Chapter 7
SEVEN
JULIAN
PRESENT DAY
The giggling sound in my dreams is weird.
I know my dreams. And I know my nightmares.
In them, no one giggles like they’re three years-old, mocking me from a high horse.
Even Lana. No, usually, it’s her judgmental green eyes I meet in dreamland.
And my husband’s, though I can barely recall them now.
“Your breath really stinks, Juju.”
I blink one eye open.
Yep, not a dream.
Then, I do the only normal thing for a thirty year-old man whose niece is currently sitting on his chest. I open my mouth and breathe the foul-smelling post-drinking night-breath into her button nose.
“Argh.”
She leans back, trying to escape me, but not before I surge up and take her into my arms, smothering her cheeks with stinky kisses.
“No, ziu, you’re disgusting," she complains while laughing and giggling.
When I pause, I notice that her mother observes the scene, arms crossed over her chest at the threshold of my bedroom.
I release Ember, and she scampers off, passing her mum on her way to my kitchen. From the noises of clanking pans, I can guess that Marie’s boyfriend, Nico, must be making breakfast.
“She sent the cavalry, huh?”
“I’m not here because Lana asked me to, Jules.”
I roll my eyes.
“Truly. I didn’t know I’d find you in this…” she waves a hand towards me, a rictus of disgust on her pretty face. “Anyway. I’m here because you promised Ember you’d make pancakes for her today. Good thing your extra key resides under your welcome mat. Not very safe, by the way.”
“Shit.”
Self-loathing is my daily companion but it’s different when I fail my niece.
Marie, Ember and Nico live in West Hill, in the UK, and don’t visit Kalliste often.
It’s a treat when they’re here. My three-year-old niece is the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m sad and lost and ruined potential.
She looks at me like I’m just Juju. Her uncle who makes her laugh, and cooks pancakes.
It’s the only thing I can make. That and wine, but she’s too young for that, right? Probably.
I slide out of the covers and sit on the side of the bed, running my fingers through my hair in hopes the slight tension will help wake me.
“Let me get dressed, and I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”
Marie steps into the room, not wrinkling her nose as she gets closer to me. She’s the only one who won’t. She’s been there.
She sits on the bed next to me, slowly, as though to give me enough time to run away.
She looks so much like her sister it’s uncanny.
Same dark hair though hers are in a low ponytail with wisps flying out, a testament of what it must be like to run after her daughter all morning.
Same green eyes that see through you, to dig the darkest part and bring it into the light.
The thing is, I want to stay in the dark. It’s cosy there.
She doesn’t speak and hands me a golden coin.
“To Thine Own Self Be true,” I read the embossed letters, as well as the roman number for two.
My throat burns.
“I’m not like you,” I say, toying with the coin in between my fingers. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with the path you’re on, but I’m not… I’m not an alcoholic. Not really.”
I glance at her, wishing she’d just speak. Cuss me out for insulting her. But Marie—sweet Marie with her silent disposition and morose outlook on life—isn’t fooled by any attempts at pushing her away. I’ve tried and she always shrugs it off.
“Self-destruction takes on many forms.”
Her hand lands on my restless ones. I clench my jaw and focus all my attention on the chipped polish on her nails.
It helps with how blurry the edges of my visions are.
I thought I was out of tears. I thought Igor had bled me dry when he left; first when he exchanged his life for Lana’s, walking straight into his brother’s plan, then again in Amsterdam.
I can’t think of Amsterdam. I’m bound to say something I’ll regret if I let bitterness taint this moment with my adopted niece.
We’re not blood but Marie is like a sister to me.
I love her as much as I do Lana, even when I hate myself and do everything for her to hate me in return. And Ember deserves me at my best.
I swallow, paste on a smile and hand Marie her coin.
“Keep it.”
“Don’t you need it for your next meeting or something?”
“It’s just a symbol, Jules. I know for how long I’ve been sober.” She stands and watches Ember through the open bedroom door. “Take a shower, babe. Ember is right. You stink.”
She flashes me a smile and I return it, glad to ignore whatever my pouring heart has decided to put me through, yet again.
When I’m showered and dressed in loose linen pants and a matching shirt, I feel human again and join my family into my kitchen.
