Cleaning the living room—correction, cleaning part of it, because no one could clean it in a single weekend without either a blowtorch or a bulldozer—was a daunting task. Worse, her mother was far more protective of her living room treasures than she was of her food. Daniela knew she’d spend as much time debating, justifying, and coercing her way through the living room as she would shredding piles of twenty-year-old receipts or trashing broken collectibles that were never worth collecting in the first place. If Daniela rationalized a cat-and-rat comment to her mother now, she’d use up her allotted number of rationalizations before she could make a dent in the horror that was the living room.
While her mother leaned over the sink to watch the neighbors back out of the driveway, Daniela reached into the cupboard near her knees and withdrew four battered pots. Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, she slid them into the garbage bag and buried them underneath the cereal. With one eye on her mother, she added a baking sheet so ancient its finish had peeled, then restaurant-sized containers of cinnamon, garlic powder, and onion powder, all with worn labels and sticky, cracked plastic caps. She closed the ties on top of the bag and set it aside a heartbeat before her mother turned from the window.
“I should take this out,” Daniela said. “It’s not quite full, but I don’t want the bag to tear. The trash truck still comes on Mondays, right?”
Her mother’s gaze swept the counter, trying to determine what might be missing. “Yes, it does.”
“Perfect. I’ll roll it to the street for you before I leave tomorrow night.”
She’d also ensure it was latched tight to keep animals out. This week’s take would be a feast.
“Thank you. I dread lugging it out there every week.” She sighed, then looked past Daniela. “The refrigerator and pantry look great.”
Daniela wouldn’t call them great, but at least the contents wouldn’t send anyone to the hospital. She’d also done some creative rearranging to make them appear full. Before her mother had come in for breakfast, Daniela had managed to fill two garbage bags and hustle them out the back door. She didn’t want her mother to discover how much she’d really removed.
If she did, she’d throw a fit, then she’d buy twice as much as before. It’s what her mother had done three years ago when Daniela insisted on cleaning out the entire pantry after she’d opened a container of rice and found it infested.
Daniela pushed back that mental image and offered her mother a smile. “There’s plenty of pasta and you have a good selection of canned tomatoes. Maybe we can make some for dinner?”
To Daniela’s surprise, her mother brightened. “That sounds lovely. In the meantime, how about we go out for lunch? We haven’t been to Gavoli together in years.”
Barely more than a crossroads with a few stone buildings and a fountain built to commemorate a runaway bull that saved a child’s life, the tiny village of Gavoli was a short drive away. It lay in the opposite direction of the village where her mother used to teach school and where Daniela presumed the Carrinis had gone. They could go, enjoy lunch, and be back in a little over an hour. Plenty of time to add to the recycling pile and drive it all to the center.
“Is the bistro still open?” Daniela asked.
“Giancarlo’s son runs it now. He grows the tomatoes and herbs himself. We can sit outside and enjoy a bottle of wine.”
“A glass of wine.”
“If you wish. You drive and I’ll drink the rest of the bottle.”
That, Daniela thought, might be enough for her mother to need an afternoon nap.
They agreed to go in an hour. Her mother left to shower while Daniela carried the trash out the back door and down the stone steps to the large rolling garbage can. It took effort to make the bag appear lighter than it was, but if Lisa D’Ambrosio looked out the window and suspected for even a second that it contained some of her pots and pans, there’d be hell to pay. Tonight, when Daniela made dinner, she’d rearrange the cabinet. There were at least three complete sets of cookware in there, plus she’d spied a box containing another set—brand new—in the living room.
“Must’ve been on sale,” she grumbled to herself as she hefted the bag into the can. She’d need to pack it down in order to fit the rest of what she planned to toss this weekend.
A bird call from the nearby grove drew Daniela’s attention. It took her a moment to spot the creature, which watched her from its perch on a gnarled branch. It hopped sideways, then took off, soaring low over the grass before disappearing across the road.
