by Prosecco
I smiled, wondering how many times over the years it was Savvy comforting me, rather than the other way around. Even though she was the kid with the rock-star mum and the loser DJ boyfriend for all those years, it was always me who seemed to have the drama.
‘I don’t want to talk about me any more,’ I said, looking at the sun reflecting off the water. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, certain it was going to get burnt. ‘Tell me about your life. How’s Barcelona? How’s Milo?’
‘He’s good. We’re good. I’m learning a lot at La Cocina, Milo’s almost finished his business course. We’re thinking about moving on soon.’
‘Back home?’ I said hopefully, way too desperate.
‘Uh… we were thinking Prague.’
‘Prague? Wow!’ I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice, but failed.
‘We were… we were going to do a tour for a while, try different food, collect ideas. We’re thinking of opening a bar. We’ve saved up enough to hop around for a while until we put down roots. And Mum left me a little to start up the venture when we’re ready.’
I felt the disappointment settle like a weight on my chest. I plastered a smile on my face, because even if my best friend couldn’t see me, she could hear it in my voice.
‘Babe, that’s great. You should travel, you never got to see much before.’
There was silence.
‘Sav?’ I asked.
‘You know I’ll be there when the time comes, right?’ Her voice was calm and kind, and exactly what I needed.
‘I do.’
‘Hang in there, petal, you’re doing what he asked of you. Be proud of yourself. I love you. I’ve got to go to class.’
‘Love you, too. Say hi to the hot bartender.’
Her laughter was light. ‘Will do.’
I felt marginally better. I had one person, at least, that I could be myself with. Not this fake, angry, spiky version of myself. The version that pushed people away and treated them like crap.
And then the earth shook.
I felt the perch beneath me jolt, still, and then jolt again.
I looked around, confused, and saw the tourists on the beach stand up, looking at each other in surprise. They lifted their sunglasses up, peered towards the town in shock. But they couldn’t see what I could see from my vantage point: the church at the top of the hill collapsing. It shuddered and swayed before it disappeared from sight.
I ran.
Chapter Fourteen
Savvy always told me I run towards destruction, craving danger, but this was the first time I ever literally headed straight for it.
That church always had visitors, from the tourists who loved the quiet, peaceful setting, or the priest who I always saw in the cafe in the afternoon, enjoying his bruschetta and peanuts.
I ran past the waitress I recognized from the cafe, who was trying to comfort some sightseers – they were panicking slightly as they insisted on paying for their ice creams before hurrying back to their bus.
There hadn’t been an earthquake on Ischia for years – the story about the imprisoned demon beneath the earth, desperate to get free, flashed briefly through my mind now. I had always thought those stories were comforting, providing reason in a world full of catastrophes and surprises. But looking around at the faces of the locals, unsure of what to do… it was clear those stories meant very little. They sold magnets and brought joy to bored children walking around museums; they didn’t tell you what to do when your home started falling apart.
I leapt up the steps to the church, taking two at a time. When I reached the partially collapsed entrance, there were already men helping people out, dust enveloping the streets. Children cried and screamed.
I followed around the side of the church, remembering how it led to a secret little garden area, where sometimes the local kids would play, or elderly men and women would sit quietly, enjoying the peace, and vibrant flowers. Salvatore had pointed it out, on our walk down the hill one night.
The entrance to it had gone, blocked by dangerously teetering rubble topped with one of the huge stones of the church. The stone was huge – if that had fallen on someone… I couldn’t imagine.
I attempted to slide underneath, but worried about aftershocks. Instead, I clambered over the top, reaching for a nearby tree branch to keep me steady as I jumped down into the garden.
‘Hello?’ I called out as I stumbled forward, trying to see through the dust. Why hadn’t I picked up any Italian by now? Surely ‘Ciao’ would not be the right thing to yell when you were worried someone was in danger? I shook the stupid thoughts away and focused on looking through the dust.
