Anita eagerly took over the shopping. She scanned the supermarket aisles, looking for discounts and offers. She made grilled-cheese sandwiches for lunch and instant soups and toast for dinner, every single day. She wanted Emilia to ingest something warm and soothing, hoping it could reawaken her. It was like playing dolls again, having to feed her mother as if she were her daughter.
Then, one night, Emilia was slouched on the couch watching television when Anita sat next to her holding her cup of soup. Emilia started combing Anita’s hair absentmindedly with the tips of her fingers.
“Your hair has grown so much, sweetie,” Emilia said, as if she’d just realized how much time had passed. “Go get a hair band in the bathroom—I’ll braid it for you.”
Anita ran, and came back eager for Emilia to start.
“Come here, closer. Sit on my lap.”
Anita sat still, holding her breath, feeling her mother’s fingers move nimbly through her hair, tightening the braid. Sofia appeared, and, as she saw the two of them so close, climbed up on the couch like a kitten.
“Can you braid my hair too?” she asked apprehensively.
“Of course. Just wait till I finish with Ninni.”
Emilia had used Anita’s old nickname—it had been a long time since she had called her that.
“Can we watch a film together?” Anita immediately asked. She didn’t want to move away from that closeness.
Emilia handed her the remote. “Yes. Pick what you like.”
The girls curled up next to her. Emilia took them under her arms, one on each side, their arms and legs in a tangle. They fell asleep halfway through the film, their warm, soupy breaths mingled into one in a steady rhythm.
* * *
They came through the door followed by a whiff of December cold. A tall, handsome woman, her teenage daughter and two older people, the grandparents, most probably. Good-looking, elegant, clearly a family, they were laughing, moving around at ease, like people used to having the world at their feet.
Anita watched them as the waiters greeted the group with familiarity, took their coats, led them to a corner table at the end of the room. It was the kind of old-fashioned restaurant near Piazza di Spagna now getting harder to find in the city, with etchings of ancient Rome on the walls, dark wooden paneling, white tablecloths and elderly waiters way past their retirement age. A couple of minutes later the door opened again with a slight creaking sound and Sandro walked in, car keys in hand, a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. Anita recognized him at once as he, without seeing them, hurried past the table where she was sitting with Emilia and Sofia, leaving a trail of his familiar scent. English Fern cologne. He reached the corner table, joined the family chatter, shook the hand of the headwaiter, who greeted him by name, kissed his daughter. Suddenly Emilia looked up from the dessert menu and her face turned to stone.
“Oh, fuck,” she said.
“What?” Sofia asked, alarmed.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Emilia’s hands tormented the napkin, then she took a deep breath as if she couldn’t fill her lungs with enough air.
“I think we should go,” she said.
“No, Mamma. Why?” Anita asked.
Emilia glared at her.
“Because.”
“I don’t want to leave yet. We still have to have dessert.”
It was Anita’s birthday. It had been Emilia’s idea to take them to lunch in a nice restaurant. The one Anita had picked was rather expensive, but Emilia agreed that turning thirteen was a big deal and deserved a proper celebration. Anita had asked permission to book the table herself; making the reservation under her own name had made her feel very grown up.
“You don’t understand. I don’t feel well,” Emilia said firmly.
Her face had become strangely solid, as if she had a plastic film tightly wrapped over her skin.
Anita ignored her and shot a glance at the table at the end of the room. Sandro was sitting with his back to them, so she couldn’t see his face. But she could see his daughter, whom she realized was about her own age. How slim, pretty, how protected and safe she looked in her light-blue turtleneck, her designer jeans and lace-up boots. Obviously, Anita thought, she would’ve been completely shielded from what she and Sofia had been exposed to—all the lies, the deceit. Having Sandro sit at their table for months on end, like a family member? Oh, please. What a joke.
Sandro must’ve said something funny because the girl was laughing now; even the mother seemed amused and was whispering something in the girl’s ear, which made her laugh even more. Look at them. Unscathed.
“Why don’t you go and say hi to him?” Anita turned toward Emilia defiantly.
“Stop it.”
“No, really. Why can’t you go and say hi? What are you afraid of? He’s a friend of yours, no?”
Sofia, once again, looked terrified. She was pleading with her eyes for her sister to stop.
“Sofia, please ask for the check,” Emilia said and began to rummage in her faded canvas handbag, keeping her head down.
Anita felt a surge of anger, seeing her mother turn into a victim once again. Why did they have to run away, like people proven wrong, who had something to hide? Why were they always at the mercy of someone else?
“It’s my birthday. I want dessert. I’m not leaving,” Anita repeated.
Emilia snarled, “You do whatever the fuck you want. I’m leaving now.”
Emilia grabbed the leather jacket hanging on the back of the chair and began to heave like someone gasping for her last breath. Then she bent over, retching, and threw up on the table. The restaurant went quiet and people turned their heads. Emilia stood up, kicked back the chair that crashed on the floor and ran outside. At that instant Sandro looked over his shoulder, and Anita caught his eyes, the surprise and terror in them, like someone seeing a train coming at him too fast.
* * *
With her eyes closed, lips slightly parted, Emilia lay on the sidewalk outside the restaurant next to a fancy flower shop. An unsightly scene for such a pristine neighborhood. The street was quiet, tucked away in a pedestrian area where only taxis were allowed. A couple of passersby had stopped and were leaning over her. Someone had covered her with the leather jacket she had grabbed on the way out but hadn’t had time to put on. A bald man with glasses was on his knees, patting her face lightly. Anita and Sofia shot out of the restaurant.
“What happened?” Anita screamed. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Is this your mother?” the man asked.