Page 19 of Sins of Bliss
“Better,” I say with a warm smile as she places the tray on the small table by my bed.
“I hear you’re leaving tomorrow! I’m sure it’ll be lovely to go home.”
“Sì. Thank you for bringing my dinner.”
“Of course, Mr. Lucchetti. Page the nurses’ station if you need anything else.”
Nodding, I walk back to the bed and sit. On the plate is a hamburger with sweet potato fries and a pudding cup for dessert. It looks unappetizing, and if my stomach wasn’t already growling, I would order food from the app on my phone.
Picking up the burger, I sink my teeth into it, biting off a large portion. It tastes as bland as it looks.
Next to me, my phone catches my eye again, taunting me through the darkened screen. I know what I must do, though it sends dread through me. It shouldn’t—contacting my family should be joyous, but I know my parents are probably angry with me. And Enzo…well, I’m not ready to speak with Enzo yet.
My jaw clenches as I peer down at my phone. Finally, I pick it up before I change my mind. Inputting the numbers I’ve had memorized for most of my life, I listen to the ring resound in my ears.
“Pronto,” Mamma’s beautiful voice singsongs into the receiver. My heart soars from hearing her after so long, a reaction that catches me off guard.
My emotions are heavy, and I feel tears prick the back of my eyes—something that I’m finding is happening more and more frequently as of late.
“Mamma,” I croak in greeting, my voice cracking.
“Sylvester? Sly! ANTONIO—SLY IS ON THE PHONE. Sly, il mio dolce ragazzo! Are you okay? Where are you?” The words flow from her in a long slur, her mind working overtime to ask me all the questions I’ve denied her of over the last several months.
“Mamma, sì. I am alright. I’m so sor?—”
“Come osi interrompermi, Sylvester Lucchetti. Mi avevi giurato che non l'avresti fatto, poi ti giri e fai esattamente quello! Allora, devo sapere al telefono da un medico che ti hanno sparato! Cosa diavolo ti è successo?”How dare you cut me off, Sylvester Lucchetti! Yousworeto me you wouldn't, then you turn around and do exactly that!Then, I have to find out from a doctor over the phone that you've been shot! What on earth happened to you?
Her native language is so thick with fury, even I have trouble distinguishing some of the words as she berates me through thephone. She’s right though, and as I listen to Mamma, I hang my head in shame.
“Mamma, I am sor?—”
But she cuts me off again, clearly not ready to hear my apology. “Ero preoccupatissimo per te. Sai quante notti sono rimasto sveglio chiedendomi dove fossi? Per qualche tempo ho temuto la tua morte, ma non la sentivo nel mio cuore, quindi mi sono costretta ad allontanare i pensieri. Mi hai spaventato, ragazzo mio. Più di quanto tu mi abbia mai spaventato prima.”I have been worried sick about you. Do you know how many nights I laid awake wondering where you were? For some time, I feared your death, but I did not feel it in my heart, so I forced myself to push the thoughts away. You have scared me, my boy. More than you have ever scared me before.
This time, as she finishes her thought, I don’t allow her to continue and tell her to listen. “Mamma! Ascoltare!”
She sighs dramatically, and I hear heavy footsteps through the speaker.
“Sylvester?” Papà’s voice questions.
“Sì,” Mamma confirms.
“Ciao, Papà.”
“When are you returning to New York?” is all he asks, his voice gruff. He is angry. I can hear it.
“Soon, Papà. I am being discharged from the hospital tomorrow and I have some loose ends to tie up here in California, then I will return.”
“Your healing?”
“It’s fine. No infection, and my lung is repairing itself. I must take things slowly for some time, but I am mending.”
He grunts, then I hear his footsteps again, presumably walking away.
“You scared us, mio figlio. Your papà is not happy with you, and neither am I. Do you have any idea how worried we havebeen? And for you to tell us not to come…” her voice cracks, and I hear her suck in a breath.
“I know, Mamma. I am sorry.” There is so much more to say, but it doesn’t feel like the time. My heart and my body ache, my mind heavy with thoughts of helping Nixon plan Preston’s funeral, and making my arrangements to go back to New York.
“Is this because of the girl?”
