Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty Six
Elena
I take the guest room closest to Luca’s because it feels safest. It’s quiet, the bed is made too neatly, and there’s nothing in here that belongs to anyone. Blank slate. I stand in the center and start sketching with my hands like I can will it into something else.
Bed gets taken out. Crib on the left wall under the window. Not the fussy kind with spindles. Just clean lines, solid wood. A dresser that doubles as a changing table on the right, topped with a mat and a stack of wipes in a basket. Blackout curtains because sleep is survival.
A small bookcase low to the floor. A glider that doesn’t squeak. Soft rug I can lie on for baby’s tummy time. Neutral walls, then color in the textiles—sage and cream, maybe a little rust. Nothing too sweet or sickly.
A night light that won’t sear my retinas at 3:00 a.m.
I list it all in my head like evidence for a trial. It helps steady me.
I don’t know where I’ll be when this baby needs a crib. I don’t know if I’ll still be here or back in my apartment once the threats mutate into whatever comes next.
But if I pretend this is the room, my mind stops tumbling from one panicked thought to the next.
There’s a small table in front of the empty fireplace. I sit and draw a box in my notebook and label it: Musts. Diapers. Onesies. Thermometer. A sling. A stroller that I can’t even use because I can’t take my baby on a damn walk outside the gates of the property.
Bottles, if I try to nurse and fail. Backup plans.
Luca has people packing up my apartment. They’re packing everything, but I gave him the must-haves. My mother’s recipe box and pictures. That’s all I care about. Everything else can burn for all I care.
But I need her index cards. Bent at the corners, her handwriting looping. Sunday sauce. Easter ricotta pie. The almond cookies she made when I graduated from middle school to high school.
She wasn’t there when I graduated high school.
It’s ridiculous how much a box of recipes I can’t make means to me. They could forget all of my clothes. But if they forget those cards, I’ll lose it.
I’m drawing little squares for dresser drawers when the door taps once and swings in.
Caterina leans on the frame. Even in ripped jeans and a casual white shirt, she still somehow looks exactly like a person who grew up in rooms like this. She takes me in—my notebook, the empty bed, the bare walls.
“Working?” she asks.
“Planning,” I say. “It’s either this or obsess.”
“Planning wins,” she says, and steps inside.
I brace for pity or coldness. I get neither.
“I figured I’d hate you,” she starts, frank as a slap. She shrugs when my brows go up.
“Well. You were trying to put my father back in prison.”
“I was,” I say. No apology. No excuse.
“Right.” She nods like she appreciates that I’m not softening it. “But then I saw that damn ultrasound, and I saw the way he looked at you.”
She gives a quick flick of her hand. “So. I adjusted.”
I let out my breath on a wry laugh. “That easy?”
“Not easy,” she says. “Just simple.” She gestures to the notebook. “What’s that?”
“List of what a baby needs. What I might need.” I look down and laugh once. “I have no idea.”
“Good list,” she says, coming closer. She doesn’t sit yet.
She scans the room like I did and then points to the corner.
“Glider there. You’ll want an outlet for your phone behind it.
Put a little table within reach for water.
You’ll think you don’t need it, and then you’ll be trapped under eight pounds of sleeping tyrant and dying of thirst.”
I blink, then smile despite myself. “Noted.”
She finally takes the chair opposite me and tucks one leg under. “I was the baby of the family, so I don’t really remember the nursery, but I’m pretty good at planning.”
“I thought I was too,” I say, and the corner of her mouth tips.
She reaches for my notebook. I let her. She draws a little box next to my “glider” line and writes: outlet / table / water / burp cloths. Then, under “dresser,” she adds: drawer dividers, extra crib sheets, extra everything.
“Twice as many as you think,” she says. “Everything that can be puked on will be puked—or shat—on. Including you. So, more clothes for you too.”
A laugh escapes me. “Looking forward to it.”
