Page 80 of Bitter Poetry
I feel sick.
Brigida goes back to her scrubbing. Every pass of her cloth is amplified like nails on a chalkboard.
Is he dead?
Why do I suddenly think he might be? Common sense dictates I leave this subject well alone. He’s been allocated to other duties. That was what I wanted, wasn’t it? To escape his uncensored commentary, to escape that look in his eyes—to escape him and everything he makes me feel when I’m so much better off numb.
Why do I feel like something is still terribly wrong?
Why, for the love of God, is Brigida still scrubbing?
I want to make demands, but doing so will not end well. I can’t afford to make more of this—likely, I have already shown too much interest in his absence. When did this become my life, acting like a robot without feelings because having feelings is dangerous not only for me, but for those I love.
“I’ll get my coat and purse,” I say.
Peter gives me a nod and heads out to ready the car.
Brigida has finally stopped scrubbing and looks at me.
I expect to see judgment, but instead I get a softening in her expression.
“We keep instant ice packs in the medicine cabinet. They work best if applied soon after, which might not be practical. Aloe vera is very good. You could dab some on while you are getting ready before you put on makeup.
I swallow. “I don’t like to think how you know this.”
She shrugs. “My husband had a temper. He was one of Stephano Barone’s soldiers. When Mr. Barone found out, he dealt with it. I never saw him again, and Mr. Barone found me a position working in his home.” A small smile lights her face. “Your father stole me after tasting my tiramisu at one of Mr. Barone’s dinner parties—he complained bitterly, but without heat. I believe it secretly pleased him that the don had stolen his cook.”
“He still loves your tiramisu.” I want to smile, but I’m also fighting the sudden onset of tears. “Maybe you could make one for me to take over next week.”
She beams. “It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Gallo.”
Why does a mere name hurt so much? She used to call me Carmela. Then Ettore came in with his authoritarian ways, and suddenly I was Mrs. Gallo to everyone. I turn to leave but pause at the door and glance back. “I’d prefer if you called me Carmela whenever my husband is not here.”
Her smile is sad this time. “Of course, Carmela.”
The drive passes in silence, me in the back, Peter driving. Christian would usually offer some snide comments in an attempt to get a rise out of me. Peter doesn’t say a word.
I’m glad he doesn’t try to make small talk. I’m not in the mood today. My mind is in a state of turmoil. My thoughts keep circling around and around, lingering on the memory of my husband’s hands on me last night.
My situation is nothing new. Women have been dealing with this for centuries and more. Still, I never thought it would happen to me.
I want to go back in time to the younger version of me before my world fell apart.
Except that version is gone.
I’m hollow. I’ve been hollow for a long time. At first, I kept waiting for somebody to storm in and save me. For Dante to put a stop to it. To demand that I was already betrothed to him, save for the official announcement.
But he stepped aside, didn’t he? Watched on as I married Ettore, a man barely younger than my father.
He let it happen.
I hate him.
Maybe he never wanted me for a wife.
The sense of betrayal lingers.
It does no good to wallow in it, yet here I am.