Daniela closed her eyes for a few breaths, listening to the familiar sounds that surrounded her mother’s house.
Nearly all her classmates left the Lescailles area years ago. The majority had moved to Cateri in search of jobs and a metropolitan lifestyle. A few had followed their careers or their partners out of the country to Italy, Switzerland, or France. Daniela and her friends had often talked about their desire to get away from the predictability and boredom of their village. Now, though, with a gentle wind fluttering the narrow leaves of the olive trees and the promise of a Caprese salad made with local cheese and basil picked fresh this morning, Daniela didn’t find it boring at all. The Sarcaccian countryside was a place to enjoy fine wine, sunny skies, and tradition. As if posing for tourism posters, the locals spent their lunch breaks swapping stories and playing backgammon over upside down milk crates in doorways along the cobblestoned streets. In the evening, they shared their favorite recipes for the day’s catch as it was brought into Lescailles by the fishermen who lived along the coast.
Outside the village, one could take long walks through trees and fields little changed since the days of ancient Rome, or in Daniela’s case, climb the rocky hillside to enjoy its panoramic view of the sparkling Mediterranean.
Daniela opened her eyes, shaded them with one hand, and looked across the fields toward the hill.
Behind her, an open bathroom window allowed her to hear the squeak of plumbing, then water pummeling the tile floor of her mother’s shower. Daniela sighed. Much as she should hurry inside and throw away as much as possible while her mother was occupied, a brief respite would refresh her soul.
She crossed to the wicker table and chairs that stood under the arbor at the side of the house. Here, protected from the sun, it was cooler, but not cold. When she was a child, her parents sat at this table most weeknights, their hands intertwined, talking about events of the day. At least once a week, neighbors or groups of their students would visit. Her father would set out extra chairs and place candles inside lanterns. Laughter and conversation would ebb and flow, the sound cascading over the stone patio and through the olive grove. Her mother would serve bruschetta, and her father would proudly set out a tray filled with olives, carrots, cheeses, salami, and cucumber slices, all of which would gradually disappear.
For years, he’d kept his wife’s worst instincts at bay. Removing items from her shopping cart, urging her to check at home first to see what she already owned before she made purchases. She was a pack rat, picking up freebies at the side of the road on trash day, perusing market stalls for deals on items she might need at some point in the future, then squirreling everything away in cupboards and closets. It’d been endearing, her father once told Daniela, when they were newlyweds and owned little. Their first furniture had come from a family in the village who were redecorating and happy to save the disposal fee on their old living room set.
It wasn’t so endearing as the years went on. He couldn’t keep up. Everything was collectible, according to Lisa. She could sell things and make money, she claimed, though she never did. Then there were the papers she refused to throw away. Cries of, “We might need that!” erupted when he dared toss an old receipt or check stub. More than once, Daniela heard her father complain that a scanner was the only thing keeping their house from being declared a fire hazard.
The final straw came while Daniela was out of the country, during her semester abroad. When she’d returned from the Univer
sity of Michigan, her father told her not to come home from Cateri. “Your research project and job interviews should be your priority this summer,” he’d said when he’d picked her up at the airport and taken her back to her flat near the university. “The last thing you need is to spend time driving to and from Lescailles. Your mother and I can come visit you for the next few months.”
It wasn’t until August, after she’d completed her research project and started her job with Queen Fabrizia, that she learned he’d moved out of the house.
Her father had called to say he was in Cateri to attend a seminar and wanted to take her out to dinner to celebrate her new position with the royal family. Despite his obvious joy at seeing her, he’d been uncharacteristically distracted while she described her first few weeks of work. When she turned the discussion to home and asked whether her mother was looking forward to the start of another school year, his discomfort became impossible to ignore.
“What is it?” Daniela had asked as she’d taken a bite of her salmon. “She isn’t having a problem at school, is she?”
It was a silly question. Deep in her gut, she’d already known what she’d hear.
