Page 54

The next thing I know, I’m drenched in cold water.

I gasp, jumping up, glaring at her, and find her standing at the foot of my bed, bucket in hand.

“Ascoltami bene!” she says, telling me to listen carefully, and I know that tone well. It’s the one she used to use on us when my sister and I were in trouble as kids. “I am done enabling this!” She points to me, then to my room. “You lost your job! You lost your house! You lost all of your friends and your dignity!”

Rage surges through me so fast it almost burns. “I lost my husband!” I scream.

The anger leaves her face instantly. She loved Damiano as a son.

“I know.”

She steps closer and pulls me into an embrace. And you have to give it to mothers, because I know I smell like death and just yelled at her, and she is still trying to make me feel better.

She doesn’t know that I gave up on that.

The moment Damiano stopped breathing, I stopped living too.

“There’s someone here to see you, figlia mia,” she whispers into my hair as we rock slightly, her arms wrapped tight around me. “Why don’t you take a shower and we’ll...”

“Oh no, no, no, no, no. Niente doccia!” The voice hits me before I even turn.

Familiar. Sharp. Pulling memories I don’t want to touch.

“You show me just how much of a mess you are!” Her Italian accent is full on. “Well, won’t you greet your Nonna Antonia?”

I freeze for half a second before looking up. Tears sting immediately.

I haven’t seen Damiano’s nonna in... a year.

Maybe more.

Time stopped making sense a long time ago.

“Ciao, Nonna,” I whisper, embarrassed by my appearance.

She shakes her head and comes closer, her eyes roaming over me, taking everything in. Then she takes my hand.

“I know living has lost its taste, tesoro.”

I look away.

“I miss my Vincenzo too... I miss both my husband, and my grandson.”

That makes me look up.

“Maria, let me talk to the girl alone, please.”

My mom hesitates, then nods and leaves us. Nonna Antonia looks around my room and visibly cringes.

“I remember it well, you know.”

She sits on my bed, choosing a spot that isn’t drenched, and after a second, I follow. “What?” I whisper, my voice rough.

“The pain. The helplessness of not having a solution to it.”

I swallow.

She lost her husband when he was forty-nine. Young. And then years later, her grandson too.