Chapter 6 – Gabriella
My mother took to planning my wedding with gusto. But I couldn’t stomach the sessions spent helping her. Not when she began to weep uncontrollably every time we met to work.
Big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she thumbed through the catalog of wedding cakes. I groaned, wishing one of my sisters would call from the other parts of the house, needing my mother. It was almost eleven, and I needed to leave if I was going to enjoy my Tuesday morning.
“You might not be the boy we prayed for,” she sniffled. “But I can’t believe your father is selling you to that murderer!”
Clearly, my mother didn’t remember the countless times Papa drank one too many glasses of wine and raged about how I’d poisoned my mother’s womb, cursing her to only bear daughters.
“Let’s go with the white cake, raspberry filling, and Chantilly cream,” I insisted.
Mama shook her head, tears dripping down her nose. “That’s too common. Your father will hate it.”
“He thinks I’m his greatest shame, what does it matter?” I muttered.
“Gabriella? What did you say?” Mama reached for a tissue.
“Nothing.” I flashed her a reassuring smile and fidgeted with my horn pendant, sliding it along the chain around my neck. “I just think the white cake is traditional. And raspberry is a nice flavor.”
Plus, it was the color of blood. Which was likely going to be spilt at the wedding, regardless of how nice we made it. The groom had no problem opening his kinsman’s throat at dinner, why would the wedding feast stop him? He’d warned me what would happen if I tempted a monster.
The funny thing was, I didn’t remember consciously doing it.
Mama blew her nose. “No, it has to be perfect. It sets the tone for the other girls.”
Yeah, but Papa thinks I’m corrupting them. My wedding should be a disaster. That way he could bluster and shout about what not to do.
“I need to pray, Mama, before confession,” I blurted out, rising from my chair. “I see Father Giuseppe at one.”
“Such a good, pious girl.” Mama patted my cheek, eyes welling up. “If—if your father seems harsh, it’s because he loves you.”
I bit my tongue—hard—to keep from bursting out laughing. Was that what she told herself to cope with her husband? Such a big, fat lie!
“I just don’t understand why he’s letting Signor Morelli marry you off. He murdered someone! Right in front of us. During the salad!” Mama bordered on hysteria.
I patted her hand. “He’s a mobster. That’s kinda what they do.”
How was she possibly shocked by this? Granted, it was rare that blood was spilt over the salad course, but it happened.
Often. There were rules amongst the famiglia.
Severe consequences were doled out on any Made Man who took a life without express permission from the don.
Or in acts of self-defense. Maybe the Irish didn’t operate the same way? Did they even have a code of honor?
Either way, it wasn’t like I was shocked by death.
A small part of me, a monster I kept buried, wished it was me who’d slit the throat of the bully. My fingers were already bloodstained, so what was the harm of taking another life? Especially when the killing was justified.
Mama wailed, and Daniella poked her head into the front sitting room. I launched from the couch, snagged my little sister around the waist, and hauled her across the room.
“Look, Mama, Danny is here.” I dumped my sister unceremoniously on the brocade sofa next to my mother.
Daniella’s look promised revenge. I gave her a smirk and darted upstairs.
The girls all shared bedrooms. Two sets of bunk beds were in each room.
Before my study abroad, I had been in the pink room with my other sisters.
Upon my return, my father said that I needed space to pray and prepare for marriage.
He stuck me in the partially finished attic. Which in hindsight was a small mercy.
I was left to mourn alone.
Gathering my journal, I swept a look over the room and mentally checked my hiding spots.
Nothing was out of place. I wouldn’t put it past curious sisters to rummage through the room, but since they weren’t allowed up here, I hoped that wouldn’t happen.
Still, to be safe, I kept my most precious possession well-hidden.
Already in my work uniform, I grabbed my work shoes and my book bag and bolted down the stairs.
The sunlight was strong, and the temperature beastly hot. I began to sweat in my long sleeved, black button-up dress shirt and matching slacks. But the cab I’d made an arrangement with loitered on the intersection, exactly where he was every Tuesday at 11:15.
“Morning, Ebony,” I greeted the sallow old hag who wore a crocheted cap and fingerless gloves no matter the season.
