22. In a Faraway Land of Fingertips and Atonement
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF FINGERTIPS AND ATONEMENT
C hiara Conti thought that when it rained, it just kept pouring. And then pouring some more. The nagging headache at her temples slithered down to the nape of her neck, where it settled for the day, making itself very comfortable all the while making Chiara want to just keep on weeping.
She’d cried when she woke up beside Vi—at her own inability to stop loving this woman whom she did not trust. Then she cried when Frankie waltzed right back into her life as if she’d never really left, and once again tried to establish the rules by which the entire game was to be played. Talk about eerily familiar events.
And now, as the camera flashed in front of her eyes over and over again, Chiara simply wanted to cry in pain, the headache leaving her listless and numb, while her bones felt so fragile that a feathered touch might shatter them.
The smile she gave Morag as she applied yet another layer of concealer under her throbbing eyes must have looked weak at best, because the older woman just shook her head and reached for something else to goop on top of the heaps of makeup already failing to hide her rough day.
The interviewer was back as well, and both she and Renate were running through a series of questions, venturing from the profound and serious to the shallow and funny, and Chiara was grateful that she didn’t have to speak. To her, the words were all a mixture of incomprehensible sounds.
And through it all, Vi was watching her with a look Chiara knew very well.
It was the concerned Vi Courtenay stare.
The one Chiara was familiar with from all those years ago, when the younger, less tortured version of Vi would be touchingly worried about Chiara forgetting to eat, or about her working way too late, or whatever else Chiara had found herself getting lost in.
“Perhaps we should take a break?” Vi’s voice broke Chiara’s reverie with the force of a hammer. She must have winced visibly, because a moment later, all eyes were on her, and Vi was suddenly so much closer, her gentle hands on Chiara’s shoulders, propping her up.
“Yeah, okay, I think we are finished for the day, people. Morag, we will start early tomorrow. I will text you the details. Chiara needs rest.”
The déjà vu—and why exactly was she having so many of them—was so strong, it made Chiara snort, which in turn made Vi’s eyes grow even more concerned as she simply pulled on Chiara’s arms and gently guided her up the stairs and all the way to her small apartment under the roof.
Perhaps under different circumstances, on a different day, Chiara would have been ashamed of the disarray, consisting of all her post-its and notebooks strewn across every available surface in her space. But as the saying went, today was not that day—and not those circumstances.
And what did it matter? Vi had been accepted into her sanctum sanctorum, where Chiara lived amongst constant alarms and reminders. One more glimpse inside wasn’t going to change Vi’s opinion of her.
Chiara smiled at her own thoughts chasing each other, even as Vi carefully deposited her on the cluttered sofa among several wedding magazines and swatches of paint that, months later, Chiara still hadn’t decided on, and hence her kitchen remained unpainted.
She’d get to them. She didn’t cook all that much these days.
Before she could venture down that road of asking herself why and make her temples explode with more pain at straining to think, Vi was back with a fistful of pills and a warm cup of something that turned out to be chamomile tea.
There was chamomile tea in her cabinets?
Another thought for another day. Chiara didn’t bother voicing it as she gently put the pills on her tongue one by one, sipping on the water Vi had seemed to produce out of nowhere and placed in her hand, cursing softly after each tablet made sure to get stuck in her throat.
Chewing them was out of the question. Even the thought of them powdering under her teeth made her shudder, and she downed the rest of the bottle in one big chug before reaching for the tea mug.
“Thank you.”
Vi rolled her eyes, and Chiara couldn’t suppress a frown.
“It’s the polite thing to say, Vi. You are being nice to me. I’m appropriately grateful.”
“You were very nice to me yesterday, when you made sure I got home in one piece and slept through the night.” Vi gingerly sat down on the coffee table in front of her.
The desire to rub her pained temples was strong, but she willed herself to finish whatever this conversation was going to lead them to.
“So this is a quid pro quo?”
Vi rolled her eyes again.
“Didn’t your mother teach you that if you do that too often, they’ll get stuck up there forever?”
As soon as she’d uttered the words, Chiara’s hand flew to her mouth, mortified by her lack of sensitivity and tact. “God, Vi, I’m so—”
Vi reached out, and shaking her head, tugged Chiara’s hand away from her face.