A shriek came from near my right: a panicked mother was holding her baby close to her, a dark, curly-haired toddler clutching her leg.
‘Are you okay?’ I knew she couldn’t understand me, but she looked relieved, grasping my hand firmly. She was only young, her dark hair now covered in dust, and I led her over to the entrance, holding the kids whilst she climbed up, then passing them over. She nodded, crying her thanks, and then pointed back into the wreckage. I pointed too, tilting my head. There was someone else?
She pointed again, insistent. We didn’t really need language at this point. I nodded and jumped back down, walking around the edge of the garden carefully, tripping over fallen bricks. There were pieces of glass, and when I looked up to the collapsed side of the church, I saw that a stained-glass window had disintegrated, the smashed pieces glinting on the ground.
‘Hello? Hello?’
I heard moaning, and tried to trace the noise over the fire engines and ambulance sirens in the distance, the sounds of men yelling around the front of the building.
‘Hello?’
I heard the yelp more clearly this time. It was easier to get down on my hands and knees and clamber carefully through the rubble to check the ground.
I found him curled up on his side. For a moment I thought it was Antonio, but it was another old man, wearing a light shirt. A piece of stone had trapped him, but thankfully the weight of it was on the bench on which he must have been sitting when the earthquake hit. I could only hope his leg wasn’t badly hurt under the rock.
There were scratches on his arm from the shattered glass and I squeezed his hand. ‘I’m here, I’m getting help.’
He croaked out something, and squeezed my hand back. There was no way I would be able to lift that piece of stone by myself, not without hurting him even more. I stood and clambered back to the entrance.
‘I need help!’ I yelled, standing on the big boulder, waving my hands. ‘There’s someone trapped!’
I didn’t think anyone heard me over the din of the sirens and shouting and crying but, suddenly he was there. He ran towards danger too.
Salvatore’s hair was plastered to his head with sweat, and there was blood on his shirt.
‘You’re okay?’ His eyes scanned me, looking for any signs of damage.
‘I’m fine – there’s an old man back there.’
‘Where?’
I led the way, back to the end of the garden. ‘We need to lift the stone, but I couldn’t do it alone.’
Salvatore nodded, assessing the lie of the stone. ‘If we move it back, it’s safer than one of us trying to hold it up and the other one dragging him out. We could cause more damage,’ Salvatore said simply. ‘On three. One, two, three…’ We lifted and pushed, and I felt something twinge in my back, nearly snapping but not quite. I gritted my teeth, and, in a few moments, we had pushed the stone back, toppling it over the bench and sending it into the flower beds behind.
Salvatore bent over the man and spoke in rapid Italian, his voice sharp and loud.
I put a hand on his back. ‘Slower. He’ll be in shock. Speak slowly, but loudly. Try to be comforting.’ I took the man’s hand and squeezed again, and he squeezed back, saying something to Salvatore, who laughed, expelling air sharply.
‘What?’ I asked. ‘Is he okay?’
‘He says it was worth
it for a pretty girl to hold his hand, the old flirt.’ Salvatore rolled his eyes and started talking to the man again, checking different parts of his body for injury.
The old man waved him away like it didn’t matter, making to get up until I stopped him. I pointed at his ankle, which sat at a strange, uncomfortable angle against the ground.
Salvatore winced, and the old man looked down and muttered to himself.
‘Should we get a stretcher? He won’t be able to climb back out,’ I said, and Salvatore nodded.
* * *
We worked silently side by side for the next few hours. It became apparent that the damage was just in the centre of the village. There had been a few minor injuries but, thankfully, no one was seriously hurt. The church looked so sad, a broken symbol – the shattered glass, dust and cracked stone an eyesore, an offence to the people of the town who loved it.
I left Salvatore talking to a group of paramedics, explaining different injuries. I realized there was nothing left for me to do. I had done what I could. And I was grateful that I had given something back to the island.
