Chapter 27
With help from his family, Dante and Mira Barone set up a modest home about a half mile from Mira’s family.
His teacher’s salary provided all they needed.
Mira was accustomed to living frugally, and as she explained to Dante, part of her initiation into the life of a water woman had included proving she could hunt and fish with her hands and that she could tolerate hunger and thirst.
“I hope it won’t come down to hunger and thirst,” he joked.
All the same, as part of her daily routine of swimming and visiting the sea twice a day, Mira often gathered olives, pomegranates, and greens on her walks.
She dug for oysters, and they regularly ate fish, urchins, or crabs she caught for dinner.
She always took a net or short spear with her when she swam, and because she could hold her breath for so long, it was easy to catch supper.
The sea eagerly provided. The moon waxed and waned, and she and Dante settled into their cozy married routine.
Aside from the fishing and the evenings she spent at her own home, Mira’s life went on much the same at her mother’s byssus workshop.
She’d held out a small measure of hope that once she was married and out of the Mazza house, the two of them might grow closer, leaving their old roles behind, but it had been several years, and still her mother’s walls refused to crumble.
Since she’d taken the water oath, Zaneta had shown her the respect of a colleague, veiling her criticism when it came to working the byssus, but it was unhampered when it came to Mira’s personal life.
If Mira showed up in a good mood, humming or with a lightness to her steps from an evening well spent, her mother focused on her fingers while she wove, exhaling pointed, heavy sighs.
“Do you mind, Mira? This is a difficult pattern, and I need to concentrate. Quiet would be helpful. Or you can sing the weaving song.”
“Of course. Sorry, I didn’t realize I was doing it.”
“To be in such a fine temper, maybe you have some news?” she pressed.
“No news.” Mira shook her head, her voice bright. Always the same topic.
“The sooner the better.” Zaneta wagged a finger. “Daughters aren’t a guarantee. One of our line bore seven sons before a daughter came. Seven!”
“We’ll just have to give it time.”
“Don’t you want to start a family?” carped Zaneta.
It was Mira’s turn to sigh. “We have started a family. Dante and I are a family of two.” She couldn’t have this conversation again, not now. “I’ll be outside rinsing the thread.”
Mira’s tears fell into the acid wash, and she hoped the tiny bit of extra salt wouldn’t affect the mixture.
Two days prior came the unmistakable signs she was miscarrying—again.
It was the third, and with each one, she knew Dante grew more concerned, not that they might not have a child, though that would carry its own grief, but that she fell into such a deep and punishing sorrow each time.
No matter what he said, she wouldn’t believe it wasn’t her fault, that he was happy—more than happy—with their family of two.
On this island, in their culture, children were expected.
On summer evenings, families gathered around the supper table and lingered over the meal, and if you walked down the street, you could hear them through their open windows, talking, laughing, and drinking.
Mira loved that about Sant’Antioco—the boisterous chatter and the nonnas serving dish after dish of steaming seafood or pasta while children ran underfoot in the kitchen.
Her friend Carmina had married a boat captain a year after Mira and Dante had wed, and she already had a son in her nursery and was talking about having another soon.
Mira hadn’t told her about her own difficulty.
She hadn’t wanted to dampen Carmina’s happiness, and truthfully, they didn’t see each other as much as they used to anyway.
The bustle of her friend’s motherhood left little time for the leisurely talks over espresso they used to have.
Though Mira had gone out of her way to embroider beautiful pieces of byssus for Carmina’s baby and stop by with helpful meals after he was born, she was jealous; of course she was.
Seeing Carmina hold her small son stirred up such a longing in her that she could hardly stand to be in the same room with her friend.
Her arms ached to hold a child knit from parts of her and Dante, and she knew he would make such a kind and encouraging father.
She’d heard stories from the war times from farmers on the island.
Some said that after the house-to-house mosquito dustings, their livestock suffered.
Beehives emptied, and sheep failed to lamb.
Fish, they said, floated in some of the wetlands and were not as plentiful for several years after.
Mira was intimately familiar with nature, bound as she was to the sea.
More than once, she remembered her parents talking of the men pumping dust in their home, on their children—her.
Could that have anything to do with her difficulties?
The DDT had wiped out mosquito larvae. What had it done to the eggs she carried in her own body?
Mira wiped her tears and placed a wet hand on her abdomen, which throbbed with the familiar dull ache of emptiness and failure.
Dante had brought her hot tea in bed that morning and urged her to stay home, but Mira had refused, pretending she had bounced back, that she wasn’t shattered into pieces by a third loss.
How many more would there be? Was this a sign she would never conceive?
As her mother never stopped reminding her, the continuation of the line of water women demanded that she have a daughter.
If she couldn’t, the thread of master byssus weavers would break, and the disappointment of generations would fall solely on Mira’s shoulders.
The strain of such added pressure showed in the shadows that darkened under Mira’s eyes.
Zaneta acted like she was refusing to conceive on purpose, as if she wished for nothing but to be free to live a carefree, indulgent life.
Truthfully, Mira couldn’t bear to tell her mother the difficulty they’d been having.
She was sure it would be confirmation that she was the disappointment her mother had believed her to be all along.
She couldn’t withstand the added sting of her mother’s judgment on top of her own disappointment and sadness.
Mira had lost count of the number of women who had knocked on the workshop door over the years, worry etched into their faces.
So many came for a blessing, a prayer, a token of byssus to wear for fertility and good fortune; for healthy pregnancies and deliveries; for sons, twins, daughters.
Some, like her, must have also struggled.
Sometimes, as she or her mother wrapped their wrist with a byssus bracelet and offered a blessing, their lips would tremble and tears would brim.
She wasn’t the only one who’d miscarried, who longed to carry a child but couldn’t, but she thought she must be the only one who couldn’t share it.
Who would want to come to a water woman for such a gift if she wasn’t able to help herself?
Mira had been surrounded by such golden tokens her whole life, yet they seemed to bear no luck for her, no blessings.
Still, she dutifully walked to the shore twice a day to offer her life and her prayers in service and peace.
She tried to mask her want, to pretend it hadn’t crept in like a fog and fanned out inside her to fill every hidden corner, as if she could perhaps fool the universe into believing that if a child didn’t mean so much, it would be merely a small shower of blessing to grant her heart’s desire, easily done.
It occurred to Mira that, besides the ring from the water oath, she’d never actually received a gift of byssus, not in the way those had who had come to their door.
The water oath forbade her to use byssus for personal gain, and since it could only be given or received, she couldn’t very well give it to herself.
While she easily granted the priceless treasure to others, only one person alive could present it to Mira, and apparently, she had not thought to do so.
Mira couldn’t bring herself to ask Zaneta for such a thing.
If there was anything she possibly wanted more than a child, it was her mother’s understanding, the sort Mira had watched her give freely to others all her life.
Why was it so hard for Zaneta to love her?
Mira couldn’t bear facing her mother’s refusal, not for this, not when it proved she was unreliable for continuing their line.