1. Francesca
Istared at my phone looking at my mother’s number flashing on the screen. She had been calling for the past three weeks. We were supposed to have had coffee a few days ago, but I had been too tired to go out. Now, I didn’t have the courage to answer, nor did I have any excuses to refuse this encounter.
I covered my eyes as the white screen blinded me, depriving me of much-needed sleep. All I wanted to do was crawl back into the darkness that had cradled me gently and lovingly.
Why did she want to talk to me? It wasn’t like we had talked much in the past four years since I was married. I slapped the covers with both hands and groaned loudly, scaring Reginald, my five-month-old gray whippet, who had been sleeping beside me.
My mother wasn’t going to stop calling unless I answered her, and this time around I was actually curious enough to know what she had to say.
“Francesca,” came Mamma’s loud, smoker’s voice.
“Mamma.” I pinched my temple as a headache started to bloom. I shouldn’t have drunk all that wine last night.
Where were my pills?
“Che maleducata you have become, making me call you over and over again.” I threw the covers aside and left my bed. Where are those damn pills? I searched through the mess in my room, but the orange bottle was nowhere to be found. “It has been weeks, Francesca?— “
I put Mamma on speaker and continued my search as my mother rambled about how I was useless and how I couldn’t pick up the phone. It went on and on foran eternity and I tuned her out.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Mamma.” I stopped rummaging through the mess and gave her my attention. “You were saying how I’m such a bad daughter.”
“Oh, don’t be such a victim, Francesca,” said Mamma, who had just attacked me with her sharp words.
“Mamma, I am busy.” I pinched my nose, attempting to stave off the massive headache approaching. “I have stuff to do.” Like sleeping and staying locked in my apartment, reliving my traumatic past, while in the meantime, fighting a massive hangover, and probably drinking more wine to chase it off.
“Fifteen minutes, Francesca. I won’t take no for an answer. I would come to your house, but you haven”t given me your address, which is absurd. You should have come back home.”
“Mamma, we talked about this.” I sighed. That place hadn’t been home for years now. Ever since the day Donato sold me into marriage to a man I hated. I wasn’t going to step foot in that place ever again. “Meet me at Magnolia’s.” I caved.
When Mamma wanted something, she got it, she was stubborn that way. If I did not concede, she was going to make my life hell, and I wasn’t sure how many of her calls I could avoid.
I ended the call and thought about changing my clothes. Mamma would kill me if she saw me dressed in leggings and an oversized turtleneck sweatshirt. But I wasn’t in the mood to dress up. Dressing up meant I gave a damn, and right now, all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and watch my cooking shows for the rest of the day.
Instead, I threw on a wool dress that reached my knees—which happened to be the most modest piece I owned—put on some boots, and tried to tame my waves, which had been a messy bedhead for days. The fight resulted in a bun that barely held my hair.
Mamma would be displeased with my lack of presentability, but then again, why did I care? People were bound to judge me whether I wore a gown or walked around with a watermelon as a hat.
As always, Mamma was late, but it gave me some time to order a doughnut in peace without being told I was going to grow fat. I devoured my pastry; it was the first thing I had eaten since yesterday’s Jasmine tea.
A family of four sat beside me, and normally, I wouldn’t have paid attention, but I was so bored that I studied them for a while. The father, a tall dark-skinned man, stood to order while the mother, a beautiful dark-skinned woman with gorgeous, braided hair, sat down with her toddler and a baby in her arms.
The little boy sat on the chair, looking awfully small for it, but incredibly cute. His red, kid’s glasses made his brown eyes look large and filled with amazement as he shared some story with his mother, who, in turn, paid him attention as if her life depended on it.
As the father came back, he kissed his wife and then the sleeping baby in her arms. He settled himself on the chair near his son, and the four of them enjoyed their afternoon.
A tidal wave of sadness threatened to pull me under at that moment. It was so strong and violent that I had to look away to keep myself from being drowned by it. I had always dreamed of this. Of having a family of my own.
I wanted a family that would love me unconditionally. I wanted the kind of love that consumed every cell in my body and made me a hostage. A love that could withstand the storms and the seasons. But that hadn’t been what God had in store for me. He had other plans, and although it was hard to accept and understand, I was trying my best to accept life as it was.
Eventually, my mother walked in through the door; she was dressed impeccably in a gray tweed skirt suit, heels, and jewelry adorning her ears, neck, and wrists. It always struck me hard when I looked at her, it was like looking at an older version of me. We had the same blonde hair, the same dark blue eyes, same full lips, although mine still bore the ability to smile. Same thick brown brows, although Mamma preferred her’s thin.
She took the seat beside mine and inspected me from head to toe as she always did. Judging. “You look terrible.”
“Hi, Mother,” I greeted impatiently, standing to kiss her cheek.
“What is that?” She looked at Reginald who had woken up and was inspecting Mamma as she did him. While he was a pure-hearted soul and wagged his tail in earnest happiness, Mamma raised a well-trimmed brow and inspected him as though he were an alien.
“My baby,” I answered, patting his head and offering Reggie a motherly smile.
“You got a dog.” Her disapproval was palpable.
“Am I not allowed?”
“You should’ve gotten yourself knocked up, then you would have real babies to take care of.”
“Pleasant as always.” I had thought Mammawould have changed, but she was still the same bitter person that she had always been. Stupid me for thinking the time we spent apart would have softened her heart.
