Saving Francesca (17 page)

“Anything. Marital problems?”

I think for a moment.

“He takes off his socks and leaves them anywhere, and he’s happy to go along with anything except sometimes going out with some of her friends, but I don’t think that’s the issue. I think she’s worried that his idea of retiring one day is sitting on the couch with her, which up till this year was totally foreign to her because I’d never seen her sit on a couch for more than five minutes in her whole life. And he can never understand why she has to worry about who they’ll be in thirty years’ time and not just enjoy who they are now. Plus she does all the running around after us and he says, ‘Why? Who’s telling you to?’ And she says—”

“I’ve heard my mother say it,” Justine interrupts.

“Someone has to,” we say, mimicking our mothers. Even Thomas joins in.

“This is a personal conversation,” I tell him.

“About where your parents will be in the future? I understand these questions in life. Do you know what I’m listening to right now?” he asks. “It’s called ‘Ten Years.’ Listen to this:

“Will you have played your part?
Will you have carved your mark?”

He looks at me, nodding his head slowly and dramatically.

“Where are you this very moment?”

“Sitting next to a dickhead, Thomas. And you?”

“Ignore him,” Justine says, continuing to scroll. “How about ‘bereavement, losing one’s job, financial stress’?”

“Not the last two. But maybe bereavement. She was crazy about my nonno, but when he died she just took over everything because other people were hysterical during that time and she had to take care of everyone. And it was a crazy time for her because she had been offered a lecturing job at the university and she couldn’t take time out and go to pieces, you know. She just got on with it. That’s what she does . . . or did. She just gets on with things. And Dad, being Dad, would tell her that everything was going to be fine.”

“Which is a bit of a lie,” Thomas says. “Your no-no was dead and your dad was pretending that he wasn’t, which was the last thing your mother needed.”

“My nonno, not my no-no. And my father is an optimist. He sees the bright side of things.”

“That’s called denial,” Thomas says knowingly.

“You listen to a few song lyrics and now you’re a psychologist?”

“You’re like your father.
Denial
.”

“Did I ask for your advice?” I ask him.

“How about alcoholism?” Justine asks. “Excessive consumption of caffeine?”

“I can’t put my mother’s depression down to too many macchiatos at Bar Italia.”

“They’ve got suggestions to deal with it. Eat wholesome food, spend some time in a stress-free environment with a companion who is willing to listen to you, get plenty of fresh air and sunlight, exercise six days per week, and take plenty of vitamins B and C.”

Thomas looks at me and rolls his eyes.

“Obviously these are just simple solutions,” Justine adds, realizing how weak it all sounds.

“She can’t even get off the couch, Justine, and they advise her to go to a gym?”

“Antidepressants,” Thomas suggests. “My father was on them for six months once. Fun times.”

My relationship with my father begins to get worse. It’s almost as if we’re embarking on a custody battle over my mum. Every time I try to press him about what the doctors have to say, he’s vague or I feel he’s lying.

“Your nonna’s doctor said she was stressed,” he explains one night while cooking dinner.

“She’s not stressed. She’s suffering acute depression,” I say, liking the way the jargon slips out as if I know what I’m talking about.

My brother is in front of the fridge squeezing Ice Magic on his tongue. I point to Luca, who escapes outside with it.

“I’ve told you before,” he says. “Stop seeing this as something you have to solve. She has a lot on her plate.”

“Papa, she won’t eat anything off her plate. She needs antidepressants.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nor do you!”

“I don’t want her on antidepressants,” he says flatly. “Nonna Celia was on them for years, and it was a nightmare for Mia growing up that way.”

“That was years ago, Papa. Things have changed.”

“We can work this out ourselves,” he continues, despite the fact that I’m shaking my head.

“No we can’t. Papa, it’s been three months. It’s not going to go away.”

“I’ve spoken about it with her and she doesn’t want antidepressants.”

“What she wants isn’t the issue anymore!” I’m shouting, but I can’t help it. “Getting her better is, and she doesn’t just belong to you. She belongs to us as well.”

“I’m the adult here, Francesca. I make the decisions, not you. You’re the kid.”

“Oh,
now
I’m the kid. When I have to ring up the university to go into what’s wrong with her, I’m an adult, but now I’m a kid because you’re the expert.”

“Do you think I haven’t looked into this?” he asks. “She doesn’t have a chemical imbalance. She doesn’t need to get addicted to something. She doesn’t need tablets giving her nightmares.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve done my research too. She needs to get on her feet. She hasn’t been outside, on her own, for three months.”

“Go do your homework.”

“Oh, fantastic argument, Papa. ‘Keep the house tidy. Do your homework. Be a good girl.’ That’s going to fix everything, isn’t it? That’d make me want to get out of bed if I were Mummy.”

It’s total silence after that. The food is cardboard in my mouth, but I race to finish it because I want to get into Mia’s room before he does.

Later, I snuggle up beside her. “Tell me the story about when I almost drowned?” I ask her, so then she can be the hero and it’ll make her feel better. But she says nothing and I switch on the television and I pretend that what we’re watching is funny. It’s a sitcom about a family, two kids, a mum, and a dad. Their idea of tension is an argument about who gets the cottage out back. At the end, everyone’s happy because that’s what happens in television land. Things get solved in thirty minutes.

