Page 18 of Take Me Under

“Serena,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “Fix the shutter.”

“Yes, Papa.” Reluctantly, I release his hand, hurry across the terracotta floor to the window, and open the glass pane.Reaching past the ornamental security bars and out into the rainy night, I pull the shutter closed once again and secure the latch.

My father offers me a small smile once I return to my chair next to his bed. “Such a good girl, Serena. You always were. Did the shutter damage the stucco?”

“I didn’t see anything. I’m sure it’s fine, Papa. Please stop worrying. You need to rest.”

“I have to worry while I still can, princess. I’ll be resting forever soon enough, and I don’t want your mother to have to deal with damage to the house after I’m gone.”

I blink back tears and shake my head. “You’re talking nonsense. You’ll be back to your old self in no time. You’ll see.”

He doesn’t respond to what we both know is a lie. He simply gives me another weak smile and closes his eyes. I take his hand in mine once more, noting how cold it had gotten in the short time it took me to secure the shutter. His circulation is getting worse by the day, but at least the stomach pain and vomiting has stopped—thanks to the morphine and antinausea medication prescribed by the doctor.

I glance up when I hear my mother come into the room.

“How is he?” she asks.

“He seems more comfortable than yesterday. I just wish we could get him well enough to get on a plane. The doctors in the U.S. have access to so much more.”

“No more talk about America. Italy is my home, Serena,” my father says fervently. I turn back to him as he attempts to sit up.

“Carlo, lie down,” my mother scolds.

“No. There are things I have to say, Sylvia,” he insists.

Not wanting him to struggle, my mother hurries to his bedside where the two of us work to get him upright against the headboard. I frown when I hear his labored breathing, signaling how much the simple act of sitting up taxes his frail body.

I fold my arms across my chest and give him a pointed look. “You’re so stubborn, Papa. I don’t know why you couldn’t say whatever it is you have to say while you were lying down.”

Ignoring me, he turns to my mother. “Sylvia, go fetch my leather book. The bigger one.”

“The map book? You can’t possibly want to start drawing in that old thing now!”

“Sylvia Martinelli, if you even so much as try to argue with me…” He can’t finish the veiled threat before he begins violently coughing. Speaking with any sort of conviction takes all the strength he has.

“Mulo!” my mother mutters in Italian. “Serena is right. You’re as stubborn as a mule.” Stalking over to the corner desk where my father keeps his many research journals, she rifles through the contents of the top drawer. Pulling out the largest of the brown leather-bound journals, she brushes invisible dust from the top of it and brings it to him.

Without a word, he places the book on his lap and gingerly flips through the pages until he finds the one he wants. With one red, swollen finger, he points to a map of the Roman Forum and begins tracing the lines as if trying to commit them to memory. It’s a peculiar thing for him to do—after all, he’s the one who had drawn it.

My throat tightens as I watch him move his hand along the worn paper until he comes to an X on the bottom right page.

“X marks the spot,” he says in barely a whisper.

My mother shoves a loose lock of salt and pepper hair back into her bun and huffs out an impatient breath. My frustration matches hers. If these truly are my father’s final hours, I don’t want to spend them talking about ghosts.

With the book still balancing on his lap, he reaches for my mother’s hand and brings her finger to the X on the page. All her frustration melts away, and a look of understanding passes between them—as if they’re sharing decades of emotions in a single moment.

“You worked so hard to find them,” she murmurs, eyes full of sadness and heartbreak.

It’s killing me to watch her suffer—to watch them both suffer. I blink back tears and return to the window. I peer out through the shutter’s slats and watch the rain batter the streets. As the wind whistles and whips, I can’t help but think the storm’s fury is a sign from the heavens. It’s as if the angels are expressing all the rage I feel in my heart.

“Serena, let me tell you about Cleopatra and Mark Antony,” my father says.

I turn away from the window and back to him. “I know their story, Papa.”

“Historians say their ending was so epic, even Shakespeare himself couldn’t have written it better,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Yes, you’ve told me the story a thousand times,” I remind him, wishing he would save his strength rather than go off on what is sure to be a long-winded tale. “Cleopatra attempted a fake suicide that resulted in Antony’s death. When she learned what happened, a heartbroken Cleopatra killed herself with poison. I used the story in my dissertation, Papa. You don’t need to tell me again.”

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