Three Light-Years: A Novel (17 page)

Viberti suggested she call, and in fact it would have been the most sensible thing to do.

“I’d rather go see,” she said briefly, already on her feet.

“You shouldn’t take it so seriously,” Viberti said.

And how! Of course I should! she thought coming out of the café. She was going down the ambulance ramp by the time she remembered she didn’t really need to go back to the ER. Was she hoping someone would keep her there for another six hours? But if she hadn’t bungled anything, why had she gone back? She pretended she’d forgotten her cell phone, though it was safely in her handbag, and as she searched around, as a colleague helped her look for it, she imagined it ringing and making her look like a fool. So she fled from the ER, too, and as soon as she got outside she called her sister and asked her to go pick up Mattia and bring him to his grandmother’s, she had an emergency at the hospital. A specialist in emergency medicine, a specialist in emergencies, she didn’t want her children to see her in that state.

At that hour of the afternoon, in the park along the river, you met mothers out jogging with high-tech, three-wheeled strollers that in her day hadn’t existed. Not that she’d ever had time to go jogging with the stroller, she’d had to study. There were children two or three years old convinced they were in full control of their tricycles, actually guided by nannies through rear handlebars as long as exhaust pipes. You met elderly retirees who looked bewildered and men of various ages who sprang out of the bushes like the wolf in the fairy tale. You met dogs merrily running around and panting owners trying to catch them.

The trees bursting with leaves seemed immense, and she stopped and threw her head back to see how tall they were—how come she’d never noticed? How come she’d never noticed the heightened rustle of leaves stirred by a light breeze? She perceived everything more intensely, saw the colors as brighter and more brilliant, and in the park’s silence the slightest sound seemed to call to her. She saw the streetlamps stretching ahead of her and kept on walking as though she’d decided to return home on foot and wouldn’t sooner or later have to go back and retrieve her car. She walked for half an hour and sat down on a bench, she was tired and wanted to sit awhile. But a couple of old men began loitering nearby. Unless they’d figured out she was a doctor and wanted to ask her advice about their prostatectomy?

She walked back toward the hospital exhausted by the heat and by a sense of futility; she’d wasted two hours and also wasted her sister’s time, and Silvia would probably have to work until three in the morning to make up for it. But it was too late now to call her and change the plan. She went into the supermarket across from the hospital even though she had no urgent need to do any shopping; she loaded a cart to give some meaning to the day. Coffee was on sale, buy two, get a third one free. There were egg noodles at home and though it was the children’s favorite pasta, they weren’t about to run out. The tomatoes didn’t look particularly good, but she took a pound just the same. Aluminum foil would always come in handy.

With no more energy left, she dragged herself to the car, put the shopping bags in the trunk, opened all four windows, and waited in the shade until the temperature in the car came down a few degrees. All of a sudden it struck her that she had bungled something after all, because that morning she’d forgotten to fill out a report for a suspected TB case. Couldn’t she call? Yes, but she might as well go back inside.

It was much cooler in the hospital’s basement, even though there was no air-conditioning. She filled out the form while her colleagues asked her why she had come back, why she hadn’t called. By the time she left the ER, her legs were moving of their own volition and they certainly weren’t headed out the hospital’s door. She didn’t want to stop, but even if she had wanted to, it was too late, because the moment she stepped out of the elevator and the moment she reached Pediatrics and the moment she knocked at the door, she knew very well that the doctors’ lounge was the place she wanted to go, to be, to stay. The shy internist was waiting for her, without knowing it, he never knew anything, that man, blessed in his innocence.

*   *   *

She awoke in the night seized by the darkest anxiety; she wasn’t in love with the shy internist, she didn’t want to begin a relationship, being with him that afternoon, kissing him, letting herself be undressed in the car like a teenager had been a mistake, a terribly selfish outburst, she was an irresponsible fool and instead of discouraging him, as she should have, she had led him on. Even more distressing because she knew very well that she’d enjoyed it. She couldn’t sleep anymore, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed; she got up an hour before the alarm went off, paced back and forth in the kitchen so as not to wake the children. She ate two packets of mascarpone spread on rice cakes.