He looked over at me as I started to leave, nodding gravely. I nodded back. Then he turned back to his conversation. It was better that way. There were bigger issues at hand than hurt feelings and misplaced lust. I paused to look at him though, his hair peppered with dust, his shirt now hanging raggedly off him, untucked and stained. He was in control, in his element: taking care of people, sorting things out.
I took one last look at him, a mental goodbye. I had to go home. I didn’t care what Dad had to say about it. It was time to go.
As I trudged back down to the house, pure bone-weariness enveloped me. Had it only been a couple of hours ago that I had snapped at my family, shouted at my grandmother and sent Salvatore away? And how fucking silly did all of that seem now? People had lost their homes. Children had been terrified. I had been terrified.
When I walked through the door, I felt faint with exhaustion. I had a faint, shaky feeling that might have been shock.
‘Mia!’ Allegra launched herself at me, pulling me into a hug, rocking me back and forth like a child. ‘We were worried about you! You didn’t answer your phone.’ She stood back from me at arm’s length, taking in my torn and crumpled clothes, my dust-matted hair. ‘What happened to you?’
I disentangled myself and pulled the phone out of my pocket. Sure enough there were tens of calls and messages.
‘Sorry, I was helping, at the church, and I just didn’t think. Are you all okay?’
Allegra nodded. ‘Nikki went to help at the hospital, just in case. This hasn’t happened in a long time… I’m so glad you’re okay! We were worried!’
‘After the way I acted this morning, I deserved to have a building fall on my head,’ I snorted, collapsing onto the sofa.
‘Don’t say such a thing!’ Allegra swiped at my knee, half-heartedly. ‘I’ll make you some lunch. I’m going to send some food over to the families near the church.’
I stared at a spot on the wall, willing myself to get up and have a shower. Allegra kept calling out from the kitchen, letting me know what she was doing, asking if I wanted bread, how hungry I was, how I would feel better once I’d eaten.
I let her voice wash over me as I just sat there, doing nothing. All I could think of was the horrible things I had said that morning, how easy it was for me to be sharp and cold. How it was natural for me to be unkind to people I cared about, just because I was hurting.
An hour passed, and a bowl of fettuccine still sat in front of me, untouched, when Nikki came in and collapsed on the sofa next to me.
Nikki looked at the bowl of pasta. ‘Mama trying to feed you? She panic cooks. Makes her feel better.’
‘You want it? I can’t face it.’
She shook her head.
‘Was it crazy at the hospital?’ I asked, eyes aching. I closed them as I listened to her voice.
‘No, just a few people. No one went into labour, so I wasn’t much use. They sent me home.’ Her voice was soft and quiet.
We sat next to each other in silence, leaning back into the soft cushions. I felt myself hovering on the edge of sleep.
‘What happened this morning?’ Nikki asked suddenly, softly. ‘Are you not happy to be here? You want to go home?’
‘It’s not that.’
I said nothing, and Nikki nudged me with her elbow, wearily and pathetically slowly. I opened my eyes and turned to face my cousin, meeting her large, dark eyes.
‘Okay,’ I said. And told her. I told her everything. I told her how I could barely remember my mother, and this place had been a wonderful gift. I told her my dad was dying and he’d sent me away. That he’d married a ridiculously young woman who couldn’t seem to deal with the things she had been so insistent upon. That I was grouchy and irritable and annoyed. That the sheer unfairness of everything got to me, over and over, until I pushed everyone away. That I couldn’t talk about any of this, that I couldn’t bear to think about the fact that I was just sitting here, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for my father to die. I told her that I’d meant to be an archaeologist, but I’d not even tried to make it into a career. I told her that Salvatore was beginning to feel things that would be wasted on me, and it was easier to push him away.
‘Why didn’t you just tell him the truth?’ she asked simply.
‘Because I didn’t want to see that look of pity in his eyes. I didn’t want to relive it. I didn’t want to think.’
Nikki paused. ‘That’s dumb.’
‘Well, yeah, maybe. But you wouldn’t want everyone knowing your business, would you?’