Her greying skin shifted as she wrinkled her nose. “Hot one today, Gabby.”
I hummed, sinking into the cigarette-stained seat as she took off. The Red Sox game blared on the radio, loud enough to rattle my teeth. We made it to the Bay Front Park in good time, and Ebony waved me off as I left.
“See you in an hour,” I called before slamming the door.
At last, peace seeped into my muscles as I hurried down the flower walk. The bench I preferred was empty, which meant I didn’t need to use the threadbare towel to sit on the duck poop grass. The only downside was there was no shade. The summer sun beat down on me as I tugged my journal from my bag.
I picked up where I’d left off, pouring mindless meditations onto the page.
In between the lines about being a dutiful daughter, something crawled under my skin.
I looked up but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Biting my bottom lip, I added new thoughts about the expectations of being a good wife.
But every few words, I left a blank space.
Just enough room for one word. It was the stuff a shrink would love to get their hands on.
They would have a field day if I put anything real on the pages.
To the untrained eye, I was a miserable woman with terrible prospects ahead of me. But I was never happier than when I sat on this seat, enjoying my Tuesday mornings. Except…something was seriously wrong with my body today.
A breeze made me shiver.
The quack of a duck made me jump.
I stared right then left but couldn’t place the source of the eerie feeling. “Everything is fine.”
The self-command felt like a lie.
Two moms walked by pushing strollers with chubby, big-cheeked toddlers.
My breath quickened. They were precious.
Fists shoved in snack cups, the toddlers jabbered in their own language while the women bitched about their maid service.
How the baseboards were only wiped down once a week instead of daily.
The horror! Smirking at the toddlers, I wanted to pinch those cheeks, but the one looked extra cranky.
A chill drifted over me.
It felt like I was being watched.
Ignoring the impossibility, I watched the toddlers without looking directly at them.
No need for their mothers to catch me staring.
My heart panged. I loved children. Behind them, a pair of young women came to have an early lunch under the shade of a European Beach.
They gabbed about a party they’d been to, how one had kissed a man she’d danced with.
You’re lucky he didn’t knock you up.
I shook myself.
What was wrong with me? When did my thoughts turn this jaded? Two years ago, I would have given anything to be like them. To have that kind of freedom. But that was before.
I tipped my head back, letting my eyes fall closed. Shutting out the noise, I acknowledged my private heartache. I stroked the broken, empty places inside me. My arms ached with want. My heart thumped in pain that I didn’t allow myself to feel most days.
A gust of wind sent a shiver down my spine.
There’s no one watching me!
I made sure of that.
The creak of a stroller made me stiffen.
Opening my eyes, I sighed at the depressing words on the page.
Black wheels came into view. Then a pair of fancy athletic shoes that were bright white.
This mom wore designer leggings. I didn’t look up until she passed.
Oblivious to me, she chatted on her phone, the headpiece firmly planted in her ear.
But I didn’t look at her.
I only had eyes for the sleeping bundle, tucked deep in the shadows of the pram. He wasn’t wearing a hat. The thin muslin blanket draped over his chubby legs. Rosy cheeks said he was warm, even under the shade of the cover.
He slept.
Peaceful and safe.
I drank in the sight for five more blissful seconds before the mom took the bend in the path, and the angle obscured the view.
Only then did I lift my head all the way and pretend to look around.
I didn’t see the park, didn’t hear the jabber of the office girls, or feel the brush of the eastern wind or the shadows that felt like they watched my every move.
The people around me had such normal lives.
I was pain. My heart split open, bleeding into my chest.
It’s going to be alright.
That was the lie I told myself every day.
The pillar of my existence that I couldn’t live without.
I found the blank spaces in the journal, the places I purposely left room for in between other words.
My pen rapidly added the details that my mind captured.
Hidden in the spaces were code words. Memories to document what I truly felt.
Anyone reading the entry would gloss over the spots.
They would think I was verbose, overusing adjectives, adding extra nouns, doubling up on verbs.
But really, it was where I truly documented my life in code.
“You’re a long way from home, little bird,” the voice of death observed from behind.
I jumped, stifling a scream.