“No, neither my father nor my stepmother ever had to tell me that, because I’ve rarely allowed myself the gesture in their presence.
That would have meant being grounded and losing whatever privileges I had left at the time.
So I’m free to roll my eyes at you being silly. Now, tell me, how are you feeling?”
Chiara’s frown turned into a pout at Vi not even allowing her to apologize when she was being thoughtless.
“You’re so bossy.”
She sounded petulant and didn’t care that Vi was sitting there grinning at her lower lip sticking out. Chiara sighed and lifted a hand to the nape of her neck, kneading the taut muscles corded like ropes under her fingertips.
“I’ve been called worse, Chiara.” There was a smile in the corners of Vi’s mouth, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and Chiara felt compelled to tug on this thread of the conversation, even if she knew it wasn’t wise. Not after what she’d witnessed yesterday.
“Well, with a family like yours…”
The light in those wondrous eyes dimmed with such starkness and speed, Chiara gasped.
“Well, here’s me putting my foot into it twice in one day.” She tapped two fingers on her lip, thinking how to proceed. Except the truth was always more expedient. And she had fewer difficulties wielding it than any lies she ever could.
“Last night was a revelation, Vi. In more ways than one, and not just that you mumble rather endearingly in your sleep.”
Predictably, that made Vi’s smile appear again, and Chiara soldiered on, regretting now that she’d even waded into these accursed waters of Vi’s familial trauma.
“They were awful to you. Well, he was, since I don’t imagine you exist for her on this planet. I’m so sorry.”
Vi’s shoulders sagged before she drew a long breath and bit her lip. She looked like she was weighing the words, or even the decision of saying them at all. Chiara sat silently, counting in her head, feeling her heartbeat match the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Finally, after another measured breath that seemed to come from a place deeper than Vi’s chest, she spoke haltingly.
“I’ve cut them off.” The teeth bit harder into that plump lower lip, and Chiara felt her own throb in sympathy.
“After Paris.” A gulp and another sigh. “I’ve not seen them since.
And I don’t interact with them at all. I’ve been very careful to avoid them at all costs, no matter how…
” She trailed off, and Chiara had a distinct notion that the Courtenays had been making life unbearable for Vi, in spite of being away from her.
“So it was just a shock to see him.” The change to the singular pronoun wasn’t lost on Chiara. No, she herself didn’t know her father, but she understood love for one’s parent. Knew how deep it went. How unfair it was in most cases.
Something in Vi’s words pulled at her, tempting her to pry, to ask more.
After Paris… After what?
But with the continued overwhelming pain behind her eyes and at the base of her skull, everything felt murky. And one look at Vi told Chiara that, although she may be the one struggling with a migraine, she wasn’t the only one in pain.
And so she chose not to prod any further. Vi would either tell her more, or she wouldn’t.
As it was, Chiara had seen and heard enough to understand a few things. Others she did not, as the elusive thread of premonition once again simultaneously seemed close and far.
She chose to change the subject.
“By the way, in answer to your earlier question, I feel fine.”
Vi looked up, a speculative eyebrow in such contrast with the relaxing shoulders, Chiara wanted to laugh. She almost did.
“I have seen dead people who looked finer, Chiara.”
“My, no wonder all these Manhattan women are dying for you to get into their knickers, Vi, I mean the sweet talking alone…” Chiara waved her hand dismissively, but Vi simply caught it between hers and intertwined their fingers, stilling the motion entirely.
“This is the second time you’ve brought up my romantic exploits, and I sense perhaps you have some hangups about me not living like a nun for the past five years—”
Chiara swallowed hard.
“I don’t care how many women you’ve slept with, Vi—”
“Good, because it’s no one’s business but my own and that of the women everyone keeps throwing in my face.
” The steady rhythm of Vi’s voice was doing something to Chiara’s stomach.
Surely it must be anger. She was making Chiara really mad.
By flaunting it all in Chiara’s face… Yes, anger.
It was only anger she was feeling. Either that or the pills were making her nauseous.
And no, her vision was definitely not turning green at the edges.
She had no right, just because she had suddenly realized that she had feelings for Vi.