“No. Her problem is with me. I bought a shredder,” he’d said on a heavy sigh. “I told her it was a gift and she could use it for whatever she wanted to shred in order to protect our personal and financial information.”
Daniela had grimaced. “You bought it to get rid of her papers.”
“Of course I did. But I stuck to my gift story and let it sit in the living room, hoping she’d get used to having it there. Two weeks after I bought it, she threw it away.”
Daniela had raised a bite of salmon to her mouth, then set down her fork at her father’s grim expression. “You couldn’t have been surprised.”
He’d shaken his head and poured her a second glass of wine. When he tipped the remainder of the bottle into his own glass, his smile was the saddest Daniela had ever seen. “She claimed she tried to use it and it was defective. Since she couldn’t find the receipt, she gave the shredder to one of the garbage truck drivers and told him he could have it if he could get it working again.”
Daniela had slumped in her chair when her father added, “The one thing she’s ever voluntarily handed the man.”
Her father had left the following week, moving into the guest room at his brother’s home in Lescailles.
“It’s gotten so bad since you started college that we can’t even have guests to the house. No more students, no more gatherings with friends or neighbors,” he’d told Daniela after the waiter cleared their plates and offered dessert, which they’d both declined. “She says she isn’t interested in teaching any longer and may retire after this school year, but that’s not it. She doesn’t want to address the issues with having students to our house.”
Dazed at the barrage of changes in her parents’ lives, Daniela could only stare at her father. On a deep breath, he said, “I love your mother, but she needs help. Professional help. She won’t get it as long as I’m there. Frankly, I need to have some space, too. I decided to take a one-year sabbatical and do research here in Cateri. I signed a short-term lease for a flat and will move in next week.”
Daniela had taken a sip of her wine, then stared into her glass for a long, painful moment as she absorbed the news. “Are you going to get a divorce?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. If she could kick her addiction, I…well, that’s a pipe dream. The answer is that I just don’t know.” He’d waited for Daniela to meet his gaze before saying, “I’m afraid that asking for a divorce could make her situation worse. On the other hand, nothing I’ve done so far has made it better.”
Daniela’s throat was so tight, she could barely speak. “All summer, whenever she’s called me, she’s said you were out. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“I’d hoped she’d improve when she realized I was serious. She hoped my frustration was temporary and that I’d turn around and come back home. Neither of us was correct.”
He flattened his hands against the table, then reached toward her, palm up. She took his hand, but the touch nearly made her cry.
“I am sorry, Daniela.”
“I’m sorry, too. I’ll talk to her. Maybe she’ll listen to a different voice.”
He’d given her hand a squeeze, then released it. “You’re an adult and I trust your judgment, but let me give you a piece of fatherly advice. If you can’t make headway, let it go. Love her, talk to her, but don’t support her in her habit and don’t blame yourself for who she is. It is her choice to get help or not. You have a new job—a fabulous new job—and so much ahead of you. I want you to live your life, to find your purpose. To travel and love and perhaps even start your own family. We will both be here for you, no matter what, but you can’t let your mother’s issues become yours and drag you back to Lescailles, or you’ll never move forward.”
Behind Daniela, the old pipes shuddered, signaling the end of her mother’s shower. On instinct, Daniela stood and hurried toward the back door. She’d dawdled longer than she’d intended. If she worked fast, she could fill a bag with living room items, dump it, then hustle into her bedroom to start getting ready for lunch before her mother emerged from the bathroom.
Assuming, of course, Daniela could find items placed for easy removal. The living room was like a human-sized Jenga game. Extracting the wrong piece would send the entire stack crashing to the floor, making her the loser.
Ten minutes later, sweating from the exertion of carrying not one but two bags to the outdoor garbage, Daniela entered her childhood bathroom to press a cool washcloth to her face. Eyeing herself in the mirror, she imagined what her father would say about how she was spending her weekend.
Whatever he said, he’d be right.
