She walked down the street. Luciano and Magda followed her with their eyes, and looked at each other, unsure of what to do.
Elisa’s mother’s sobbed and then said, “Well, what are you waiting for? You can’t let her go alone. Go!”
Not needing to be told twice, Luciano and Magda followed Elisa up the road.
Luciano nudged open the heavy blue door. The faces assembled around the slight and shrouded figure on the bed looked up, nodding and shifting their weight before refocusing their attention on the girl, her face hidden behind tubes and an oxygen mask. As if by their sheer will, they could make her reanimate, return to them.
Luciano held the door open and Elisa walked in. She sobbed at the sight of her friend, and Salma made room for Elisa beside her. Elisa lurched forward, and curved into Salma, her tears flowing fast. Salma put an arm around the girl and pulled her closer. Looking up at Luciano she whispered her thanks for bringing Elisa.
Magda followed Elisa, but seeing the quizzical looks at her presence, she turned to Luciano, “I’ll wait outside. The room is full. I can’t imagine I’m needed here.”
Nodding his assent, he softly told the group that Magda had helped him fetch Elisa, and would be in the waiting room should anyone need anything. Magda cleared her throat, “Unless there is something you need now?”
The unfamiliar faces shook their heads, the man in rumpled clothes standing next to Salma added, “Chiara has gone to get us lunch. Chiara and that boy—Edo?”
Magda nodded. “I’ll be here if you think of anything.” She stepped back out to the hallway, willing the smell of disinfectant to drift out of her nose, out of her pores. To have her vision not filled with the unmoving figure of that little girl. Seeing her had cued memories of those curious eyes in the bakery, that ready laugh in the alimentari. Her fault, her fault . . .
Magda stumbled to the waiting room and slid into the first empty chair, relishing the cool, hard, uncomfortable surface.
Back in the room, Luciano asked, “How is she?”
Elisa, hearing the question, gulped air in her attempt to stop crying and listen for the answer. Flooding images made it hard to concentrate. Fatima weaving necklaces from daisies while chatting about the smell of Persian roses, spinning tales of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella from the books Luciano lent her, wearing the short-sleeve shirt under her family-approved wardrobe every day, placing her warm hand on Elisa’s arm when she sensed Elisa’s heart shivering in fear or sadness, lying on her bed with her hands under her head while the two of them swapped childhood memories of ghost stories and fairy tales, closing her eyes to savor whatever she was tasting, whether or not it included pork, before holding it out with a grin to share it with Elisa.
Salma said, “The same.”
“The x-rays didn’t come back yet?”
In halting Italian, Salma answered, “They did, but the photographs are difficult to read. They do not know how sick the lungs are. The doctor said the blood tests are finished. It is what they thought—she lost much oxygen.”
Salma’s father added, “They think she breathes chemicals from fire and it sleeps her. No, not sleep, but like sleep?”
Luciano smiled, “Faint?”
“Yes, thank you, faint. The smoke, it fills the room and . . .” Fatima’s father gestured to his daughter, taking up far too little space in the big, white bed.
A man seated across the room, Fatima’s uncle, Luciano remembered, said, “I thought I saw her moving a little while ago, but Salma thinks that was a shadow.”
Fatima’s father lowered his voice and asked Luciano. “And the fire?”
Luciano answered, “The fire chief confirmed it was started by an ember on the vines. There is no other story.”
Salma’s breath exhaled slowly, and she turned back to her daughter. “What was she even doing at the sagra?”
Elisa felt her stomach clench. Had Fatima been there to meet her? Had she been angry? Had she been ready to forgive her? Or had she just been there to watch the town eat and celebrate, to maybe sneak a bite?
Elisa looked up at Salma who wordlessly nodded her permission. Elisa caught up Fatima’s hand—were those pomegranate stains on her fingers?—and pressed it to her cheek. “Fatima . . . please . . . I love you. Come back, my friend.”
Thunder rumbled high across the greying sky. Shadows grazed the valley floor, meandering around stands of olive trees and leaping over stretching cypresses. The air thickened, gathered—an inhale before the storm.
One by one the figures filed past the Madonna glowing in her heavenly niche. Loaded as the villagers were with buckets, brooms, and bags, they paused to brush their fingers over the figure. She gazed upon each of them, her expression transcendent. They bowed their heads, breathed in, and climbed the steps. Like ants on a tentative trail, they followed each other up to the castle.
Chiara, newly back from delivering a pistachio yogurt cake and the news that the town was praying for Fatima, leaned on Edo for support. The two of them muted, intent on the task at hand. “What if it rains?” Edo asked.
“Then we’ll go home. But it could blow over. These November storms are often more flash than substance.”
Ava, who had heard about the English tourist, touched Edo’s shoulder. He looked down at her and smiled. She couldn’t help the way her stomach backflipped at his tender grin, but she was able to return his smile before the two of them strolled easily to the edge of the castle. They sighed in unison before gathering the charred remains of the vines.
Carosello, a piece of lettuce hanging from his right ear, trotted past Edo and Ava to nudge his nose against Fabrizio’s knee. Fabrizio, who had just crested the stairs to scan the group for Chiara, greeted the dog. Carosello thumped his tail twice and then flopped on the ground,
