Apricot Kisses (24 page)

“
Ooh là là
, you’ve got it bad,”
Claire whispers in the darkness.

Nonsense. My period is coming up, and that always makes me cry easily.
I straighten up defiantly.

I hear Claire again:
“All right—if it helps you deal with the situation.”

Just leave me alone, Claire.
I stand up. Then I realize that people are running around in the yard, shouting to each other. I hear car doors slamming, engines starting. I stop dead, my heart beating wildly against my chest. Then an ambulance zooms down the driveway, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

Lucia. Please don’t let it be Lucia! I start to run.

When I reach the main building, the commotion is over. The yard lies deserted, dimly lit by the yard light. I look around in panic. Something white scurries toward me out of the darkness—Vittoria, with feathers fluffed up and her signature growl. I’m so happy to encounter any kind of living thing that I squat and reach out for her. The hen stops. Defying death, I stretch my arm even farther. That’s too much for Vittoria. Fluttering her wings and clucking, she hops away.

“Hanna? What are you doing?”

I squint, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Lucia!”

She seems strangely foreign as she stands in front of me with drooping shoulders and a dazed look. We hug and Lucia begins to cry, so I pat her trembling back. I know it’s unfair, but I’m filled with gratitude that she wasn’t the one taken away by the ambulance.

“What happened?” I hold her away from me.

“He—those damn sweets! I told him he could only have two of Rosa-Maria’s biscotti. I had no idea he’d already had some birthday cake at Signora Valuzi’s . . . and then went for an espresso at Benito’s. Who knows what else he stuffed into himself there. He’s totally addicted to everything sweet. Alberto just keeled over.” With a sob, Lucia adds, “And it’s my fault that he’s dying.”

“Don’t be silly. Alberto is a grown man; he’s responsible for himself.” I gently shake her shoulders. “Why are you still here? You should go to the hospital.”

Lucia holds up a bag. “I was grabbing some of Alberto’s stuff . . . I mean, he’ll need his pajamas and his slippers. Marco went along with the ambulance, and I’m going to take the Ford.

I take the bag out of her hand and smile what I hope is an encouraging smile. “So what are we waiting for?”

“You’re coming along?” She rubs her eyes.

“Don’t insult me.”

With a tiny smile, Lucia looks around. “Where is Fabrizio? I didn’t hear the motorbike.”

I’ve been afraid of that question. “He isn’t here.”

“But why?” Her eyes narrow. “Did you quarrel again? Don’t tell me you walked home.”

“That’s not important right now, Lucia. Let’s talk about it later.” I completely fail to hide how much it hurts just to hear Fabrizio’s name. Lucia seems about to say something, but then just pushes her chin forward, looking less helpless now.

“You’re right.” She rummages in her bag until she finds her phone and keys. “I’ll call Fabrizio and tell him Alberto is in the hospital and we’re on the way there.” The keys jingle and I nod silently. Lucia’s already striding across the yard.

Chapter Thirteen

Hanna

From the outside, the Ospedale Misericordia looks like an alien control center that dropped from the sky by accident. Why do buildings where people are supposed to get well have to be so ugly?

As soon as we step into the emergency room, I understand why Giuseppa consulted a German cardiologist. The waiting room is packed with people of all ages filling all available chairs, the floor, and the standing room. But people laugh, talk, and drink espresso. Somewhere a baby is crying, children crawl around, and a few teenagers play on their phones. The atmosphere is reminiscent of a fairground, were it not for hospital employees in green smocks wandering around among the patients, sometimes dispensing medical care right then and there.

Lucia drags me through the crowd and pushes forward until she reaches a glass enclosure with a round opening above it that says
“Registrazione
.
”
A nurse sits inside, knitting.

I do a double take, but it’s no optical illusion. The woman is knitting without a care in the world while at least fifty people line up in front of the desk. Lucia knocks on the glass.

“Prego?”

The nurse doesn’t even look up.

“Are you knitting a bonnet for your little grandson, Gina? It’s lovely,” Lucia says. The knitting needles stop, and the chubby nurse looks up with a smile. So that’s how it works here.