At the end of his sabbatical, he’d accepted a permanent teaching position in Cateri. While he continued to visit Lescailles and checked in on Lisa from time to time over the past five years, his life had moved on.
Daniela wrung out the washcloth, then looped it over the towel bar. She’d try talking to her mother over lunch. Gently, rationally. Mamma needed help. Professional help. The fact she’d allowed Daniela to empty the pantry and countertops without tears and without digging in the trash bags every few minutes to retrieve items—as she had the last time Daniela cleaned—meant she knew it, too.
The discussion would be a delicate one, but for once, Daniela had hope.
Refreshed, Daniela reached for her makeup bag. She wouldn’t get fancy, but a quick swipe of mascara and a dot or two of concealer would make her feel better. She pulled the zipper, but was distracted by a light scrape coming from behind her, like the sound of a twig being dragged across stone. Bracing herself, she turned slowly and scanned the floor. Sure enough, a small rat crouched beside the foot of the tub, its tiny pink hands curled around an unidentifiable morsel, watching Daniela as it nibbled.
Having grown up in the country, rats didn’t faze her. She’d come across them now and then when running through the fields and they’d scurry away, more scared of her than she was of them. Seeing one in the house was another matter, particularly when that rat seemed perfectly comfortable with Daniela’s presence. Its nose twitched and its head turned slightly. Another rat crouched under the tub. This one was darker, fatter. Eyeing the morsel the first rat held.
“Mamma!” Daniela called, setting her makeup bag on the back of the sink and slowly opening the bathroom door. “Come. Here.”
Chapter 15
Lisa D’Ambrosio’s laughter carried through the courtyard as Giancarlo told them about his nephew’s wedding, describing the moment a napkin caught fire after a guest inadvertently knocked it into a candle. As only Giancarlo could, he told the tale with excitement and grand gestures. He continued with an anecdote about the couple’s honeymoon, then removed the empty bread basket with a promise that his son would have their lunch to them shortly.
A flush permeated her mother’s skin and he
r eyes sparkled as she looked across the table at Daniela and skimmed a finger along the single bloom that graced their table. “I’m so glad we decided to eat outdoors. Isn’t this pleasant?”
Daniela gave her mother a pointed look. “Imagine if you could enjoy it on your own patio.”
“I do. Frequently.”
Her tone softened. “Mamma. With friends.”
The elder woman waved off the comment, but not before Daniela saw the hurt in her eyes. Her mother was lonely. She knew she brought it on herself. And she knew, without a doubt, that she couldn't invite anyone over. Nor would she accept others’ invitations, as a visit to anyone else’s house in Lescailles meant a reciprocal invitation was expected.
A gentle inquiry about what her mother valued more—her things or her friends—sparked a quick change in subject, but Daniela could see that her mother was thinking about it even while she told Daniela about a family she’d taken on a tour of Sarcaccia’s wineries the previous week.
It broke Daniela’s heart to know that after she’d left for university, her father’s care hadn’t been enough to keep her parents together. All the energy he’d focused on Lisa—trying to avoid the horrors inside the house by taking her on trips as often as possible, by cleaning what he could, by loving her—wasn’t enough. Her mother’s irrational need to own and keep things weighed her down—literally—so much that she’d avoided life.
When Giancarlo winked at Lisa and asked whether Daniela had a special man in her life, Daniela realized that her mother’s habit had weighed her down, too.
Daniela had grinned at the exchange as her mother laughed and replied, “Daniela works so many hours for Queen Fabrizia, I may never become a grandmother. Perhaps I should have a talk with the queen?” but an uneasy feeling took hold in Daniela’s stomach.
Daniela worked a lot of hours, but it wasn’t so many she couldn’t date. She’d chosen not to. It was easier to spend her free time with groups of friends, keeping any outings with the opposite sex both occasional and casual. A tell-me-about-your-parents conversation filled her with such dread she’d avoided placing herself in situations where it might arise.
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