Chapter 5 Lupo
I'm sitting up when I hear the footsteps.
Small footsteps. Light and quick, not the cautious approach of Isabella bringing food.
The barn door creaks open wider, and a tiny figure appears, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun.
Her child.
She's small, maybe three feet tall, with dark curls escaping from a messy braid. She's wearing a yellow dress with a stain on the front, juice maybe, and she's clutching a stuffed rabbit by one ear.
She stares at me with enormous brown eyes. No fear. Just intense curiosity.
"Hi," she says.
I don't know what to say. Should I tell her to leave? Call for Isabella?
"Hi," I manage.
She takes a step closer, dragging the rabbit through the dirt. "What’s your name?”
I shake my head. "I don't know."
Her eyebrows scrunch together. "You don't know your name?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I... forgot."
She processes this with serious consideration. "That's silly. Everyone knows their name."
"I don’t." My voice comes out rough.
"That's what Mama says." She takes another step closer, tilting her head. "You're the man who fell down by the tree."
"Yes."
"Mama says you're hurt."
"I am."
"Does it hurt a lot?"
I look at her. Really look at her. She can't be more than three years old, and she's standing in a barn with a stranger her mother warned her to stay away from. She should be terrified. Instead, she's looking at me like she’s truly concerned I’m hurt and can’t remember my own name.
"Yes," I tell her honestly. "It does."
"Mama can make it better. She's good at fixing things."
Something tightens in my chest. "Yes, she helps me."
"I see her coming here." She gestures with the rabbit toward the barn door. "I'm not supposed to come here."
“Why did you?”
“I wanted to see you.”
"Your mother will be upset."
She shrugs, unconcerned. "What's your favorite color?"
The question throws me. "What?"
"Your favorite color. Mine is yellow." She plucks at her dress. "And pink. And purple. But mostly yellow."
"I don't know."
"How can you not know your favorite color?"
"I don't remember anything."
She cocks her head at me. "Nothing?"
"No."
"Do you remember your favorite food?"
Food. I try to reach for it, searching through the blankness. Do I have a favorite food?
Nothing comes. Just emptiness.
"No," I say.
But even as I say it, something flickers at the edge of my mind. Not a memory exactly. More like a sensation. Warmth. The smell of tomatoes and garlic. Fresh bread.
"Wait." I close my eyes, trying to chase it. "Maybe... tomatoes? Or tomato sauce?”
"Pizza?"
"No. Not pizza." The image sharpens slightly. A table. Candlelight. A plate of pasta, red sauce, steam rising. "Pasta. With red sauce."
"Pasta's good," she says matter-of-factly. "Mama makes pasta sometimes. But not the red kind. We have the white kind with butter."
The memory, if that's what it is, fades before I can grasp it. But it was there. Something real. Something mine.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "I remembered something."
"See? You're not broken." She sits down cross-legged in the dirt, settling her rabbit in her lap. "What's your name?"
"I told you. I don't know."
"We have to call you something. Mama calls you 'the man in the barn,' but that's not a name."
"No, it's not."
She taps her finger against her lips, thinking hard. "Maybe you're a Stefano. Or a Damon. Or a..." She trails off, running out of names.
The names trigger nothing.
"Maybe," I say, because I don't know what else to say.
"Where do you live?"
"I don't know."
"Do you have a house?"
"I don't know."
"Do you have a dog?"
I shake my head, almost certain I don’t have a dog. "I don't think so."
She frowns. "You don't know a lot of things."
Despite everything, the pain, the fear, the blankness where my life should be, I almost smile.
“No. I don't.”
"It's okay." She leans forward, her expression serious. "Mama says sometimes people forget things when they're hurt. But they remember later. When they're better."
"I hope so."
"Do you have a little girl?"
The question catches me off guard. Do I? The thought of a child, my child, should trigger something, shouldn't it? Some recognition, some feeling?
But there's nothing.
"I don't think so," I say.
"Do you have a mama?"
"Everyone has a mama."
"But where's yours?"
"That is a good question."
She's quiet for a moment, swinging her rabbit by its ears. "It's scary. Not knowing things."
"Yes," I say quietly. "It is."
"I got lost once. In the market. I couldn't find Mama and I was really scared. But then she found me and it was okay." She looks up at me, her brown eyes earnest. "Maybe someone's looking for you too. To find you and make it okay. Don’t worry. They’ll find you."
The thought should be comforting. Instead, it fills me with a strange dread. What if someone is looking for me? What if they find me?
What if I don't want to be found?
"Maybe," I tell her.
"What happened to your face?"
I touch my swollen eye instinctively, wincing. "I got hurt."
"How?"
"I don't remember."
"Did you fall?"
"Maybe."
"From where?"
"A tree, maybe?"
"Mama says you have to stay in the barn," the girl says. "You’re not allowed in the house."
"I know."
"Why?"
"I’m a stranger. She needs to keep you safe."
"Are you dangerous?"
The question is so direct, so innocent, that I don't know how to answer. Am I dangerous? I don't feel dangerous. But I don't feel safe either.
"I don't think so," I admit. "Maybe."
She thinks about this, then shakes her head. "I don't think you're dangerous. Dangerous people are mean. You're not mean."
"How do you know?"
"Because you answered all my questions. Mean people tell you to go away." She tosses her rabbit into the air and catches it. "Mama will be mad if she finds me here."
"Very mad."
She doesn't seem particularly concerned. "I hope you remember your name."
"Me too."
"Maybe your name is Lupo. I wanted to name one of my chickens Lupo but Mama said no."
“Why?”
“Because the chicken was a girl and Lupo means wolf. Can I name you Lupo?”
"Lupo," I repeat slowly.
"Do you like it?"
"I... yes. Maybe."
She grins. "Okay. I'll tell Mama your name is Lupo."
I hear running footsteps. Then Isabella's voice, sharp with panic.
"Elena!"