this hell immediately.
Just as I’ve left the pharmacy, the elderly lady who bought the denture paste intercepts me. She pulls me by the hem of my T-shirt, motioning for me to bend over and listen to her.
I don’t know if I have the patience to tolerate the intrusion of yet another meddler.
She holds out a vial of capsules to me. “Lady’s mantle and chaste tree,” she says. “It’s a natural but very effective remedy,” she adds with a wink.
“Look,” I snort, “you’re very kind, but I’m not helpless. I don’t need chemical or natural remedies. I’m functioning wonderfully, thank you.”
“They’re not for you. They’re for Linda.”
At the sound of Linda’s name I freeze in the doorway. “Linda?”
“To counteract the typical PMS symptoms, lower-back pain, headaches, cramps. It’s just a supplement, but it makes a big difference. Trust me.”
“I’m sorry ... but how do you know Linda got her period?” It turns out these village housewives really do have antennae.
“You are Michael D’Arcy, are you not? They haven’t stopped going on about you in this village since you arrived. I’m Giovanna Tersilli; nice to meet you. I was Linda’s pediatrician. I retired when she was five, but since they can’t find another doctor for the clinic here in Belvedere—you know, there are so few of us, it’s hardly a desirable position—I continued to treat quite a few patients privately, especially for minor annoyances, so they wouldn’t be forced to go to Greve or Radda. Her mother brought her to see me earlier this year because Linda was feeling tension and pain in her chest. Her breasts had begun to develop: A period will usually arrive in the following six to ten months, so that’s how I know. Linda is very reserved. I’m not surprised she sent someone to get pads for her.”
Reserved? Are we talking about the same person?
“So you’re telling me that the last time Linda saw her mother was in January, and she’s been abroad this whole time?!” I exclaim. No wonder she has such a difficult relationship with her if she never sees her.
“What do you mean, abroad? Elisa never left.”
Hold it. “What do you mean, Elisa?”