“Lucia,” Nurse Gina coos over her gold-rimmed glasses. “It’s been a while since last time.”

When I glance at Lucia, she shakes her head and bends closer to the hole in the glass. “Well, you know how Alberto is. I can’t wean him off the sweet stuff, and I can’t be after him day and night.”

The nurse nods and purses her lips. “Men! If women and fast cars don’t kill them, sugar will.”

Lucia smiles. “Can you tell me where they brought him?”

“Of course, dear. Room 543—the same block as last time. Listen, can you bring me a jar of your wonderful apricot-blossom honey next time you come in?”

“With pleasure!
Mille grazie.
” Lucia throws an air kiss, grabs my arm, and pulls me into the elevator.

“You have honey at Tre Camini, too?” I say while watching the floor display over the elevator door. It still indicates the first floor, even though we’re moving up. The elevator rattles and squeaks. The way my luck runs, we’ll probably get stuck or the cable will break.

“Of course we have honey.” Lucia chews her lips. “Eduardo—Marco and Fabrizio’s grandfather—built the beehives decades ago in the outer orchard. He saw that the bees were crazy about apricot blossoms. I don’t care too much for honey myself, but Nonna loved it. She used it with everything, even added it to pasta sauces.” Then her forced cheerfulness gives way again to the nervous tension that made the drive to the hospital so uncomfortable.

I try to hide my own nerves about the elevator. “Are the beehives large? I mean, do you produce lots of honey?”

Lucia studies the floor display, too. “We only use it for the kitchen and our hotel guests.”

I sigh in relief when the elevator jerks to a halt and the doors rumble open.

“I always think it’s scary in there,” Lucia mumbles. She heads to the right, and I follow. I’m not usually so puppylike, but she’s my friend, after all.

I smile when I see that the sign on Room 543 is crooked. Once Italians decide to be chaotic, they go about it with attention to even the smallest detail. Lucia turns around. Her eyes are as huge as saucers.

“He’s not in Intensive Care,” I say. “That means Alberto is conscious and probably won’t mind having some of your chocolate cookies.”

A tiny smile.

“Now go in. I’ll wait at the window over there.” I point to a cluster of chairs at the end of the hallway—all the seats are taken—and I see Paolo and Rosa-Maria (pressing a handkerchief to her eyes) among the crowd. Lucia gives me a grateful look and opens the door. I hear a babble of voices from inside and I glimpse a tall, slender man. My stomach tenses. So Fabrizio is already here.

Fabrizio

I was still a child when Nonna talked to me about fear, the kind of fear I bring along to this hospital room today. A huge storm raged through the valley that night. To me, the storm was a hungry monster rattling the shutters and trying to get into the house through the roof. Furious that we shut it out, the storm tore down the power lines in the yard and bombarded Nonna’s Mercedes with hailstones the size of tennis balls. Nonna never forgave it that.

Marco had been asleep a long time under Nonna’s embroidered bedspread, but I pulled the blanket all the way up to my nose and anxiously watched as Nonna lit some candles. When she was done, she looked at me with her usual mixture of strictness and kindness, a deep wrinkle between her eyes and many tiny ones around them. “You aren’t afraid, are you, Fabrizio?” I hurriedly shook my head though my heart was thudding. “Good. Because—listen to me—fear does not exist.” She sat down on my bed and stroked my hair with her rough hand. I pushed the blanket down to my chin. Nonna tapped my temple and smiled. “We create fear ourselves. That’s why we can also control it—unlike love.” Her finger wandered to my chest. “Love is made here, very far away from your head. Always remember that, child.”

I have remembered. But as I look at Alberto right now—his head sunken into a pillow, his wrinkled face yellow like faded paper—I definitely feel fear in my chest. And although I try, I can’t control it.

