Chapter 31
Those first weeks and months with the baby blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and endless feeding, napping, and crying—for both Mira and Daniella.
When the days stretched longer and warmed, Mira spent as much time as possible outdoors, walking along the shore, pointing out creatures in tide pools, soaking in the salt and spray from the ocean and the warmth from the sun that seemed to renew her from a bone-deep place.
She let Daniella splash her toes in the sea and pat the sand with her chubby hands.
Squinting against the brightness, the tiny girl laughed at the birds and the waves.
Gradually, the days fell into a rhythm where Mira slipped out early to sing and pray on the rocks as the sun rose across the sea.
If there was time, she’d swim and check on the mollusks in the lagoon and walk back to the house, where Dante would be feeding Daniella a breakfast of scrambled eggs and fruit.
After he left for school, Mira took her daughter to the studio and let her play in a sunny spot under the window while she spun or wove or mixed dyes.
All the while, she sang the byssus songs in all their languages so that Daniella’s ears would know them as her own.
She chatted and narrated her work, the loom projecting great shadows on the wall as its bars clicked and moved.
Daniella was spellbound by the shadows and the way they flickered in and out of the light, and she’d gaze at them until she fell asleep.
Their island was changing. With the warmer weather, more and more tourists showed up at the port, poking around in the few shops, crowding the reliable local cafés to the point that the families who lived there were no longer guaranteed a table.
Small inns and seasonal businesses sprang up along the coastline, catering to tourists and the lire they brought to local pockets.
Mira preferred to stay home or wander her secret spots along the shore when fewer people were likely to intrude.
Dante liked the extra bustle, though, and he’d stop in town on his way home from teaching to catch the latest news and meet people from interesting places.
Recently, he’d come home excited to have met a team of archaeologists from a university in Roma.
They were collaborating with other universities to excavate and study the Bronze Age nuragic ruins on the island.
So little was known about the odd beehive-shaped structures and the people who’d lived there, and the team had been eager to hire locals to map out the area.
They’d already begun staking out digs. Sardegna’s regional government was certain the extra buzz would mean more visitors, drawn by the unique area.
“Perhaps so,” she’d said. “Is that all anyone wants now? More people, more lire?”
“More people to admire the byssus,” he countered.
“It’s not something to be sold.”
“Not to sell. To learn about.”
Mira had twisted her mouth. She wasn’t sure about that.
It wasn’t like they kept their byssus work a secret, but displaying it to people who would think of it as a souvenir seemed to cheapen it somehow.
She thought of the pescatore families she’d known all her life.
Some of the younger sons had started offering fishing trips to tourists, letting them pull in octopus traps or hook a dorado or tuna.
She’d seen them posing for their fancy Kodaks at the quay, holding their catch up as they grinned from ear to ear, and it made her sad, somehow.
It felt like auctioning their craft and knowledge to the highest bidder. She and Dante discussed it often.
“Is the alternative better? The rest of the world progressing while families here work so hard in the mines or the sea just to scrape by?”
“It may be that we’ll all eventually have to get on the train,” she admitted. “But I’ll probably be in the caboose, looking back at what we’re leaving behind.”
“Fair enough, love,” he said, kissing her on top of her head. “I’m just as happy to stay here with you on the shore, waving as the train goes by.”
At least twice a week, sometimes more, Mira would answer a knock at the door to find her mother, who happened to be passing by and thought to deliver an extra spool, or some thread ready for weaving, or some other equally flimsy excuse to see Daniella.
Mira was cautiously glad of it—at least they were speaking, and she noticed that for the privilege of spending time with her granddaughter, her mother seemed capable of withholding criticism, at least for an hour or so at a stretch.
Probably because when Daniella was present, Mira dissolved into invisibility.
Zaneta breezed into her home or studio with a glance and a greeting, her eyes combing the usual spots for Daniella—her baby seat, the braided rug in the living room, Mira’s arms. After that, all conversation was directed to Daniella: “Tell Mamma you want to come to Nonna. That’s it, dear.