The anxiety continued throughout the morning, even working didn’t help, even throwing herself into examining patients, with a full waiting room and not a single moment to think. If a day like that didn’t do the trick, not even opium would save her. When she was able to speak with Viberti at lunch, as she apologized and told him there was no justification for it, as she asked him to forgive her and explained that it had been inexcusable, she felt a slight relief that consoled her until the afternoon. Later she pretended to be exhausted, putting on a little performance for her mother and the children. Her exhaustion was nothing new, even when she didn’t complain about it they could read it in her eyes.

She went to bed early, and after dozing for less than an hour she woke up and began crying softly. Almost immediately, retracing the day’s events, she found a deep, dark well that swallowed her up. She remembered sitting on a bench, while wandering through the park like a sleepwalker. Sitting alone on a park bench was perhaps one of the saddest things a human being could do. She remembered thinking, as she sat on the bench, that if she continued walking along the river in the same direction, she would come to the circular clearing where, three years ago, she and Luca used to go when they needed privacy so they could argue, isolating their resentment and anger so it wouldn’t infect the children. She recalled Luca’s words to her, those expressing horror and contempt. She recalled them one by one. The way he shouted them at her. Then she took pity on herself and fell asleep.

*   *   *

(It’s nice to imagine her every now and then sunk in a deep, dreamless sleep. To imagine her in a state of unconsciousness, oblivious to herself, relaxed. Before resuming the story I’ll lower the volume of the outside world to a minimum, shut everything out, draw the curtains. Because Cecilia is always lit up, and she dazzles me.)

*   *   *

She remembered every detail, the birth, the first days, the first months, and the memories were hers alone, no one would ever steal them from her. She was watching their heads close together, as they lay on their bellies in front of the TV, who knows what they were saying, they were giggling. She had seen those heads come out of her own belly (maybe she thought she’d seen them, maybe she had felt them so intensely that she was able to see them with every cell in her body, if not with her eyes), and she remembered every detail, and no one could ever erase those memories. The girl hadn’t had any hair, the boy a lot of dark fuzz which he’d lost in the first few months, but the heads were their heads and they had passed through her, how she didn’t know, they’d had to stitch her up. That’s how living things passed from one condition to another, that’s how living things split apart and one thing gave birth to another. Memories that were hers alone, that she preserved, even those that were ridiculous, grotesque, shameful. Why had she been so ashamed? While she was giving birth, she wasn’t at all ashamed to have the nurses and doctors see her vagina, but the fact that she felt like shitting and might really have shit in the labor room, that certainly was embarrassing. She’d said, “I’m very sorry,” and they’d all smiled reassuringly. She’d never spoken to Luca about it; during the birth he’d stood nearby, apparently nervous, but never on the verge of fainting. She didn’t say “apparently” nervous to be mean—all she remembered of him was a figure there by the bed, and she knew very well that the presence of a figure was important enough. Then she remembered him afterward, very happy, beaming.

Fathers can afford to beam after the birth; mothers are a bit spent, though still happy about the baby and greatly relieved. That wasn’t being mean either; the fact that fathers don’t have to experience the pain of childbirth is written in the natural order of things. Because of this, the shy internist, for instance, would have fathered ten children if he could have. And that, on the other hand, really was being mean.

But she wasn’t angry with him. It wasn’t Viberti’s fault that what had happened had happened. The fault was hers alone. She was glad she’d realized it right away and had told him so. She’d been the one to go looking for him, she’d turned him on, and that was inexcusable. She was extremely ashamed of what she’d done. She’d done it because she was unprepared, taken by surprise, she’d never wanted to admit to herself that she was attracted to him. On the whole, in those months, it hadn’t been easy to admit that she needed the opposite sex, or sex itself (the odd moments when she happened to think about it). She’d needed to believe that she should and could do without it. Moments of that hour spent with Viberti came back to her that evening as well, sitting on the couch, watching the children watch a DVD. She’d lost control, she’d been attracted to him, but it wasn’t a solution to her problems. She cared about Viberti, she didn’t want to lose him, but they had to be just friends. If she had liked him a lot or if she had been crazy about him, or if he’d swept her off her feet—then there would be no question about it. That meant she wasn’t in love with him. She was attracted to him and was fond of him. Better to drop it.

“How many months have you lived since you came on earth?”

Michela giggled. “Listen to him! The expression is ‘come into the world.’”

“Since you came into the world.”

“Or ‘were born.’”