I study the IV bag and tube attached to Alberto’s arm. They’re giving him a mixture of saline and insulin, the doctor told me. He explained all kinds of things in medical speak, and I can only remember words like
high blood sugar
,
dehydration
, and
fainting
—and the calming sentence, “He’s asleep, but he’ll wake up soon, and he’ll be very thirsty.”

While I tell myself for the hundredth time that my fear for Alberto is unfounded, I study Marco. He’s sitting on a stool next to Alberto’s bed and staring at the blanket. It’s amazing, actually, that the old man is sleeping so peacefully. Family members of the three other patients fill the room. They are eating dinner and discussing the day’s events at high volume, oblivious to those who need sleep and rest. Since there aren’t enough chairs, two of them wanted to sit on Alberto’s bed with their full pasta plates—I fought them off. I’ve been constantly pulling children out from under his bed, too. Sometimes Italians really get on my nerves.

I only notice Lucia when she approaches Marco and touches his shoulder. He sighs, wraps his arms around her hips, and buries his face in her sweater. It’s strange to see him like that. I always thought he couldn’t care less about Alberto—or the rest of mankind. That’s probably another injustice to him. Lucia loves him, and she must have a reason. The two whisper with each other and I look toward the door. I’m disappointed that Lucia has come alone.

She sees me look. “She’s waiting outside.” I don’t move, even though in my mind I’m already running down the hallway. Lucia clears her throat. “I’d like an espresso, Fabrizio. Is that reason enough for you?”

I frown at her. Lucia raises an eyebrow and nods her chin at the door. The cheerful group at the window starting to say grace pushes me over the edge. I leave the room with a pounding heart.

It takes me a moment to get used to the dim emergency lighting out here. I’m relieved to find the waiting area empty except for a single person leaning against the window.

I stop and watch Hanna. Forehead pressed against the window, hands resting on the sill, she looks relaxed, almost asleep. A floorboard squeaks under my feet. She stiffens slightly.

“Did Paolo and Rosa-Maria go home?” I ask because I can’t think of anything better to say.

“Paolo has to look after the animals and dragged Rosa-Maria along, even though she put up a fight,” Hanna says without moving. She’s still wearing the blue dress, and now I’m so close that I can see the goose bumps on her arms. I take off my jacket and wrap it around her shoulders.

“Your jacket is on the motorcycle. You forgot it at the osteria.” I step next to her and look out the window, too—an ocean of lights under a red moon, partially hidden behind clouds.

“It looks creepy outside,” she whispers and pulls the jacket tighter around her body.

“It doesn’t even come close to what’s going on in Alberto’s room—it’s
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
in there.” My attempt at wit is clumsy; what I really want is to ask her why she ran away. But her cool scrutiny makes me insecure. This isn’t the Hanna who, a short time ago, laughed with me in Salvi’s osteria and let me in on her little secrets. This is the detached and unapproachable Signora Philipp whom I had completely forgotten about.

“How is Alberto?”

“He’s tough as Carlo’s schnitzel.”

Finally a tiny smile, even though it doesn’t seem meant for me. “I’m happy for him.”

I look at her sideways and fight the urge to embrace her. Instead, I dig my hands into my pockets and wait—for who knows what. Nonna picks this exact moment to interfere in my life again.
“Boy, haven’t you learned anything at all?”
she scolds, digging her finger into my chest.
“Your heart is very far from your head. Stop trying to control it! Do what it tells you to do; don’t concern yourself with what you might lose.”

But I don’t know what it’s telling me, Nonna.

“Yes, you do, Fabrizio. Just listen.”

My heart pounds like mad.

“If you want, I’ll let you out of our deal.” What comes out of my mouth, quickly and way too loud, terrifies me. But surprisingly, it also relieves me. Hanna’s eyes show no reaction.

“You mean our wedding?” she says.

“It wouldn’t be right to force you to marry me,” I say slowly, keeping my eyes on her. “I realize that now. I’ll drop the case against your magazine. You’re free to do whatever you wish.” My voice sounds hollow. Never in my life have I wanted a woman more. And never before have I hoped more that a woman would say yes to me if I left the choice up to her.

