Page 79 of Isle of Pain

I squeeze her hand before bringing it to my lips, kissing her knuckles. Today’s Ember’s first birthday. It’s also the day she lost Lisa. I eye the design she chose.

It’s in Lisa’s handwriting. Marie found it in her abandoned journal when she scoured Lisa’s old bedroom when we landed, a week ago. The words are exactly what I’d imagine Lisa’s motto would have been. I didn’t know her well, too taken by Marie to notice her twin, but they fit her.

Arcu di sera, tempu di spera.

A rainbow in the evening is a hope of good weather.

Marie lets go of my hand and caresses the stencil reverently. It’s dried on her skin and could almost pass for the tattoo itself if it wasn’t blue.

“What if there’s bad weather again?” Marie asks without looking at me. She won’t ever be a bright and joyful person. No matter how much therapy she does and how good she’s doing since she got out of rehab, she’s a melancholic woman. I believe that’s why she loves where we live so much more than here, where the sun shines bright most of the year. She likes the gloom and the grey. She reads tragedies and horrors over romance. She likes to cry over the pain of others and spends hours writing in her journal.

But now she doesn’t hide her struggles and she smiles more freely. Like right now. Her lips tip up at the corner, her youthfulface going soft with it. It’s a contented smile, not one that overtakes her whole face. It’s shy and tentative, like it could go at any moment. Grief continues to follow her even as time tries to erase it, but she isn’t trying to numb it anymore. And that’s the bravest she can be.

“You know I’ll always carry an umbrella,luna mia.”

After sterilising the tools again, Mia starts.

“I love it,” Marie says when the artist is done and she gets to see herself in the mirror. “It’s gonna look so good in that off-the-shoulder dress I bought for the ceremony.”

Looking down at my watch, I inform her that we have to go now if we want to be on time for that particular event. It takes us only a short ride back to the Moretti’s mansion, a change of clothes, then we drive to the cemetery with the whole family in tow.

Lana and Lisandru are already there when we arrive. Her older sister Angèle and her husband are absent. That relationship is harder to mend.

Marie’s parents, Colomba and Pietro, arrive with Ember in her stroller. They insisted on looking over their grand-daughter this morning. I think they both want to show Marie how much they support her and her decisions. Fashionably late, Giulia and Andrea join us to complete our small gathering. We walk in silence between the rows of white mausoleums, shining brightly under the July sun. The Mediterranean Sea in the distance gives a cerulean background to the pristine white chalk walls holding the dead for centuries.

At the very edge of the cliff, we arrive in front of headstones planted directly on the floor and settle around Lisa’s. Marie explained to me that Lisa was a free spirit and would have hated knowing she was laying “on top of the crusty old bones of Moretti ancestors.” In a box rather than free to roam the cemetery as a spirit if she so wished.

Out of tradition more than belief, a priest is here and starts a short homely about life and death, love and loss, grief and the power of hope.

When he’s gone, Marie walks to Lana and checks if Ember needs anything in her trolley. My daughter’s little head is covered by the cutest white hat and the smallest sunglasses ever made, babbling and trying to eat her foot. I remove it from her mouth and hand her her pacifier instead. She takes it greedily before her attention is stolen away by her other foot.

Lisandru’s men, who followed closely behind, bring us a cooler and foldable chairs that we arrange around the grave before taking their post to silently watch over us again.

“What is this?” Lana asks.

Marie clasps her hands in front of her. “I wanted us to take a moment to honor Lisa’s life. We’ve talked and thought a lot about her death over the past year. But none of us have talked about how much life she held, how vivacious she was. About her dreams, her memories…” Her voice cracks and I take a step behind her, steadying her with my hands on her upper arms. “She deserves to be celebrated for her life, for the joy she brought us, not for the pain. So, I brought lemonade, and I’d like each of you to share a memory you have of her. A happy one.”

She opens the cooler at her feet and takes the bottle of lemonade and the plastic glasses, serving and handing one to each guest. Silence stretches for a while until Lana speaks.

“When I came back to Kalliste after Eduardo died?—”

“You mean after you killed him,” Giulia quips and everyone laughs.

“Alledgedly,” Lana continues. “Anyway, after that, Lisa was the first one to tell me she was happy he died so he wouldn’t be able to hurt me anymore. She was just sixteen and she had no clue what I lived through but she was fierce. And she probably would have ended up being the one to kill him in the end.”

“When she was five, she coloured the walls of your father’s office with a red inked pen,” Colomba says with a shake of her head, drying the misty corners of her eyes. “She said it was because it must have been his favourite colour since he was often covered in it when he came home from work.”

Pietro grumbles that he was always careful about coming home clean. Not enough apparently.

The next hour is spent sharing stories about Lisa, from insignificant mischiefs to her rebellious teenage years. The atmosphere is light, despite the undercurrent of sadness and yearning. Tears are shed by all the Morettis without exception, including Ember yelling for her meal, oblivious to anything but her tiny body’s needs.

The transition back to the house is a little jarring, with joy and gifts pushing aside any lingering grief. There’s no place for it as Ember’s birthday party turns into a feast under the capable hands of Mammona. The old woman embraces me shortly and despite my aversion for touch, I let her. From her seat at the table, she commands her staff, unable to stand for long periods of time anymore.

After today, I’ll be ready to live as a recluse for weeks, but my daughter’s laughter and smiles keep me rooted within the chaotic celebration. With her first bite of cake off of Giulia’s spoon, Ember’s eyes go round and she takes hold of her auntie’s wrist to stuff her mouth with more sugary treat.

I glance at Marie, whose eyes are already on me, soft with love and something new into them that burns brighter. I can’t wait to be back home and give Ember a sibling.

44

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