Chapter 8 Elisa
Elisa
“He didn’t recognize you?!” asks Mamma, barely looking up from her hand of cards. She and Donatella left the party before I did, and I arrive home to find them playing burraco in the living room of the annex.
“Yes, but that’s not all!” I proclaim. Here I was, worried about how to break the ice. I should have broken the ice on his head. “He spoke to me so arrogantly, as if I were his servant. And then, thinking I couldn’t hear him, he called me a shrew.”
“Did he actually say that?” asks Donatella, perplexed.
“Not exactly,” I correct myself. “He said all I had going for me was my personality. Same thing.”
“You surprise me, dear,” she replies. “You’ve never cared about compliments or beauty standards. Why let this get to you?”
“I think most people would take it the same way.” I don’t know if I’m more hurt by his comment about my looks or by the fact that he didn’t remember me. I never forgot him. He’s in some of my favorite memories. “He made me feel like a nobody.”
“Who made you feel like a nobody?” Linda interjects as she appears in the kitchen. I thought she was already in bed.
“Nobody,” I snap back. Sooner or later, she’ll give me a heart attack. “Are you hungry, Little Cub? Do you want some biscotti?” I say, hoping to change the topic.
“No, I had some when we got back.”
Mamma lifts the cloth from the pan. “They’re the ones with chocolate chips that you like so much!” she insists.
“Okay, I’ll take two more,” Linda says, holding out her hand. Good thing my daughter didn’t inherit my metabolism.
Deep down, Mamma is happy to be able to feed my daughter. That’s how she shows her affection, by fattening people up. And boy did she show me a lot of affection.
“Hey, Little Cub, do you want to sleep in the big bed with me? We can watch a Ulisse rerun on Rai Storia.”
“I don’t feel like it,” she flatly dismisses me.
“Did you have fun at the party?” I ask. Dialogue with her is growing increasingly difficult.
“Yeah.”
“What did you and your friends do?”
“Nothing,” she replies, following what has by now become a script. “Okay, I’m going to bed.”
“Oh, Linda, I wanted to let you know there’s a new guest joining the Bingleys.”
“Michael D’Arcy,” she tells me.
“How did you know?” I ask her in surprise.
“Belvedere’s Facebook page. Everyone’s commenting on the photos from tonight.”
Good heavens, is there anything in this village that doesn’t enter the rumor mill in less than twenty seconds?
“Well, if you meet him, tell him you’re Donatella’s great-niece,” I say.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because . . . because . . . I don’t quite trust him.” It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s not a lie either. “Tell him your parents travel abroad a lot, and you stayed to study here in Italy.”
Linda shrugs. “Whatever.” In total indifference, she disappears up the stairs. I wait to hear her bedroom door close, then I turn to Donatella and Mamma. “You two as well: not a word to Michael, understand?”
“Elisa, that child is your spitting image. How do you plan to pretend she isn’t your daughter?” Donatella scolds me.
“He’s not exactly observant. After all, he didn’t even recognize me.”
“You’re so harsh,” says Mamma, who has always had a soft spot for Michael. “You’ve changed a lot over the years, and he has too. If Carlo hadn’t introduced me to him, I wouldn’t have recognized him either.”
“But he didn’t give you the cold shoulder,” I reply.
“The cold is great for anti-aging, dear. If the boiler at the villa actually worked, maybe we wouldn’t look so fabulous,” comments Donatella.
“I came looking for some female solidarity, but I see you’re all Team Michael, so I’m turning to my only source of consolation,” I announce, plucking a carton of ice cream from the freezer. “Good night, everyone.”
I go up to my room and throw myself on the bed to start shoveling my stracciatella. I don’t generally use food as an outlet, but tonight I need it. Plus it’s soy, and soy doesn’t count.
As a child I had weight problems. I liked to eat, especially junk food and especially between meals.
I’d have seconds for every course, and I never left the house without sweets in my pocket.
My fat rolls may have inspired tenderness, but I wasn’t doing myself any favors.
I had to straighten out and lose weight, if for nothing else than for my health.
Saying goodbye to bad habits was hard, but I’m proud of every pound I lost, of every inch I lost, of being able to run for more than a minute without collapsing on the ground panting, of living in a body that finally gives me one hundred percent.
I know I haven’t exactly become a top model—it was hardly the goal—my size 4 jeans are a tad too snug before my period, but when I look in the mirror, I can say I like myself.
I’ve learned to love myself, if not in the same way every day.
I feel affection for that clumsy, chubby teenager because she managed to discipline herself, and I don’t tolerate anyone making fun of her.
Not even Michael. Especially not Michael, because as kids he never, ever dared to comment on my appearance.
So what’s changed? How did he forget about me?
Instinctively, I grab my phone from the bedside table, and just like Giada, I start wandering around the room, looking for a signal. Nothing, as if we were in a submarine.
I go up to the dormer in the attic, which seems to be the only place blessed by Saint Telecom, and sit on the wooden windowsill with the phone pointed to the sky.
I type “Michael D’Arcy” in the search bar and click on the first result. It’s the About Us page of a London company, Saxton & D’Arcy, investment stuff, and under Michael’s photo, there’s the word partner. The bio summarizes his brilliant academic and work achievements, but I focus on his image.
He’s not disheveled like he was in tonight’s heat. He’s dazzling, with his brown hair artfully cascading over his forehead like he just got out of bed, the half smile of someone who knows he’s in the right place at the right time, and a tailored suit.
I find myself struggling to see my childhood friend’s face in his chiseled features, his sharp jaw, and his sculpted cheekbones, which are decidedly masculine and have nothing to do with Michael’s innocence as a child.
I focus on his eyes, on his changing irises that are still blue or green, depending on the light, always lit by a funny little spark, as if he were devising another prank to pull or holding a secret that, back then, he would have shared only with me.
This man has the same eyes as my Michael, but I wonder how much of him is left beyond that.
One thing is certain: A man like Michael hasn’t set foot in Belvedere for years, and in t-minus twenty-four hours, every mother and daughter in the village is certain to have him in their crosshairs.