Hanna

It’s not as if I expected something else. I might have hoped—somewhere in a quiet and deserted chamber of my heart, where reality hasn’t yet bulldozed all the furnishings. I study Fabrizio, who looks out into the night, and even though I feel more torn up than I’ve ever felt before, a wave of tenderness floods me. I’m deeply grateful to this man who showed me, no matter how briefly, that I am capable of loving someone—even if he isn’t the one. Swallowing, I clench my hands into fists behind my back. It hurts.

“That’s very generous of you.” I paste on a smile.

“Does that mean you’re going to take me up on the offer?” he says, voice flat, shoulders drawn up. He obviously feels guilty.

“Don’t worry about me. I can’t wait to return to a country where hospital corridors are lit properly.”

“I’m sorry I kept you from that for such a long time.”

Fabrizio looks at me strangely. It seems he wants to add something, but I beat him to it. “Well, for me, at least, our business deal paid off. I get off easy.” I smile, though my insides churn. I just can’t lose it now! I’m close to throwing myself at him and confessing my love in a way that would make dime-novel Prudence green with envy. Fabrizio’s eyes narrow.

“Our business?”

“Our business!” I wink, feeling foolish—and proud at the same time, because my flippant remark seems to make him feel good about returning to Sofia. His chest rises and he straightens to his full height. He looks me over as if he were an artist evaluating an unfinished painting—and deciding not to finish it.

“I’ll contact my attorney first thing tomorrow. Thank you for going through all the trouble with the kitchen duty, the bridal dinner, and everything. You played your role very convincingly.”

“So did you—you had me pretty convinced you were a groom in love.”

With a crooked smile, Fabrizio looks down the hallway. “I’ll go back in before some caring auntie stuffs Alberto with pasta. Should I ask Lucia or Marco to drive you home—to Tre Camini?”

I’m collapsing inside. He is friendly now, but in a businesslike way. I’ve never felt so forlorn in all my life. “I’d appreciate that.”

About two hours and a silent car ride later—I pretended to sleep, to avoid Lucia’s questions—I’m standing in my little Cinderella room. I can’t bring myself to go to bed. So I snatch up the last installment of
Propelled by Hope
and sit down at the desk to finish my excursion into the world of pulp fiction.

It’s dawn when I leave the bedroom of the happily united—or still uniting—couple, with an aching back and an envious sigh. At least Prudence got what she wanted, and I forgot for a few hours that I won’t. I put on some jeans and a thin sweater and head outside for fresh air.

But on the spur of the moment, I turn right at the foot of the stairs and enter the narrow hallway that leads to the old part of the house. The ceiling looms lower overhead after a few yards, and I step on well-worn wooden boards. Since I’ve never been anywhere in the house except the annex and the kitchen, I look around with interest. The walls here are papered with old-fashioned wallpaper instead of being washed white, and framed family photos are everywhere. Some are faded, as if time had painted over them. I resist the temptation to examine them more closely, since I don’t want to be surprised here by Lucia, Marco, or Fabrizio. I heard the motorcycle a little earlier, the slamming of a heavy door, and then I saw the distillery light go on. I push away the thought of Fabrizio and his desperate fight with the right liqueur ingredients. It’s none of my business anymore. Not sure what to do next, I continue down the corridor to an open, double-leaved door with heavy brass fittings.

The living room beyond, which smells of leather, charcoal, and old books, is so impressive that I pause in the doorway. The enormous oil painting above the stone fireplace mesmerizes me instantly. The woman in the painting is my mother’s age and wears her black hair loosely drawn back at her neck. Slim ankles and milky-white feet peek out from her dark-blue apron dress. She sits at a table, a bowl of apricots in front of her, and holds a fruit knife in her hand. She looks straight out of the frame. My mouth dries up. It seems as if the woman is not only flirting with the painter, but penetrating me with her licorice eyes. I don’t need anyone to tell me who this is. Spellbound, I move closer to Giuseppa Camini. I can see her pursed lips and the laughter lines in her strict face—as if both I and the entire world amuse her.