I couldn’t blame her; if I had been married to Donato Manci, I would be bitter, too. My marriage to Paolo had almost left me so.
“It’s the truth.” Mamma sipped on her coffee I had ordered for her.
“If you say so, Mamma.” I shrugged. Arguing with Domenica Manci was as tiresome as unpacking all those boxes in my apartment.
“How’s Marco?” I asked.
It had been four years since I had seen my baby brother, and I missed him terribly. Donato hadn’t allowed him to see me. Marco had always been my favorite person. I was ten years older than him, but even as a child, he understood me better than anyone else.
“Working with your father. They’ve been very busy lately.”
“He’s just a kid,” I complained.
“He has responsibilities. Marco is a man now. He’s ready to swear the Omerta, even Cassio says so.”
I choked on my coffee, the liquid burning my throat. My brother a Made Man? Marco was just a boy. My little boy. The one I had raised. He’s thirteen. Too young.
“Jesus, Francesca, you look like you have seen a ghost.”
Mamma wasn’t wrong. I felt like I had seen one. An icy shiver raced down my back and pebbled my skin. It wasn’t the first time I had heard that damning name but hearing it from Mamma’s lips with all that familiarity, brought back memories of my past.
A past I was still desperately trying to forget. Four years wasn’t enough to erase what had happened. It had been four years since Cassio Moretti tore my heart from my chest and stepped all over it, breaking it into a million pieces.
I hated that name.
“How are you?” The nature of her question surprised me, mainly because it wasn’t like her to ask those things.
“I’m tired, Mother. It has been a tiring couple of months.”
“Well then, it’s best we get this over with.”
Mother sat straight and took something from her purse. It was a manila envelope which she proceeded to shove toward me.
“What is that?” My hands were damp, so I wiped them on my dress.
“Open it.”Mamma’s vague response added to my unease.
“What, are you FBI or some shit like that, why the suspense?” I chuckled nervously trying to diminish the tension.
I reached for the manila envelope and opened it, picked up the black-and-white picture, and stared at it for a while trying my hardest to identify what it was. “Is someone pregnant?” It was the only response I could come up with.
“It’s a liver, Francesca.” Mamma snapped the picture from my fingers.
“Forgive me, I’m not graduated in Grey’s Anatomy.” Even though I’d watched a total of sixteen seasons until now.
“I have cancer.”
There was a long silence that followed. Mamma took the picture and shoved it inside the envelope and put it back into her purse, as though it had never been there to start with.
I waited for the other shoe to drop, for my mother to tell me this was a joke, but Mamma never joked. She had always gone straight for the kill, never sugar-coating things. I took one long look at her. Yes, she was skinny, but then she always had been. She was paler and a bit crestfallen, but she had been so ever since my older brother Savio died. But cancer, no, I couldn’t believe it.
“How long have you known?”
“Three months.” She answered, and I sucked in a deep breath.
“Does father know?”I questioned.
“Yes.” She said simply.
“Does Marco?”
“No, and it will remain that way. Your father does not wish for anyone else to know, he didn’t want me to tell you –
“Why not?” I raised my voice slightly, shoving my nails into the palm of my hand to keep the anger at bay.
“Mind your tone, Francesca.” She looked around embarrassed.
“Why are you telling me then? How have you been treating it? Have you been talking with your doctor? How far along? Is there a cure or some experiments?”
“Francesca, you are rambling. Take a deep breath.”
Suddenly, I was a little girl all over again seeking my mother’s comfort, but I wasn’t little anymore, I was a grown adult. There was no one to hold my hand and lead me through the darkness.
Guilt dug its claws into me, and it was painful. I pushed my nails into the palm of my hands—harder this time—and focused on that pain instead of the one growing in my chest. Mamma had been seeking my help, and I had ignored her. What kind of person did that? What a shitty daughter I was. It didn’t matter how estranged we were, I’d be there for her through it all.
“What do you need?” I sounded braver in my head, but the truth was, I was scared shitless of something happening to my mother.
“I have a doctor’s appointment next week –”
“So, it’s early stages?” My hopes got up. Stupid of me to do so because soon after, Mamma crushed it.
“I’m starting chemo. I’m at stage IV and he thinks, for now, chemo might work,” she answered like she was testing the words herself like she was now realizing the gravity of her diagnosis.
“Might?”
“It’s pretty advanced, Francesca.” Mamma sounded annoyed, but I realized it was just years of learning how to hide her feelings.
Mamma was scared.
My hands were clammy, and fire raced through my body. The wool dress I wore suddenly felt too suffocating. I dug my nails deeper into my palms trying to keep my emotions at bay.
Mamma had lived through so much; she has survived an abusive, cheating, husband. She survived being humiliated. She survived the loss of her son. She was going to survive this, too.
“I’ll be there.” I took my mother’s hand and gave it one hard squeeze.
When I arrived back at my apartment, I sat staring at the walls until they began to move, closing in on me. I was shaking all over. This couldn’t be happening. Hadn’t God ruined my life enough times already? What else could he take from me?
I headed to my room, opened my safe, and removed the last remaining Ziplock I had left. I’d made a promise three months ago to Marie and myself to never use drugs again, but my world was breaking, I was falling to my knees and there was no one to help me to my feet. I needed an escape. To run away.
I needed bliss.