Nikki laughed. ‘My boyfriend has proposed to me in public every couple of weeks for the last few years. I live in the same tiny town I was born in. Everyone always knows my business. And that’s why I always have people to support me when I need it.’
I shrugged, settling back in the sofa again.
‘Wait!’ Nikki yelped. ‘You’re telling me Mama knew about this, and didn’t tell me? That woman can’t keep a secret. This changes everything.’
I snorted with laughter, and my cousin placed a hand on mine. ‘It’ll be okay, Mia. It’s all going to be okay.’
We fell asleep like that, in the same way I imagined we might have if we’d grown up together, two children holding hands as they napped on the sofa after a hard day. I smiled even as I drifted to sleep, at how strange a day it had been.
* * *
I woke slowly, licking my lips and blinking. I reached out next to me, and Nikki was still there, curled in on herself like a child. Her dark hair fell across her face, and I felt very protective of her suddenly. I shifted to give her more space, trying to work out what time it was. I looked around and almost jumped out of my skin as I met my grandmother’s eyes across the room. She was just sitting in her armchair looking at me. No anger, no smiles… nothing. The woman’s face was like it was carved from stone.
She tilted her head at me, waiting for a response. I shrugged my shoulders, and apparently that was enough. The stubborn little woman pushed herself out of her chair and walked resolutely, if with a slight tremble, over to the table. I watched as she seemed to elongate, lifting herself up onto one of the chairs. She turned, huffed over her shoulder, and beckoned me with a spindly finger.
I shrugged, stretched, and padded over to her, sliding into the seat next to her.
My nonna reached into a black leather purse on the table and brought out a wallet of photographs. She slid the first over to me, a rough and grainy photograph, the barest hint of colour. A curly-haired woman dressed in a smart dress suit stared seriously at the camera, clasping a little girl each side of her. The taller one stood straight, her bony arms out at the side. The smaller girl had matching long dark hair and the same fluffy fringe. She was clearly the rebel, leaning into the camera with a wide grin.
My grandmother tapped the photo, the crescent of her nail on the woman in the middle. She tapped herself on the chest.
&nbs
p; ‘That’s you.’ I pointed at her, and she nodded, the barest trace of a smile on her face. Then she tapped the picture again, over the older girl, then the younger.
‘Allegra… Isabella.’
I reached out and picked up the photograph, tracing my mother’s cheeky childish face.
‘Happy,’ she said, pressing into her cheeks with a wide smile. ‘Always happy.’ She paused, the smile fading as she reached across the table, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘You… no happy. No, no happy.’ She stroked my cheek, a sad look on her face.
No happy? Of course I wasn’t happy. I had endless reasons to feel sad and sombre and broken. But I thought I was doing a decent job of hiding it.
I searched her face, wondering, why now? Why was this the moment she was finally kind to me, finally wanted to connect? Again, I tried to find something of myself in that round face, with those wide, sharp eyes. I didn’t look anything like her. But the woman in the picture… all three people in that photograph were my kin, and I matched them, curly hair and proud chins. It was undeniable.
I had the overwhelming desire to cry, and that made me angry. I looked up at the ceiling and pressed my lips together.
Nonna tapped my hand gently, and then let out a little chuckle. ‘Stubborn.’ She nodded. ‘No cry.’ She tapped the photograph again, her nail on my mother’s chin. ‘Same. Isabella, same.’
I did cry then, just a little, an embarrassed squawk that I coughed to cover up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I remembered my mother crying. She used to cry when she cooked, singing along in Italian to herself. When I asked her why she was sad, she would say it was an Italian recipe, that the tears added just the right saltiness to the mixture.
‘She missed you, Nonna.’ I patted my chest, over my heart. ‘My mama, she missed you.’
I didn’t know if she’d understood but, suddenly, her eyes filled with tears and she nodded, those glassy eyes suddenly large and intense. ‘Miss her… miss my Isabella. Love. Very much.’