Out of the Dark (21 page)

I hear two voices talking about someone.

Maybe it’s me
.

The sound is muffled, and I’m too numb to care as everything goes dark.

***

When I open my eyes, I’m in bed with untouched food beside me and a blanket covering me. I feel as if I’m watching a movie. Bodies move around me, but I can’t make out their faces.

The two voices I remember are joined by others.

“She’s in shock. I think we should take her to the hospital. What did her father say?”

“He said the funeral is the day after tomorrow. He’s just as big of a wreck as Carina is.”

A face leans over me. “Carina? It’s Nora. Honey, can you hear me?”

I close my eyes again.

Go away
.

“Just leave her, okay? I promise, Stefan and I have got this. Go eat dinner with Gemma and Frank. Take care of Nonna and Lucy. We’re fine here.”

A door shuts.

Two voices.

“Lorenzo, I
have
to be in New York tomorrow. Alfonso is flying in from Naples. No personal emergency is a good enough reason for me to not be there.”

“A family death is not good enough? What the fuck kind of shit is that?”

“It’s exactly the kind of shit I never want you to deal with! Now do you understand why I don’t want you involved? There is no excuse that would justify me missing this meeting.”

“Well, she has to get to Michigan tomorrow and there’s no way she can do it alone, so what’s the plan here? I think it’s obvious I should go to New York for you so that you can take your
fiancée
to her mother’s
funeral
.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t insult Alfonso by not being present at this meeting. It would be inexcusable. I need
you
to take her. I want you to go with Carina to Michigan. Take care of her for me. Will you do that? Please?”

“Yes. Of course I’ll take care of her.”

The voices fade, and I give in to the darkness once more.

Chapter Fourteen

Stefan is talking to me. I see his face, his lips moving, but I’m too numb to respond and too tired to care.

Slowly, his voice starts to bleed through the heavy cloud.
 
“. . . have to go. I’m sorry I can’t be with you, darling. I’m so sorry that your mother passed, and you have to go through this. If I could take this pain away from you, I would. I
will
make this up to you. Carina? Can you hear me? Do you understand?”

There’s a twinge inside me when he says he’s leaving. I want to cry, but instead I shut my eyes and listen to him speak in whispers with Enzo.

“She’s still out of it. Please, I’m trusting you with my heart here. You helping her through this means more to me than you know.”

“It’s all right, Uncle Stefan. I’ll keep her safe. Do your best to convince Alfonso that leaving is the right choice, but I’m afraid for you. You make a lot of money for him, and I don’t think he’ll let you go.”

“Perhaps not, but I have to try. Have a safe trip.”

“You, too.”

Warm lips press against my forehead, and when I open my eyes, I see Stefan walking out the door. My eyes fall shut again as if they have weights on them. I’ve been in this bed forever. I don’t see how I’ll ever be able to move.

“Hey. Hey, Cari. Look at me.”

The mattress sinks beside me, and Enzo hovers over me. His voice sounds so tender and soft.

“Cari, it’s just me and you now, okay? We’re going to get through this together. We have to make a trip. I want you to know that I’m here for you. Anything you need, it’s yours. I just need you to get up out of this bed now, okay?” He presses his arms into the pillow beside me. His eyes linger above mine, searching.

I find that I can see him clearly. He’s not blurry and gray like everything in the world has been, and I say the first words I’ve spoken since my father told me that my mother was dead. “You look clear to me, Enzo.” For the first time since the phone call, I feel better.

He smiles. “You look clear to me, too, Cari. Here, sit up.” He guides me up until I’m sitting in front of him, and he pushes the hair from my face. “I know it feels like someone’s ripping you apart. I know how bad this hurts.”

I want him to make this all go away. I rest my head on his shoulder and cry. I cry until his shirt is soaked with my tears. I cry until my throat hurts and my eyes feel as if they are on fire. I cry until I can’t cry anymore, and Enzo never stops stroking my hair. He never lets me go.

***

The airport seems so sterile and cold. I go through the motions behind the self-imposed veil of my sunglasses, but mostly, I just hang on to Enzo. His elbow is my lifeline. I have no idea how to focus. Where to go. What to do.

He has bags I don’t remember packing. He has my ID, and he hands it and the boarding pass over to the security agent. He handles everything. The only task I’m able to manage is buckling my seatbelt once we’re on the plane.

As we take off, I look out at the clouds, and I wonder if this is what my mother saw when her soul left the earth.

I awake to Enzo’s voice. “We’re here.”

I feel sick. It’s real now. I’m going to see my father soon, and then there’s no turning back. No hiding in Enzo’s shoulder. No floating through clouds of grief. It will be real, and it will be excruciating.

I push my feelings down and force myself to get it together.

In the rental car, I fix my makeup to hide the tear streaks.

We say nothing to each other as he follows the GPS voice and drives over the neglected roads. We pull up to my tiny, paint-chipped childhood home, and my mother’s car is parked beside my father’s.

I take a deep breath, trying to make my bones into steel.

Enzo places his hand on mine.

“I can’t do this.” I’m shaking.

“Yes, you can.” The warmth from his hand comforts me.

My father appears in the doorway, and I jump out of the car and run to him. He looks like I do—lost and empty.

We sit in the kitchen alone, my father and I, and he tells me she didn’t suffer. It could have been worse for her. She could have died in agony. She just went to sleep on the plane and didn’t wake up.

“We didn’t want to spoil the party by telling you, but the cancer came back. Her body was riddled with it. In a way, it’s a blessing. There are cancer patients who struggle for months and months. They waste away. We’re lucky that God showed her mercy,” my father says.

