Chapter 3 Elena
E LENA
Mamma clutches Elena’s hand as if Elena might disappear if she let go. They’re sitting together on the threadbare brown couch in Mamma and Papà’s apartment with a neighbour squished in next to them.
Mamma stares at Elena. On the rare occasion they had video-chatted, Elena had manipulated the lighting to hide from Mamma how bad things had become. She’d also tried to hide as much of herself as she could behind Christian. He’d always been the one holding the phone. So the first time Mamma had really seen her in five years was when they’d turned up on her doorstep three hours ago.
‘You’ve changed,’ Mamma had gasped.
Elena hadn’t replied. Instead, she’d thrown herself into Mamma’s open arms and they haven’t let go of each other since.
The apartment is bursting with family and friends who are meeting Christian for the first time, and also seeing what has become of Elena. She avoids their eyes and looks around the apartment instead. Not much has changed. The old television still sits on a faded wooden crate, a single row of thin green tinsel draped across it. The lace terylene curtains are yellower than she remembers, covering the only small window in the room, which overlooks the narrow street. Mamma’s collection of decorated plates hang on either side of the window. Elena loves everything about this tiny, overcrowded space. She didn’t realise how she much missed being here.
They’d arrived in Venice late this morning, a thirty-two-hour trip. Elena had been desperate to come straight here to see Mamma after checking in at Il Cuore, but Christian had needed to sleep. He’d completed his final exam only hours before they’d boarded the flight from Sydney, and he’d slept for four hours straight as soon as his head had hit the pillow. Elena had lain there, agitated, waiting for him to wake up. In the end, it was Signora Bianchi’s screaming for help from the lobby that had woken him. In minutes he’d dressed and was running down the stairs.
Elena had still been taking in the scene, hadn’t even registered what was actually happening, when Christian had already jogged straight into the circle of people, elbowed them out of the way, rolled up his sleeves and launched into CPR on the old hotel owner.
Elena’s known her husband for six years but today was the first time she’d witnessed him in action. Christian had stayed with Signore Bianchi until the paramedics had everything under control, then he’d snuck away, ushering Elena quickly out of the hotel before he could even be thanked. Neither of them has mentioned anything about it to anyone here now at Mamma’s.
Elena’s cousin, Marta, in an impossibly low-cut top, is pushing her breasts out so far towards Christian’s face that Elena’s surprised Marta’s spine hasn’t snapped in two. Christian’s always had this effect on people. He’s deep in conversation now with Padre Alessandro, who’s come home all the way from the Vatican. Alessandro is a carbon copy of what he was like before Elena left for Sydney, around the same time he left for Rome. He’s still roguishly handsome with blond hair that flops over his blue-grey eyes, looking more like a Scandinavian model than an Italian Catholic priest.
Alessandro sneaks glances at her while Christian talks to him. She can’t bear the way everyone in here keeps doing that. How can she blame them? She’d stare too.
Elena lets the noise wash over her as she zones in on the Christmas tree. Sparsely decorated, it’s shorter than hip height and shunted off in the far corner of the room, like a shy guest. Colourful unwrapped gifts are stacked around it.
A memory sweeps in of a Christmas Day when she was a child and her brother, Paolo, was alive, when their home was still a place of fun and laughter. Papà had built a go-kart using a fruit crate from his little greengrocer shop. She had sat between Paolo’s legs and screamed with delight and terror, her hair flying in the wind, as Papà pushed them down the steep slope towards the piazza.
A thick layer of dust covers the floorboards around the tree. Of course Mamma hasn’t had time to clean while caring for Papà by herself these last months. Elena’s throat tightens. She squeezes Mamma’s hand.
There’s so much to say, but Papà has only been dead for four days and Elena can’t find the words yet. She’s still so raw in her grief, it’s like her skin has shed. A thousand sharp needles prickle her body all over.
