14. Trouble Ahead
TROUBLE AHEAD
Isabella’s concerned gaze follows me from the kitchen to the living room couch and back to the kitchen once I realize I forgot a spoon.
I sit back down on the couch, placing a pillow on my lap as a makeshift table for my bowl of yogurt and granola, staring blankly at the television. It’s turned off, so I can see my haggard reflection on the black screen.
I’ve slept poorly the past couple of weeks. I stare at the ceiling, or at the pillow next to mine, or at the phones next to the glass of water I bring to bed every night. Sometimes, salt stings my eyes; sometimes, they burn with exhaustion.
I called him when I returned home. Full of resolve and indignation, planning to politely demand an explanation.
Lev didn’t answer. It didn’t even ring, simply went straight to automated voicemail. Since I’d never called him before, I had no idea if that was normal.
He hasn’t called back. Hasn’t texted since.
And … I know.
I can’t pinpoint why I’m so certain, but I am. That was it. The last time I’ll ever see him.
A small part of me is grateful for the conclusion.
How many times did I tell myself that it needed to end?
That it was unhealthy and ridiculous, disrupting my life to accommodate his visits?
Ending relationships and lying to Isabella and foolishly hoping he’d be in bed when I woke up?
He couldn’t have been clearer about what we were—or weren’t.
Some of him was better than none, and now he’s taken that too.
Most of me is devastated.
“That cereal is full of sugar,” Isabella calls from the kitchen. “And you should eat less dairy, like your friend Lola. I will make you some avocado toast.”
My lack of appetite has nothing to do with what I prepared for breakfast, but I don’t argue with Isabella.
I know I should eat something, that this cloud of grief will linger as long as I allow it to.
It feels like someone died, which is overly dramatic yet entirely accurate.
I canceled the past two Sunday brunches with Lola, worried she’d bring “Mr. Lincoln” up, and have barely left the apartment for anything not necessitated by my job.
Months of practice have paid off because I know the pieces well enough that my distraction doesn’t matter.
That, too, feels like a hollow accomplishment.
“Here.” Isabella replaces the untouched bowl with a healthier breakfast a couple of minutes later.
She does most of the cooking, both because my culinary abilities are fairly limited and because she follows a strict diet due to her diabetes.
“Thank you,” I say, attempting to inject some emotion into my voice.
I must not succeed because Isabella frowns at me. “Do you need to see a doctor?”
“No, I’m … I’m fine. Weird mood, is all.”
Truthfully, I’m thoroughly unsettled by how boring the remainder of my life looks.
I only saw Lev a few times a year. It’s ridiculous an absence of those random nights should feel like any disruption in routine.
It wasn’t just those nights though. It was the anticipation.
The time spent deciding what I’d wear and deciding which parts of my life to share.
Suddenly, it feels as though I have little to look forward to in the foreseeable future.
I take a small bite of toast. It’s exactly how I prefer—splashed with lemon juice and sprinkled with salt. I hum an exaggerated, “Mmmm,” hoping it’ll reassure the woman who raised me.
It seems to work. Isabella smiles before she takes a seat beside me on the couch.
“Your father called earlier.”
I stiffen automatically, sensing I won’t like what’s coming next.
“He would like you to come home sooner than planned. For an important event he is hosting.”
Home. What an absurd word to describe a place I spend one week a year.
Almost as ridiculous as remaining in love with a man I’ll never see again.
“I can’t just leave. I’m first chair now.”
“He was insistent, Carina.” Isabella’s voice holds a hint of warning.
He might be my deadbeat dad, but Salvatore Caruso is her boss. And a powerful man, accustomed to being accommodated.
My trips home normally coincide with some sort of event.
But that’s primarily so I have something to do while my father attends to more important matters.
I’m far from a prized member of the guest list—only a handful of attendees know who I am.
Adjusting my entire schedule so I can sulk in a corner holds no appeal.
Yet I know that’s exactly what will happen. My independence in Chicago is a facade. Salvatore pays for everything. No matter how much Isabella cares for me, her allegiance is to him.
Choice is a luxury. I know that as well as she does. If Salvatore is insisting we—I—visit sooner, that’s exactly what will happen.
“I’ll take care of it,” I state.
She squeezes my arm before standing. “We leave June 10.”
I force a smile, searching for a silver lining. “You’ll see your family sooner.”
Isabella’s sister and parents still reside in Sicily. She left everything she knew to raise me and chose to remain after I turned eighteen and started college. She claimed it was where she preferred living after so long, but I know she does consider Italy to be home.
I never have. When I was younger, I’d prepare fastidiously for the visits, practicing my Italian and violin until my voice was hoarse and my fingers cramped.
Flawless pronunciation never impressed my father.
Neither did a complex sonata. I drifted into resentment, then apathy, and landed on bitterness.
I go, and I smile, and I count down the seconds until I’m back in Chicago.
Except now I have even less to return to.
“You are my family too.” She points at the toast I’ve only taken one bite of before standing. “Eat. I have a session.”
Isabella tutors Italian. She also volunteers at a local homeless shelter and at the Catholic church down the street.
She’s a saint, in every sense. She took a check and a newborn, boarded the next flight to America, and did everything she could to make my life feel less like an orphan’s.
For my father’s many flaws, I’ll forever be grateful he chose her to be my surrogate parent.
Once Isabella leaves, I finish my toast and clean the dirty dishes. Since Isabella does most of the cooking, I try to pick up the slack on other household chores. I dust and vacuum my way through the apartment, then start a load of laundry. By the time the washer starts spinning, I’m sweating.
I decide to go for a swim. The pool on the rooftop is enclosed and heated, open year-round. Empty when the elevator doors open, since most building tenants work high-powered jobs to afford the rent.
I dive in and start swimming laps.
Trying—and failing—to not think about the boy who taught me this stroke.