“I have to say I’m happy Sofia is going to become a Mancini. She’s more down-to-earth, easier to control. She’ll give you less trouble than her older sister,” Mother said.
I wasn’t sure what Sofia was. I didn’t know her, and I wasn’t sure I had it in me to change that any time soon. I’d had enough of the Mione women for the time being. The problems arising before me were plenty. Getting to know my soon-fiancée wasn’t a priority.
Father clung to life until Christmas. He was too weak to eat downstairs in the dining room, so we took our plates upstairs to share a meal with him. Emma had decorated the windowsill and headboard with tinsel and baubles to give the room a less depressing atmosphere.
Emma talked about her new hobby—pottery, a way to pass her time now that she couldn’t do ballet anymore. Mom and I kept up the conversation with tidbits of our daily life and gossip making the rounds. Father was too weak to speak more than a couple of words, but he listened, his chest rattling with every breath. The worst thing about his broken state was that he was still fully there in that broken body, his eyes alert and hungry for life, but his body unable to go on.
The days that followed the Christmas holidays dragged on, with Father getting worse every day. Walking into his room became harder every time. I didn’t want to see him so lifeless and weak, I wanted to create a bubble of denial similar to what I’d felt when I’d visited Emma in the hospital after her accident. But denial didn’t alter the truth.
On the last day of the year, I entered the master bedroom and found Father gasping for breath, his face scrunched up in pain with Mother bent over him, crying. She glanced at me. “I don’t know how to help him. I just don’t know.”
Father’s eyes met mine. “She . . . needs . . . to rest.” He coughed, moaning in agony as he did.
I grabbed Mom’s arm and led her out. “Lie down on the sofa. You need to rest.” She didn’t protest. She wrapped her arms around me. “You and your father are so strong. Emma and I’d be lost without you.”
I nodded, then gently pried her arms off me and returned to the bedroom, closing the door. Dad slumped in the bed, every ounce of tension leaving his muscles and the determination in his face with it.
“Danilo,” he croaked. I stepped up to the bed, shocked to see tears on his cheeks. His shoulders began to shake, his coughs mingling with sobs. I tensed, unsure what to do. I’d never seen my father like that. He’d taught me to hide emotions, especially tears. It was weakness, and here he was sobbing like a child.
I clutched his hand. “It’s okay.” The words were meaningless, but I was at a loss how to brave Father’s despair.
“I’m scared to die.”
I sank down on the edge of the bed. “You’ve faced death so often.”
“Not like this, never like this.”
Listening to his croaked words pained me. His hand shook in mine, his eyes begging me to help him, but there was only one way to ease his suffering at this point.
I wasn’t ready for that step yet, neither was he.
“What if death is the end? What if it isn’t? I’m a sinner. There’s nothing ahead of me to find absolution.”
I squeezed his hand. God had played an abstract role in our lives. We’d gone to church on Sundays because our men were religious and it was expected, but Father and I had never given much of our time or thoughts toward faith. “Whatever lies ahead, you’ll conquer it, Dad. You are strong.”
“I was. I’m not anymore.” He closed his eyes and cried silently.
I stayed at his side, not saying anything, unable to comfort him, barely able to see him as the shadow of the man he used to be.
A few minutes after midnight, my father died surrounded by Mom, Emma, and me. Emma had insisted on being present, even if I’d been wary of letting her stay.
Their sadness filled the room like their sobbing and crying. I stood by the wall, a bystander to their open anguish. Deep down, the turmoil they showed openly tortured me, but my stoic outer mask remained unperturbed. Mom and Emma needed me to be strong, to be their rock in these unsteady times. It was my task in life. My duty.
I balled my hands into fists in my pockets, the only outward sign of the fiery mix of emotions burning up inside me. Sadness and fury had mixed with the dark emotions that had built over many months, and were now joined by newer, darker emotions, creating a potent mix that threatened to unravel me.
After the morgue had taken Father’s body and I’d made all the necessary arrangements, I left the house. It was almost five in the morning, and my mother and sister had finally succumbed to sleep. I was wide awake. I’d suppressed too many emotions in the last year. I needed an outlet, a reprieve from my controlled self.
I drove to one of the clubs Marco’s family managed. It was the best place in the city if you wanted a good time and had the necessary funds.
The guestlist was exclusive, and you could only get through the door if your name was on the list. The bouncers let me pass without a word. Before I could settle at the bar, Marco appeared at my side. “I heard,” he said.
I nodded, ordered a drink, and downed it. “I need to take my mind off things.”
I
