Page 15 of Bitter Poetry
I snort a laugh. At least some of her words have the ring of truth. I’ve stopped questioning how she knows these things.
“Tell me you think her daughter isn’t strange?” she continues. “How many five-year-olds do you know who can stare at you without blinking for five minutes straight? I keep waiting for her head to do a three-sixty-degree turn. I swear freak genes run strong in that family. Anyway, she’s on the prowl for husband number two. She’s probably already taken some of Mom’s things. We should search her room.”
I sigh. “I’m not going to search her room.”
She sidles up to me. “At least mini-Helena is not staying over. That’s positive, hey?”
I smile at the sarcasm in her tone and wrap my arm around her waist. “That is positive.”
“I miss her.”
An instant sting forms at the back of my eyes.
“Yeah. I miss her too... We’ll get through this. Papa has had the last of the major surgeries. He’s strong. He’ll come home to us. And while it will never be the same without Mama, it will be better than this.”
CHAPTER 7
CARMELA
My mama’s funeral is today, and although I know it needs to happen and that everyone says it will provide closure, every step I take as I get ready feels like wading through deep mud. The only small positive note is that father was deemed well enough to move from the hospital to a convalescent home, and I hold onto the hope that he might soon be well enough to come home.
I go through the motions of getting ready. I’ve barely looked at myself in the mirror since she passed. When I do, all I see are dark circles under my eyes and hair that reminds me of her.
None of this seems real. It’s easy to imagine her downstairs in the kitchen sipping her coffee at the dining table, maybe chatting to Jessica or my father.
Only I know when I go downstairs today, she won’t be there.
She won’t be there ever again.
Worse, in her place will be Helena with her shark smile and overly made-up face.
A knock sounds at my door as I finish drying my hair. Brigida enters at my call, bearing a tray laden with breakfast food and a cappuccino.
“I brought your breakfast, Carmela,” she says.
I haven’t eaten breakfast downstairs since Helena turned up. I can’t. If I don’t go into the dining room, I might be able to delude myself into thinking this isn’t real.
We’re burying my mother today. I don’t think delusions are an option anymore.
“Thank you,” I say, summoning a smile.
Her eyes linger on me for a moment before she quietly leaves.
No sooner has she gone than Jessica arrives, already dressed in black.
It doesn’t suit her. The fluffy pink slippers on her feet provide relief from the sobriety.
“Ettore is here early,” she says. “At least the witch has returned to her home to collect her ungodly offspring for the funeral.” She rolls her eyes. “Now Ettore is in Papa’s office, snooping.”
My lips tighten. I hate Helena, aka the witch. Her presence adds another reason for Ettore to come around under the pretext of ensuring we’re all okay.
It feels like our home has been invaded.
“Papa did mention that Ettore would accompany us to the service, where we would meet him,” I say, making light of it because this is not the time or place. Nor is it my decision when or how often Ettore enters our home. He is my father’s closest associate. I don’t have to trust Ettore; I just have to trust my father’s trust in him.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I hold out my arms. She comes over and we hug. I take a deep breath, fighting the stinging at the back of my eyes—I will cry enough later. “I can’t believe you’re taller than me.”
