Page 10 of Brutal Obsession
When I seek answers from the only person who can give them, I learn that the half-dozen stairs at the front of San Giorgio’s must have exhausted Mom. Her head is resting on my shoulder, and the breaths of her faint snores dust my cheek with warm air.
I kiss her temple before breathing in the comforting scent of honey and amber. I feel like crying. Salty blobs have been threatening to spill from my eyes all day. But I can’t release them yet. I need to remain strong for Mom.
Furthermore, crying won’t help anything. It will just add another problem to my already overstuffed plate.
“One more step, Mom,” I say, aiding her slow climb up the stairwell in my aunt’s building that’s painted the color of an old lemon. “We’re almost there.”
Aunt Maria is at her front door, ready to welcome us with open arms. She helps me settle Mom into her bed and is rewarded with my first genuine smile of the day when she fusses over every minute detail. Maria gives Mom the best pillow and wraps her in the softest blanket.
Although the apartment’s sole bedroom is compact, it’s clean, and the sunlight warming the aged walls provides a luxurious ambiance Mom hasn’t experienced in months. The rays highlighting her petite features burst happiness through her eyes.
“Go fetch some milk from the corner store.” My aunt presses a few coins into my hand. “I’ll pop the kettle on. Your mom’s been dying for a sneakygranita di caffèfor a week.”
Grateful for the excuse to get some air, even if it’s only for a few minutes, I collect my purse from the kitchen and leave.
Freshly baked goods and sun-kissed skin permeate from the busy supermarket. I place some discounted bakery items the store will discard tonight if unsold and a pint of milk in a basket.
When I get to the register, I pull out my phone and hope for the best. The cab fare took me down to my last ten dollars, but because I forgot about the bus fare this morning, I’m suddenly not confident I’ll have enough funds.
The cashier barely glances at me when I tap my phone against the payment terminal.
My heart plummets to my stomach when the machine beeps and then flashes red.
Declined.
My cheeks burn when I try again and achieve the same result. Mumbling that there must be a bank error, I fumble for coins at the bottom of my purse. On the counter, I count out what little funds I have while striving to ignore the internal alarm announcing payday is still four days away.
I don’t have enough, so I tell the cashier I’ll return when the bank fixes its error to purchase the baked goods I have to leave behind.
Outside, the ghastly humid air adds to the sting of humiliation painting my cheeks red. The coins I gathered in a hurry feel heavier in my pocket than they should. They’re a testament of how little stands between us going under. Even the smallest comforts, like a sweet pastry or a cup of coffee, are luxuries now.
Back at my aunt’s, I sit in darkness and watch Mom sleep. She looks fragile in a bed designed only for one, and her breaths are shallow and uneven. I’d give anything to pound out my frustration with a five-mile run before downing shots like I’ve never had a hangover. Instead, I press my palms to my watering eyes and breathe through the burden drowning me on land.
The afternoon passes in a blur. I help my aunt with dinner and act as if it’s normal for a child to spoon-feed her parent before I get ready for my shift at the pub.
As taught, I empty the pockets of my skirt before placing it in the laundry hamper. A trickle of hope peeks out from beneath the dark swamping me when I remember the pamphlet Luca gave me. I try not to grant his promise of a big payday any attention, mindful thatnothing good comes easy, but the more I strive to forget it, the more the crumpled pamphlet beckons me to it.
Dr. Russo discharged Mom with enough medication to last her four weeks, but after that, we’re on our own. I’ll have to pay for the next round. It won’t be the full rate since we’re on benefits, but the number of prescriptions she needs is more than I can afford.
The numbers I mentally crunch drop my heart to my feet. Months of scraping by and watching hope still slip through my fingers snaps something inside me.
Before I can talk sense into myself, I snatch up the crumpled pamphlet and dial the number on the back. I can’t save Mom with hope. I can’t pay for her life-saving treatment with pride. I need money—real money—and if the only way I can get that is by selling a part of myself, then so be it. I’ll do that.
In under a minute, I’m no longer the girl who came to Sicily for a fresh start. I’m a daughter and caregiver. I am whoever I need to be to save my mother’s life.
Even someone who’ll sell their soul to the devil, if they must.
4
GIOVANNI
As I navigate a well-known curve adjacent to Ospedale San Giorgio’s, I grip the steering wheel firmly enough to whiten my knuckles. The route, road, and bleak white building are identical sentinels. I’ve driven this journey so often over the past month that it’s become a ritual. I could do it blindfolded.
Each day I convince myself that today will be different, that I’ll see Valentina’s molten locks reflecting the morning light, and her curves moving through the crowd with that quiet confidence I can’t forget. But every day, disappointment waits for me at the curb.
The footpaths outside San Giorgio’s and the warehouse where Councilor Messina died remain lackluster and bland. The entrance doors of San Giorgio’s slide open and shut thousands of times a day, but never for Valentina.
My frustration has grown over the past month, and the silence has exacerbated it. I’ve exhausted every resource to find Valentina. I contacted hospitals nationwide, bribed county clerks for records, and leaned on favors worth far more than a raid on every Raimondi property in the area.