I think about how my mother struggled with this illness for so long, and
lucky
is not a word I would use, but I don’t tell my father that.

Enzo is standing in the doorway. He clears his throat. “I’m going to head over to the hotel now.” He looks like he doesn’t want to go, and I don’t want him to.

“Don’t be silly, Lorenzo. You can stay here.”

“No. I think it’s better if you two have some time together. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.” Enzo’s talking to my father, but he’s looking at me.

The idea of him leaving makes me feel nervous, almost panicked. “Dad, I’m just going to see Enzo out, all right?”

My father nods, and I walk past Enzo to the front door.

He follows me.

It’s cold out, and I wrap my arms around myself when we get out to the porch.

“I put your suitcase on your bed.”

He’s always so kind to me
.

I look down at my engagement ring. It should be Stefan standing here with me, not Enzo. It should be Stefan, but if he were here, I would be wishing it were Enzo.

“Do you love him?” he asks. His expression barely changes at all.

I sigh. “No.” I step toward him and slip my arms around him. He seems stunned by my action, frozen still, but I hug his neck. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

He hugs me back, holding me tighter than I’m holding him, and lifts me off the ground. His lips press against my neck. He doesn’t kiss me. He doesn’t speak. He just holds me to him then puts me down, and I let go.

“I’ll be back in the morning. If you need me for anything, you can call me. I’m staying at the Hilton.”

I watch his car disappear down my street, and I’m left alone with ghosts.

Later that night, I lie in bed in the bitter silence of this familiar yet strange place, knowing that I’ll be burying my mother tomorrow. I toss and turn and feel the empty spot beside me. It’s not Stefan I want lying next to me. It’s Enzo. I need Enzo.

I stare at the phone, but I never pick it up. Instead, I fall asleep to dreams of him and me. On a boat to Mexico . . . on a plane to Japan . . . running away.

Anywhere but here
.

In the morning, I iron the black dress someone packed for me. It’s a dress I will never wear again. It’s a dress that, after today, I will want to burn.

As promised, Enzo knocks on the door early.

He’s in a black suit, and I find myself admiring how handsome he is then chastise myself for having such a thought at a time like this.

My father, on the other hand, looks awful.

We drive together in silence and line up outside the church. My father stands behind the casket, and I stand behind him.

“I should go inside. The procession should be for the family.”

The idea of him leaving my side is something I can’t handle. Being without him last night was horrible.

“No. No, stay with me, please?” I beg him, and he nods.

The bagpipes begin to play “Amazing Grace.”

I put one foot in the front of the other, just like my father—his head bent low and his steps labored—and Enzo holds me up.

The church is hollow and solemn.

I feel her here. I feel her spirit hovering over me, and that makes the loss even more acute. The pain is sharper. Real. Vivid. I sit between my father and Enzo.

The priest speaks of my mother as though he knew her well, when in reality, he did not.

“
She’s in a better place. Her suffering is over. She leaves behind a loving family
.”

Things I’ve heard at every funeral I’ve ever attended are now being said of the woman who took care of me and loved me my entire life. The woman who untangled my shoelace from my bike chain when I was seven. The woman who watched from a bush across the street on my first day of kindergarten. The woman who sat in the car beside me with a carton of eggs in her lap to throw at the home of the first boy who ever broke my heart.

The memories fly past me like a movie that’s over too soon, and tears roll down my cheeks. They don’t stop—I hold my father’s hand, and they won’t stop.

At the graveyard, I walk with my father.

Enzo is at my side, taking steps even with mine. He pauses when I pause. He never leaves me.

I’m a blubbering, hysterical mess as I watch the box holding her body being lowered into the cold, damp earth. In my fists, I hold wads of snotty tissues, and I’m given a white rose to drop down into the grave. My father and I do it together and embrace when it’s done. As if we hold each other tight enough, the pain will go away, or she will somehow come back to us—but she never will.

In this moment, all I can think of is that I want her to be proud of me. I want to live a life that she would approve of. She would want it to be great and filled with love, not easy and filled with nothing special. This life is short. It can be taken away at any time and I want to do it right.

I open my watery eyes and see Enzo over my father’s shoulder, and I admit to myself what I have been fighting.

I love Enzo, and I can’t marry Stefan
.
I don’t care what happens to us. I’m in love with him and I have to tell him how I feel
.

I look down at my mother’s coffin and accept the fact that this truth may cause me to end up where she is. The rage and hurt my murdering fiancé will feel may cause him to take drastic action, and I may meet my end because of it.

Just like Fabrizio
.

I look away from the grave and into Enzo’s eyes, and I don’t care. I love him.

At home, guests and mourners linger in each room. Everyone has a glass of something in hand—beer, wine, booze. All trying to numb the grief.

I thank them all for coming and accept their condolences, but I want them to leave.

I work harder than anyone to numb the pain and drink glass after glass of wine, managing to get very drunk. Through the wavy haze of my intoxication, I feel tears coming once again. I take a picture of my mother from the mantle and go upstairs.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, I slip off my heels and press the picture to my chest, just breathing and remembering exactly how her laugh sounded, what her arms felt like when she hugged me.

A soft knock brings me back to the present, and the ache settles in once again.

“Come in.” I call out in a voice hoarse from crying.

The door squeaks open, and it’s Enzo. His eyes are glazed like mine.

I haven’t seen him in hours and he has spent this time becoming just as inebriated as I have. He steps into my childhood bedroom, and I get self-conscious about the state it’s in—the unmade bed, the clothing on the floor.