At least in this way, Elisa hasn’t changed. “You always refused to ask for help, even for the dumbest things. Do you remember when that swallow’s nest full of eggs fell from the lime tree during the storm, and you almost killed yourself on the ladder putting it back on the branch? You must’ve been all of nine. Or when your mother had a frozen back and you worked all night so she wouldn’t have to help you make preserves? How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
“You boiled, pureed, and potted half a bushel of tomatoes,” I remind her.
“And I burned myself.”
“But the worst was when you cut yourself with a billhook during the harvest and tried to sew up the cut with a needle and embroidery thread so your dad wouldn’t freak out.”
“Yeah, that was probably a mistake.”
“A big one: You got an infection and almost lost your hand,” I say, taking her left hand where I can still see the scar from her heroic experiments. “You were never afraid of pain.”
“Maybe now I’m paying with interest for the lack of fear I had as a kid. I learned what fear was from the day that pregnancy test became positive.”
“Was it hard?”
“Giada was the first to know; she took the test with me. She helped me hide it while I decided what to do, but then Mamma found out because she was the one doing the laundry, and she hadn’t found stains on my underwear for two months. When I uttered the fateful words ‘I’m pregnant’ for the first time, I was so terrified. I was trembling. Mamma was understanding, but Dad spoke to me in monosyllables for weeks. I thought about myself, about my future, about the child being without a father, and I decided to terminate the pregnancy.”
“It seems like you changed your mind, which isn’t very like you.”
“I was very clear about what I wanted for myself: college in Milan, a master’s degree in publishing, working at a big publishing house, and then at the first ultrasound, I heard the heartbeat and was overwhelmed. I respect anyone who has the courage to end their pregnancy, but I just couldn’t do it. When Mamma and I got home, Dad gave me a sandwich and said, ‘Here. You and the baby both have some growing to do.’ He already knew.”
“I always knew Alfio was only gruff on the surface.”
“School, however, was a different story. I no longer had a name. I was just ‘the pregnant one.’ I felt everyone’s eyes on me as I walked through the halls, the buzz spreading through them, the sidelong glances of the parents at the front doors, all of them thinking, ‘Thank goodness that didn’t happen to my daughter.’”
“Vapid gossips,” I comment, horrified by their cowardice.
“When Linda was born, I realized none of it mattered. I went into labor in the seventh month, at the beginning of July; Mamma was in Sarzana, helping her sister recover from surgery. Giada was on holiday in Lloret de Mar after graduating from high school, and my father, a good man but one who only knew about land and vineyards, had no idea how to handle the situation. There was only me, barely seventeen years old, after an emergency C-section with a sore incision, my nose pressed against the incubator to see a shriveled little bundle weighingthree pounds that could barely move. After three days of crying and no one to talk to, I knew I had to steel myself and fight for both of us.”
“If you were anything like the Elisa I know, you had strength for five people.”
“But since then I’ve also been paralyzed by fear of everything. I look at Linda and not only do I feel guilty for having brought a child into the world in a totally irresponsible way, I feel constant performance anxiety: Am I educating her the way she deserves? Am I missing something? Does she feel loved enough? How much does not having a father weigh on her?”
I look at Elisa, and she seems tiny curled up next to me, her knees up to her chest, and I feel the unstoppable instinct to hug her. I even make the gesture of stretching out my arm, but before I can wrap it around her shoulders, she gets up and starts walking in circles through the hay. “I wasn’t able to provide much security, but until now she at least had this house, Mamma, Giada, Donatella, and all the other workers became her family. Now she’ll lose all that as well. I understand your choice from a business perspective, but as a mother, I can’t help but hate you for the consequences it will have on my daughter.”
From listening to her, I begin to doubt she knows Linda wants to study abroad, but I don’t think I should be the one to tell her. “I understand,” I reply simply.
“No, you can’t understand, but you don’t have to.”
Dolly lets out a neigh, catching my attention. “Look, speaking of births, didn’t you say that phase one, or whatever the hell it’s called, lasts a couple of hours? Because that passed a while ago, but I don’t think anything has changed ...”
“Oh shit!” Elisa exclaims, looking at the clock. “You’re right.” She enters Dolly’s box, checks her, and shakes her head, worried. “Her water broke, but she’s having trouble pushing.”
“Is that bad?”
“Enough.” She gestures for me to get up. “We have to intervene.”
“We?!” I blurt out.
“No, the pope! Yes, us. The vet wouldn’t get here in time. Come on, Michael. You said you’d stay to lend me a hand if I needed it. So, great. Now I need it.”
“Okay.” I go stand next to her, but she looks at me impatiently. “Your hand, Michael.”
“My hand?!”
“Yeah,” she says, taking my right hand and pulling the sleeve of my shirt up to my shoulder. “It’s not a figure of speech. I really need your hand. In fact, I need your whole arm.”