God, I want to live there.

chapter 23

MS. QUINN SENDS
me up to the counselor on Friday. Sometimes I wonder how I come across to these people. Is it written all over my face, or does the whole world just know every detail of my family life?

I stand in front of Ms. Quinn’s desk, unimpressed. I’m not interested in someone picking my brain. Me going to see a counselor is not going to make Mia any better.

“I send everyone up to him,” she tells me.

“No you don’t.”

“How do you know, Francesca? People keep counselor visits quiet, so it’s not as if they’re going to tell you they’ve gone to see him.”

“I don’t feel like talking. I’m fine, anyway. Actually, I’m better than I’ve ever been, and if I have to speak to anyone, I trust you.”

Saying that to teachers always works. The emotional ones like Ms. Quinn thrive on being needed.

She smiles. “I’m glad.”

“Thanks for your concern, though,” I say, turning to walk out.

“No problem at all. Come and see me after you’ve spoken to him. I’ll ring to tell him you’re on your way up.”

I turn back to face her.

“I thought we agreed that I wasn’t going.”

“No,” she says, in what I know is feigned confusion. “You go to Mr. Hector and I go on to be the least gullible teacher in this school.”

No wonder the guys say she’s a bitch.

“Would it hurt to speak to someone who is completely objective?” she asks.

“Objective about what?”

“Objective about what’s going on at home, Francesca.”

“You don’t know anything about what’s going on in my home.”

“We could do this for another hour, but I’ve got classes and you’re still going to the counselor.”

“That’s bullying!”

“Oh please, I’m nowhere near the bullying stage.”

I face her, arms folded. If this woman thinks she’s going to win this one, she’s sorely mistaken.

The counselor’s not that bad.

Not that I can see myself wanting to visit him again, but he doesn’t try to make me write things down or keep a journal of my pain, and he never once tells me that things are going to be fine.

I explain to him that my dad tells me that things are going to be fine all the time. Mr. Hector asks me how I feel about that, and because I sense he’s going to start analyzing me, I make it up and tell him what he wants to hear.

That every time my dad says that everything’s okay, I want to scream. Because everything’s not okay. The woman who has driven this family for longer than I’ve been alive can’t leave the house, so how can that be okay? “Okay” is coming home and your parents are having an argument. “Okay” is Mia picking us up from school and going grocery shopping and us dancing in the aisle to the pathetic music over the PA system. “Okay” is Mia telling me what’s best for me and me completely disagreeing, and it’s Mia telling my father to carry the load a bit more because she’s sick of having to do all the running around. “Okay” is listening to them have sex at night and blocking your ears because you think listening to your parents having sex is a form of child abuse. “Okay” is them bantering with each other in front of you and you not understanding a single word because they’re speaking in riddles they alone understand. “Okay” is knowing what to expect.

In the end I don’t say much to him at all, and I go back to Ms. Quinn, who’s speaking on the phone and eyeing me at the same time. I like her office. It’s incredibly tidy, but it’s got personality, not to mention a sofa. She has music playing all the time. Today it’s Counting Crows, and I feel as melancholy as the lead singer’s voice.

“I’m cured,” I tell her when she gets off the phone.

“Are you, now?”

“Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

“No. I want to hear that you’re happy.”

“Are
you
?”

She thinks for a moment. She’s almost my mother’s age, and they’re kind of similar in a way. If my mum were well, I could imagine them hitting it off.

“Most of the time I am,” she tells me.

“Why not all of the time?”

She eyes me suspiciously. “You’re trying to get out of Mr. Brolin’s class, aren’t you?”

I grin and shrug. “Maybe. I bet if you were in my shoes, you would too, but you’re going to plead professionalism and not put down a colleague.”

“Go to class.”

I kind of like her when she’s relaxed. She doesn’t have that tired, looking-for-something-better expression some of my Stella teachers had. When I grow up, I think I’m going to be a teacher or maybe even a counselor.

I walk to Brolin’s class feeling lighter in mood. He gives me a detention for being late without a note. Actually, I do have a note from Ms. Quinn, but he doesn’t really give me a chance, so I say, “If that’s what makes you happy,” and he sends me down to Ms. Quinn for being rude.

“So where were we?” I ask her, getting comfortable on the sofa.

chapter 24

ANGELINA’S WEDDING DAY
comes fast, and the stress that I feel over the cleavage dress is further emphasized by the fact that even the priest looks down at my chest when he’s giving me instructions.

But I take a deep breath and I do the comparison thing. People are dying of hunger and terrorists are creating fear, and evil politicians are taking advantage of that fear and refugee kids are drowning trying to come to our country and Mia can’t even go to her favorite niece’s wedding, and the list goes on forever.

Suddenly a cleavage is
nothing
but me being pathetic. So Pachelbel’s Canon starts and it’s my cue.

The ushers open the door and I step inside.

And I step right back outside again!

Will Trombal is in the fifth-last row, third person from the end. I can’t breathe.

“Frankie?”

The whole bridal party is looking at me.

“I can’t go out there,” I tell them.

Angelina lets go of my uncle Rocco’s arm and steps forward. The others are stunned.

“Brides and grooms are allowed to have second thoughts. Not bridesmaids,” Vera explains in her duh-brain voice.