6. Giada
Giada
The front door closes, and the untouched croissant sits in the center of my plate.
The black card is cold between my palms. Luca said I may buy anything. He didn't name a limit or tell me what I owe him in return. He gave it to me after giving me a bedroom of my own, with a door I may lock. He gave me a marriage where sex requires my permission.
None of this fits.
Papa taught me that men provide what they want you to have, then collect payment. Mama taught me that a wife keeps her husband pleased so he doesn't examine her faults. My brothers taught me that asking for different treatment gives people a target.
Luca asked me to explain. He listened when I told him why I pulled away. He agreed to warn me before touching me. He listened to facts about tardigrades through most of breakfast. He laughed, but he wasn't laughing at me. When I asked if he wanted to learn more, he said yes.
He’ll stop saying yes when he’s lived with me longer. Once he’s learned how annoying I am.
People are often patient at first. When they get to nkow me better, their patience ends. Like with me family.
My oldest brother pinned my wrists beside my head when I was eleven.
The other sat on my legs and rubbed mashed eggplant over my lips, knowing the texture of it makes me gag.
I kept my mouth closed until he pinched my nose.
When I opened it for air, he shoved two fingers between my teeth and packed the eggplant against my tongue.
I vomited on his shirt. Papa and Mama laughed from the dining table. My brother slapped me for ruining his clothes.
At fourteen, the scrape of forks and knives at dinner became impossible. Papa kept cutting his meat against the plate so hard I covered my ears. He struck me across the mouth. My lip split, and blood ran onto my napkin. He made me sit there until everyone finished eating.
When a crowded party became unbearable, Mama locked me in the dark hall closet until morning.
Luca has known me for less than a day. That isn't long enough to hate me yet.
Susan removes Luca's coffee cup, carries it to the sideboard, and returns for his plate.
She reaches for my plate, pauses, and leaves it where it is. “Mrs. DiCenzo, were you not hungry this morning?”
My empty stomach cramps beneath my ribs. “I was hungry.”
Her gaze moves over the table. “Was there a problem with the food?”
There is no safe answer. If I say the eggs look wet, the fruit leaves juice on the plate, the yogurt has lumps, and the salmon fills the room with its odor, I’ll sound ungrateful. I was given a table full of choices. I can’t eat any of them.
“Everything looks very nice.”
Susan sets Luca's plate down. “It can look nice and not be right for you.”
I press the edge of the credit card Luca gave me into the pad of my thumb. “It was a generous breakfast.”
“That wasn't my question.” She keeps her volume low. “You don't have to answer, but I would rather make food you'll eat than keep guessing.”
The eggs shine in their serving dish. Looking at them makes me queasy.
“Certain foods don't work for me.”
Susan waits. She doesn't tell me not to be difficult. She doesn't list all the people who love to be offered the food in front of me. She stands beside the table and gives me time to answer.
“I can't swallow certain textures. Wet eggs are one. Yogurt with pieces in it is another. If fruit juice touches bread or meat, I can't eat the part it touched.”
“All right.”
I look at her apron. “I’m averse to strong odors. Fish in the morning is difficult.”
“What can you eat?”
“Plain toast, but it needs to be crisp. Scrambled eggs if they're cooked until they're dry. Bacon if it isn't soft. Apples without the peel. Bananas, but they can't have brown spots. Plain oatmeal, if there are no lumps.”
Each item gives her another chance to frown, to roll her eyes, to glare at me for being so difficult. She does none of these things.
“My grandson has similar issues with food,” she says. “His eggs have to be dry too. Come into the kitchen. We'll make a new plate.”
My stomach cramps again. “You don't mind?”
“No. Would you prefer toast and bacon, or eggs?”
Two choices, and both are safe. “Toast and bacon, please.”
“Crisp bacon?” Susan asks.
“Yes.”
She gathers the croissant and untouched plate. I follow her through a swinging door into a large kitchen with white counters and rows of copper pans. Susan opens a bread box, takes out a loaf, and places two slices in the toaster.
She lays bacon in a clean pan rather than taking pieces leftover from the breakfast platter.
There is no laughter or lecture or ridicule. I may like living here. I don’t know yet, but at least I’ll like some things about it.
“Please don't tell Luca I needed a special breakfast.”
The toaster releases two crisp slices. Susan puts them on a clean plate, far from the bacon grease. “Mr. DiCenzo was the one who insisted I ask.”