” Before Daniella reached six months old, Zaneta had given her granddaughter byssus bracelets and tiny rings, embroidered pillows, and dainty bonnets.
“She’s turned into someone I don’t even know,” Mira mentioned to Dante one night over dinner. “Daniella could reach for one of the fish on her mobile, and my mother would act like she’d landed on the moon.”
Dante was careful with his words. “Isn’t it—good—that she praises her granddaughter?”
“Well, I guess,” she conceded. Mira tore a hunk of bread from the challah loaf and dipped it in olive oil. “But I could weave the Mona Lisa in gold and she wouldn’t bat an eye. Daniella manages to clap her hands, and the angels come down from heaven.”
“It sounds like—”
“Don’t even say it, Dante. I know where you’re going.
I’m not jealous of my own daughter. I did manage to give birth to her, though, and I’m not totally failing at raising her.
And I’m still carrying all the responsibilities of a water woman.
” As she spoke, she gestured with her hands, splattering drops of oil on the table.
Dante captured one of her hands as it fluttered. “I haven’t told you enough how amazing you are at balancing everything, have I? How your daughter and I both appreciate you and all you do?”
“It’s not that. I just wish . . .”
“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “Maybe the only way she can say it to you is by doubling up on the baby. It’s like another chance to love a version of you all over again, better this time.”
“It comes naturally for me with Daniella. Why is it so hard for her with me?”
Dante shook his head and spread his hands. “I love you.”
Mira softened. “Despite all my crazy.”
Daniella banged a spoon on her tray and shrieked. Dante clasped a hand to his heart in feigned shock and mimicked Zaneta’s voice. “Will you look at that, Mira? She’s clearly a musical prodigy.”
Mira laughed and threw a bite of bread at him. “She can sing while she weaves.” She wiped Daniella’s hands and face and lifted her out of her seat. “Shall we go for a walk on the beach before bedtime?” she cooed. “Time to go give our song to the sea, my sweet.”
Daniella rubbed her eyes with her fists and yawned. “I can keep her here if she’s too sleepy,” offered Dante.
Mira threw a shawl over her shoulders and tucked a blanket around Daniella. “Nonsense. She wants to go to the shore. We always do, and she can fall asleep on the way home.”
One rainy afternoon in September, when the usually blue sky was covered by a blanket of white and gray clouds, Mira strapped the baby to her chest and set off for a walk along the shore.
She’d made sure to wrap Daniella snugly to keep the cooler breeze from giving her a chill.
She laughed at the way Daniella stretched her small hands up toward the open umbrella she carried.
The child seemed determined to touch this strange new roof that spun round in circles.
Mira didn’t have a destination. She simply loved being outdoors, no matter the weather.
Her feet brought her to the familiar cove where she came each morning, but this time she kept walking.
“Where shall we go, Dani? Up the shore? Do you think we can find some flamingos?”
Her daughter seemed to consider the question and babbled back in imitation, one hand gesturing as if making a point.
Mira laughed. She saw so much of herself in Daniella, even down to mannerisms like this.
It’s funny, she thought, how parents search so intently to find themselves in their children, from the moment they’re born.
She has her mother’s eyes, her father’s chin.
See how she walks? It’s just like her father.
How she smiles with those dimples? Her mother’s likeness exactly.
She’d done it herself on many occasions.
She wondered what her own mother had made of her.
Had she found any similarities between them?
Had she noticed her black curls or her tendency to chew the inside of her lip when she wove and seen it as confirmation that, yes, this one is mine?
When they stood together, people sometimes remarked that they saw the resemblance, but if it hadn’t been for the byssus, she wondered if anyone would know she was Zaneta’s daughter.
Her friend Carmina had shaken her head more than once, bewildered that Mira could be so different from her mother.
Mira was kind, she’d said, and easy to talk to, an encourager and fun to be with, but a friend had to say such things, didn’t she?
Mira brushed the top of Daniella’s head with her hand as the rain fell harder.
The wonder of her existence still struck Mira with a forceful blow sometimes, this child they never thought they’d have.
She and Dante had stood over her last night as she’d slept, sharing whispered thoughts about their daughter.