“Oh my God! Did a monster take over my kitchen?” I exclaim, exaggerating outrage at how messy the small space has turned into. Ember giggles, running into my legs and putting two perfectly hand-shaped imprints of flour on my dark brown pants.
“Ember loves to cook,” says Nico in an even tone, undisturbed by the chaos gremlin running circles around us. “Hello Julian.”
“Hello Nico, always a pleasure to see you.”
He nods once and turns his back on me, a clear sign that he trusts me. We don’t embrace since he hates to touch anyone but Marie and Ember. I’m the complete opposite, always touched-starved and craving more. Maybe a shrink would tell me my mamma loved me too much.
Shit, another topic I can’t think of unless I want to bawl my eyes out.
I turn my attention to the easiest topic in front of me.
“Are you going to make faces on my pancakes, peanut?”
“Duh,” Ember says, shrugging and gathering the berries her mum is handing her. “Everyone knows pancakes without faces are not as good.”
My smile grows as I watch her prepare the eyes with blueberries and a smile with a deliciously-fat slice of bacon.
While we eat our delicious and not very nutritious breakfast, the conversation remains surface-level, and I keep sending Marie grateful smiles. But then Nico, not one for mincing words and avoiding hard topics, asks, “Are you concerned about the drought?”
I tense and throw a look at Marie, who waves me off. “I’m not triggered by it, babe. But thank you for your concern.”
“What’s a dwart?” Ember asks, butchering the word.
Nico is so earnest, and Ember’s eyes shine with such curiosity, that I don’t feel like avoiding that particular topic. I sigh and wipe my mouth, leaning back into my chair.
“It means that the weather will be very hot and it won’t rain much for the next few months.”
“That’s good! It rains all the time in summer, back home.”
I can believe it. West Hill, UK, isn’t known to be a summer destination. But here, on this island in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, between sea and mountains, a drought means my vineyard will suffer.
“It’d be good if I didn’t need rain to make wine, peanut.”
“Can I have wine?” She turns her big green eyes to her mother.
“No, baby,” Marie tells her with a soft smile. “Wine is for adults and some adults, like me, don’t even like it.”
I guess a small lie is better than telling a three year-old that her mother is a recovering alcoholic.
My niece’s interest for this conversation dies down immediately and she bounds off her chair with Nico’s help to explore my living room, inventing one of her stories and disappearing into a world of play-pretend.
“We’ve accumulated some water reserves,” I continue. “But yeah, I already know that we’ll produce less, and the grapes’ taste will be affected. And this year’s vintage won’t age as well.”
“And I know how proud you are of how well your wine ages,” Marie quips.
I fucking do.
The Bartoli wine is one of the most sought after in the world. In only half a decade, we managed to get worldwide recognition and acclaimed prizes, selling in small batches and collaborating with Michelin star chefs. It used to be my pride and joy. Our pride and joy.
Maybe the drought isn’t what I should be worried about. After all, I abandoned the place a few months ago when it became too hard.
No matter how hard I work the land, Igor’s footsteps echo in between the rows of grapes planted on the hills.
Some we put there together years ago. I might have named a particularly rare vintage after him.
Not that he’d know or care. The Girasole wine bottles, named after the sunflower field we got married in, are collecting dust in one of the Bartoli cellars.
I hate myself for knowing exactly where to find them, even though all I want is to forget.
My animation dies as, yet again, another painful memory and the reminder of what I’ve lost make themselves known. They’re my best companions even if I do everything to keep them at bay.
“Can we go to the beach?” Ember asks suddenly and just like that, the dark bubble above my shoulders pops, replaced—if only for a moment—by the three-years-old sunshine who could teach me how to be happy again if I’d let her.
Chasing after a three year-old who hasn’t napped all day is not for the faint of heart.
Poor little girl sees the beach a few weeks a year when Marie and Nico grace the land with their presence, and could not stop inventing new games, chasing the few fishes that swam close to shore and chatting up absolutely everyone who tried to have their nap on the plot we chose to settle at.
“I’m exhausted,” I tell Marie as we drive back to the Moretti Mansion.
She snorts, glancing in the rearview mirror at Ember, who fell asleep a few moments ago, five minutes before we make it to our destination. Of course.
“Then, don’t have kids,” Nico says matter-of-factly, but my heart somersaults in pain anyway.
“Nico.”
“It’s okay, Mimi. He didn’t mean it.”