The small talk continues around her, without her. The female relatives bustle about, going back and forth between the kitchen and the lounge, as organised as an army of ants, loading the fridge and table with food for the funeral tomorrow, setting out the crockery and cutlery. Elena’s offered to help but her aunts won’t hear of it. ‘Sit with Anna-Maria,’ they say. ‘She’s been all alone.’
The meaning of their words is clear. Your father was dying and you didn’t come home.
Elena doesn’t need her aunts to make her feel guilty. She already couldn’t feel worse about herself if she tried.
The playlist in her head is on a never-ending loop of guilt, regret, guilt, regret. Mamma had called her last month with the news that the treatment for Papà hadn’t worked, the cancer had spread. ‘They’ve given him a month, maybe two. It’s everywhere now – his lungs, his liver, his spine. I’m struggling to look after him. He’s so heavy, Elena. I have to lift him on and off the toilet on my own, shower him, dress him.’ Mamma’s voice broke.
‘What about your sisters?’ Elena asked. ‘Can’t they help?’
‘They do help. They come when they can. But they have their own families. I need someone here all the time.’ Mamma paused. ‘Come home, Elena. We need you.’
But Elena didn’t come home.
She shuts her eyes for a brief second and takes a breath.
The touch on her shoulder startles her.
‘You okay, babe?’ Christian’s at her side.
‘Yeah. Just tired.’
He strokes her hair. ‘Tell me when you’re ready to leave.’
‘A bit longer yet.’ She wants to escape the crowd, hide herself back in the hotel, but she isn’t ready to let go of Mamma, who’s aged decades in the five years since Elena’s wedding in Sydney.
Mamma’s once dark brown hair is now mostly grey, her face is deeply lined, she’s lost weight and looks much older than fifty-two. The customary mourning black she’s cloaked in ages her even more. A plain wool dress hangs off her, two sizes too big. She must have borrowed it from one of her sisters.
‘Do we really have to wear black tomorrow, Zia?’ Elena’s cousin Portia calls out across the room to Mamma.
‘Why are you asking her when I told you yes already?’ Zia Romina answers her.
‘Black’s so morbid though,’ Portia complains. ‘It’s supposed to be a celebration.’
‘A celebration?’ Zia Romina shouts. ‘A celebration of what exactly? It’s a funeral, not a carnival.’
‘A celebration of Zio’s life, Mamma!’ Portia matches her mother’s volume.
Zia Romina waves her arm in the air. ‘What life? The poor man is dead at fifty-nine, God rest his soul.’ She crosses herself.
‘In England everyone dresses in bright colours now for funerals,’ Portia persists.
‘If you love England so much, go and live there!’ Zia Romina is practically screeching now. ‘See how you like it, cooking and cleaning for yourself.’
Christian catches Elena’s eye and they exchange a quick smile. He doesn’t speak Italian, but anyone could sense the vibe.
Portia thankfully lets it go after that and Elena resumes her close inspection of the lounge room furniture. Zoning out is the only thing that’s keeping her together. If she lets herself think about how Papà is dead and how her life is a giant clusterfuck, she’ll fall apart. And she can’t allow herself do that. Today Mamma needs her, so Elena takes another deep breath and keeps smiling.
Zia Sonia, another of Mamma’s sisters, approaches the couch with a silver tray. She bends down to offer Mamma a slice of her special torta dea marantega. It’s tradition for Zia Sonia to bake a marantega cake big enough to feed the whole family every Christmas. Elena is struck by how profoundly her life has changed since she left Venice but everything here stays the same.
Mamma lets go of Elena’s hand to take a piece of the fruit cake. Elena feels every set of eyes in the room on her as Zia Sonia holds the tray to her. She shakes her head, no.
Mamma cups Elena’s cheek. ‘How did this happen to you?’ she whispers.
‘Things got out of control,’ Elena tells her truthfully. ‘I won’t stay this way, I promise.’
She looks up at Christian, who’s now entertaining a group of her cousins with the true story of how close they came to missing their flight when the Uber they were in ran out of petrol.
I won’t stay like this , Elena promises herself.