Page 15 of The Almost One

Bruce follows me out of the kitchen as I head to the sunroom for their traditional Easter Sunday breakfast. Apparently, the Pastiera Napoletana represents the birth of the savior. While I may not be Catholic and have the same beliefs, I can appreciate the ritual of it all, and the way something like Easter brings the family together can only be a beautiful thing.

Paws scratching quickly along the floor catches my attention—Bruce is an older dog, so moving this quickly isn’t something I’ve seen him do in my time here. I watch him scramble through the hall to join us before he begins howling.

Maybe he’s excited for breakfast?

The sight before me as I enter the room makes me freeze. It all seems to happen at once. There’s an almighty crash and Marco’s face is turning white, full of panic as he watches his dad, who is clutching at his left arm, fall from his chair. He moves so fast, barely catching Alberto before he hits the floor. Gabriella drops the glass she’s holding and holds her hands up to her face. Lina throws the serving spoon she was using behind her as she stands and rushes to move to her dad. Enzo is somehow already by Alberto and Marco, helping to gently lie the old man down.

“Daddy!”

“Alberto!”

“Enzo, call an ambulance.”

Everyone speaks at the same time, the dog is barking, and all I feel is guilt.

Guilt because I was finally going to get some answers, and it seems the universe has other ideas. Every time I get anywhere close to information that’s being kept from me, something shitty happens to push it out of everyone’s mind.

I’d say needing an ambulance for your dad on Easter Sunday takes priority over giving me answers, and I feel like a selfish bitch for even thinking of myself while this is all going on.

With a deep breath, I take in the situation and ready myself for another rough few days. These people are mine now, and they’re hurting. So I’m going to do what I do best, which is take care of my family.

CHAPTERSIX

MARCO

Iread somewhere that, in the U.S., the average death rate in a hospital is about thirty-five percent. So, as we sit in the waiting room while the nurses and doctors on the other side of the ‘No Entry’ door try to save my father’s life, I think about those statistics. I think about the fact that sixty-five percent of people who come in, get to walk out.

My father is only sixty years old. He can beat this. He’s survived vendettas against him, this is nothing compared to the will of an Italian with a grudge.

“Do you want some coffee? Or something to eat? What can I do for you?” I slide my gaze to the right. My gorgeous wife is worried, doting on me like the thought of me being in pain physically hurtsher.

Palming the side of her face, my heart constricts as she presses into my hand and closes her eyes. It’s such a tender moment, and although I’m trying to reassure her that everything is going to be okay, I’m the one who’s recharged. Her tenderness is my morphine. I crave it, every morsel she gives.

“All I need is you, Tesoro. Right here next to me.” My words are whispered so I don’t disturb the others waiting on their loved ones. After all, thirty five percent of us here will have bad news. It makes sense why hospitals are always dreaded, but I have to focus on the fact that a hundred years ago, those odds were reversed.

So, here’s to modern medicine and the fact that it’s going to save my dad.

“Mrs. Mancini?” We all rise as one when my mother is called by the doctor who’s just pulled his scrub cap off. He looks tired, like saving my father’s life took a toll on his own well-being. If only he knew how many men my father putinthe hospital, I wonder if he would have worked as hard to save him…

“Yes, Doctor. These are my children, you can speak freely.” Nodding at us all, he directs his next words at my mother alone.

“Your husband suffered a major heart attack. We were able to go in and repair the damage to the left anterior artery and also remove the blood clot that essentially provoked the attack.” My mother—whose hand is gripping my wrist, her nails doing some serious damage—relaxes the tiniest fraction at his words. I’m hoping he’s not throwing all these terms at us just to announce my father is dead.

“Okay, so that means?” It’s my turn to hold my mother because the doctor’s next words will either allow her to breathe or break her completely.

“He’s in the ICU, the next twenty-four hours are critical, but we’re hopeful that he’ll make a full recoveryif…”—his dramatic pause makes me want to shake the theatrics out of him—“he follows treatment and changes his eating habits.”

Yeah, good luck with that.

My mother’s entire body melts at the good news, like now she can breathe and smile and live again. “Thank you, Doctor. Can we see him?”

“In a little while. Right now he needs the rest, but I’ll send a nurse out to get you when he’s wheeled into his own room.”

I shake the hand of the man who’s just saved my father’s life before I turn to my mother and envelop her in my embrace. She’s not crying, never in public places, but I know that once she’s in the room with him or at home, she’ll break down. It’s her process and I’ve learned to deal with it.

“No more fats andsalsicciafor Papà, huh?” She chuckles at that then lifts her delicate features to meet my gaze, her inner strength clear in the spark of her gray eyes. Eyes so much like mine.

“Vedremo, figlio mio, vedremo.”

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