Chapter One
Echo
It’s called Lazarus Syndrome.
A term that means you’ve died, and even after failed resuscitation, your heart starts back up randomly.
That’s what the doctor told me– What he tried to explain so profusely.
That after my accident, my heart had stopped twice.
Once in the ambulance en route to the hospital, where I was revived, then a second time in the operating room. He had told me that after they’d tried to bring me back for five minutes, working their hardest to save me and my baby, they had given up. He had claimed they’d all stripped out of their bloody surgical scrubs and were on the way to break the news to my distraught husband when my heart started back up on its own.
Time of death: 10:52 PM
Time of third life: 11:03 PM
Whatever the correct term, I had managed to escape death again.
Would I say I’m lucky? Yes. Would I say that I’m cursed? Also, yes.
Others hadn’t been as lucky. Antonio had died at the scene of the accident. When the car had careened off the road, he’d been impaled by a fallen branch that shattered the windshield. Vlad’s left leg had been crushed between the passenger door and a different tree trunk, and the surgery to repair his leg had been over thirteen hours. Damiano informed me that he would need two more surgeries as well. Marco Jr. had been the most unscathed. He’d suffered some cuts and bruises, but nothing requiring an overnight stay at the hospital.
Though I had died twice, the worst of it was being alive.
There had been a piece of metal from the side rail that had gone through my side. My head had smashed against the window, causing a piece of glass to embed itself and cause internal bleeding in my brain. The cracked ribs and bruised leg had been the lightest of my injuries.
The baby hadn’t survived.
My baby.
Just when I’d released my breath and hoped that I could relish some semblance of everyday life and be as good a mother as I could, it had been snatched from me.
Once again, my life has been ripped from me in the cruelest of ways, leaving me here to sulk in my cowardice because I can’t end it– Because this undying rage has to be for a reason.
A knock on the master door brings me out of my thoughts. Tucked under the covers, I sit up and wait. The door opens a crack, and I smell the food before I see Viviana. A soft, empathetic smile spreads as she enters the room, closing the double doors behind her. Her caring gaze scans the room briefly for a sign of welcome, and when she doesn’t get one, she sighs.
She lifts the tray slightly, like an offering. “Ti porto il cibo.”
I don’t say anything in response. My eyes angle towards the tray she dropped off this morning that’s barely been touched.
Something about surviving when you’ve died isn’t appetizing.
I watch Viviana move to the oversized nightstand and stop when she looks down. She hasn’t said anything, but I can hear the chastising words that she’s forming. A little older than my mother would have been by now, she’s unsure where she needs to unblur the lines between caring and being formal.
I’m Echo to her, but also the future Don’s wife. In this ginormous mansion that feels like a prison, she was once my only solace. Now, I don’t even trust myself.
Frustrated, Viviana moves around to the other side of the bed. In the dark room, I watch as she places the tray next to me, bends down to grab the bed table, which is starting to collect dust, and opens it, putting the food on it near me. Her hands fall on her hips, exasperated. “Eat, Amorina. You’re going to get sick.”
I’m already sick. I don’t say the words out loud.
In truth, I haven’t heard my voice since I left the hospital, and then I only spoke to the doctor and nurses. I don’t want to talk to anyone or give anyone the impression that I have anything to say.
What can I say at this point?
Am I supposed to express that I’m ecstatic to be alive when so many people have died around me? Or are they expecting me to cry out because of everything that I’ve lost?
“I’m not leaving until you eat something.”
Viviana stares at me, the stern expression reminding me of a grandmother scorning me versus a mother or aunt. For the longest time, we don’t say anything. The stare-off that we’re having could end one of two ways, but at this point, she’s draining my energy by being in the room longer than usual.
To prove a point to her and to get her to leave, I reach for the table. Dragging it across the fluffy comforter worries me that I’ll spill something on it, then have to wait while one of the maids changes the bedding. Since moving in, I’ve never asked where the linen closet is or had to change the sheets myself.
Despite my shitty appetite, the food smells divine. I look down and see the extravagant chicken alfredo that Viviana made with a freshly baked roll. It’s been well over a month since I left the hospital and well over that since I lost my baby, but I still can’t help but think that I should feel nauseous. I still expect that awful feeling of queasiness to make its way up my throat, then assault me abruptly until I throw up everything.
I miss that feeling. I miss the knowledge that the sickening feeling was caused by the life I was growing inside me.
I hated every second of my pregnancy. I’d been angry that l had gotten pregnant so quickly. Of course, I had stupidly missed taking them a few times when I first moved in and hadn’t bothered the entire time we’d been in Italy, but I had thought that because I’d been even more careless as a teen with Aldo, I was okay.
I hadn’t wanted a baby until that night.
The same night I lost it.
Squarely looking at Viviana, I stab my fork into the plate and twist it around, then come up with a lot of pasta. She begins to protest when I shove it into my mouth and chew. The sauce leaks from the corners of my mouth, and I wipe it away with the napkin hanging on the side of the tray. It takes me longer than I want to chew and swallow it. Once I'm finished chewing, I push the table away and look at her.
“You are not the only one hurting, amorina, and you can’t stay in this room forever.”
Her voice is softer, gentler than it was a second ago. “You can’t be like this. Damiano – Mr. Bianchi, he’s hurting, too. You should see him. He’s a mess. His hair is overgrown, his beard is wild. He hasn’t slept in days.”
Would it be wrong of me to think that the least he deserves? I’m injured and bruised. My hair is shaved down on one side. The scar that was left from the stitches, though it’s small, still has an ugly, swollen section where I’m sure my hair will never grow back fully. I hemorrhaged, died twice, and lost my baby, but God and everything around forbid that Damiano miss a few nights of sleep.
No. It is the least he could get, and it’s the least he deserves.
Viviana continues. “He loves you, Ms. Echo. He loves you. And you two can get through this if you eat and take care of yourself. You just have to trust in God.”
God?
Isn’t he the one testing me? Clearly, it’s in my best interest to trust in an entity that thinks this is a valid test.
To appease her and make her think she’s won, I sip my water and then place the glass down. It takes a second to clear my throat since my vocal cords have barely been used. My eyes meet Viviana’s, and I hate the elation I see in them. I hate the hope she has from my actions.
“I ate something,”
I say my first words in what feels like forever. “Now get the fuck out.”