“I’m very honest.” Her gaze flicks to the window, to the hedges beyond. “Also practical. The house crew will want to help. Let them. Tell Vivian what you need. She’ll make it happen by dinner.”
I nod, the relief embarrassingly sharp. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“No one does,” she says. “People who pretend otherwise are lying.” She taps the notebook again. “But you’re already doing the thing that matters most. Caring.”
Silence fills the room for a moment.
She breaks it first. “Lucia would have loved this,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it.
I look up. She’s staring at the bare wall like it’s a screen playing something only she can see.
“She was great at the tiny stuff,” Caterina goes on. “The little rituals. She’d bring me stupid stickers when I had exams. Paint my nails while she quizzed me on dates for history. She remembered everyone’s favorite cake. After she left, the house got… loud and empty at the same time.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Papá was gone, and Mamma was… not the same. She lost her husband and daughter on the same day. Then she got sick. Vito got angrier, Nico got quieter. And then it was just me, trying to hold this damn family together.
“When Lucia left, she didn’t just… go. It felt like the heart of our home went with her. Lucia was… a force. She could make Vito sit down with a look. She could make my father laugh when no one else could. She remembered everything. Birthdays. Tests. The way you take your coffee.”
I picture the woman I met when I took over Luca’s case. The woman who was fiercely protective of her daughters, her husband, and I can see exactly what Caterina’s talking about.
“The day she left…” Caterina’s mouth tightens for a second, then relaxes. “I was thirteen. I stood in her doorway and thought if I wished hard enough, I could rewind it all. It didn’t work.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and it feels useless because it can’t change anything.
“Papá said you’ve seen her,” Caterina says, meeting my eyes.
“She asked about you,” I say quietly. “About all of you. When I met with her.”
Her throat works. “She asked about me?”
“She did.” I hold her gaze. “I hadn’t met any of you yet, so I couldn’t really tell her much of anything.”
A breath leaves her, almost a laugh, almost a sob, and she tips her head back for a second like she’s steadying herself. When she looks at me again, her eyes are bright but dry. “Okay,” she says. “How was she?”
“She seemed…” I search for the right word. “Loved.”
Caterina nods once, slowly. “That’s something.” Another beat. Then, brisk again: “All right. Rug, eight by ten, at least. Don’t cheap out or it sheds.”
The pivot is so clean it makes me smile. “Bossy.”
“Efficient.” She stands and rubs her palms on her jeans. She starts walking backward to the door. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I murmur, looking at the notepad.
“And Elena?” she says at the door.
“Hmm?” I glance up.
She clears her throat. “When those index cards get here—your mamma’s recipes—pick one. We’ll make it. You can tell me about your mom, and I’ll tell you about mine.”
My throat tightens. “Almond cookies,” I say hoarsely. “Those were my favorite.”
Caterina’s mouth softens. “Then almond cookies it is.” She taps the doorframe twice. “Text me when the box gets here.”
“I will. Thank you.” I swallow.
She nods, hesitates, then walks out.
I sit very still after she’s gone. I stare at the little boxes I drew, the words inside them, until they blur.
The first tear slips before I can stop it. Then another. And then it’s just… open floodgates. I fold forward, palms over my eyes, shoulders shaking. It’s ugly and wet and absolutely unstoppable.
Damn these hormones. Damn all of it.
I cry for the job, for the picture of my life that just shattered, for two women who left a hole in this house, for my mother’s recipes I’m scared won’t make it here, for a baby who didn’t ask for any of this and is getting all of it anyway.
Eventually, the wave passes. I sniff, drag the heel of my hand under my eyes, and breathe until the hiccups go away. I tear a page from the notebook and blot my face because I don’t have tissues. With a shaky hand, I add them to the list, plus a trash can.
Then, in small print, I add: call Dad. Because I realize it’s been weeks since I’ve spoken to him.
I sit up straighter, close the notebook, and let myself be done crying for now. There are things to be done.