“How many months?”

“That’s easy,” Cecilia cut in, “just multiply twelve by twelve.”

“A hundred and forty-four,” Mattia said instantly.

“You already knew the answer,” Michela said.

“No, it’s a trick, they taught it to us today. You have to think of the numbers as squares and rectangles.”

She recalled every detail, especially the growing reasons to be proud, the gallery of maternal trophies. The smile when they recognized you. Holding their head erect. When their reflexes proved to be functioning (she’d tried out what she learned from books on them, the Moro reflex, the sucking reflex, the triple retraction). Having the pediatrician pronounce her healthy, pronounce him healthy (and before that, the rating at the moment of birth—she remembered a father who protested because his son hadn’t gotten 10/10—a 9/10 for Mattia and Michela, the perfect score, because in life there must always be room for improvement). Not fitful, sleeping at night (but if they wake up at night, calling out without being demanding, in a polite voice). In the early months, small feats: how the dog goes, bowwow; clapping their hands; playing peekaboo. And nodding yes and no, even if they have no idea what it means. And then, later on, managing to get dressed by themselves (but still needing a little help). Starting to remember things they’ve done with you, remembering things that you don’t remember but that for him or for her were important. Asking you to repeat stories always using the same words. And besides that, learning the text of
Matilda the Fast Turtle
by heart and surprising you one day by reciting it perfectly, pretending they’ve learned to read.

But she also remembered the isolation of the assembly line, the continuous cycle of suckling-pooping-sleeping. She remembered the sudden feeling of not being able to be free of it. Half asleep one day, ears pricked for the slightest whimper, a senseless thought had occurred to her: “When the baby leaves home.” She’d repeated reassuring phrases such as “Once this phase is over…” without ever adding the second part: “… there will be another.” In the first three months she’d never left Michela, and even while resting, even when she lowered her eyelids, she saw the baby’s face, like in an old negative. She could still hear the explosive bursts of her wailing. She’d tried to breast-feed the child, she had a lot of milk in the first weeks. Michela devoured her nipples, excruciatingly painful. She’d had to buy nipple shields. She’d bought a breast pump to feed her later with a baby bottle. Luca wasn’t happy that the baby could no longer suck her breast. He’d never particularly loved her tits, even when they’d swelled up during pregnancy. But he’d had a fit of anger one evening when she abruptly tore the child away because of the pain. “What the hell are you doing,” he yelled, “can’t you see she’s crying?” Later he apologized and they laughed about it. Protect and feed the young, an ancient coding in his genetic makeup, his wife’s sore nipples didn’t worry him. One of the first things the shy internist had done, on the other hand, was to suck her nipples with great gusto; if she’d let him he’d have slurped her all up.

Mattia got up and went into the kitchen, while on the screen Harry Potter flew astride a broom. He came back from the kitchen with a package of cookies and gave it to his sister, who started eating them. He’d gotten up to get the cookies for her from the kitchen. They weren’t for him. Cecilia hadn’t noticed Michela asking him for them, she must have whispered it, without even turning her head. She’d rather not see these things. Michela was telling her brother that her religion teacher had said that Harry Potter’s life was inspired by Jesus’s. The year before, the same teacher had said that
Lord of the Rings
was inspired by the Bible.

Five years ago (it seemed like ancient history), when Cecilia had completed her residency and diagnosed her father’s tumor, Michela’s brief mystical crises had reached their high point. They’d sent her to catechism because Luca, or Luca’s parents, felt it was important, even though Luca wasn’t religious, or if he was, he’d never said anything, and in any case he was nonpracticing (unlike his parents). They’d been married in the church because it was customary, but Cecilia hadn’t viewed it as an obligation. Her thinking wasn’t clear on this either, and although her upbringing had been decidedly secular, she had made her First Communion. So why deny it to Michela? Sending her to catechism had seemed reasonable, especially since all the other children in her class went. The mystical crises, however, had scared even Luca, and they’d decided to postpone her Confirmation until she was of age. Mattia, on the other hand, had gone through catechism during the year of their first separation, skipping a number of classes and barely learning the names of the four evangelists. He didn’t attend his First Communion ceremony, because he was in the hospital. The priest gave it to him two months later, a First Communion especially for him, and at least he’d eaten the host (maybe).