Page 92

“I love you,” I whisper. My voice cracks. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Not too soon. But… someday.”

Even though I have nothing more to say, I stay on the floor, kneeling until my knees scream in protest. But even then, I stay for longer. I stay until the sky turns black behind the windows.

When I finally can’t take it anymore, I say Mom’s favorite prayer.

“Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord,

And let perpetual light shine upon her.

May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

Amen.”

My legs are stiff as I finally stand up. I take one last look at Mom and squeeze her hand one last time. Then I let go. The separation is physical—my fingers peeling away from hers, the cool air filling the space between our skin—and it hurts more than I expected.

“I love you,” I whisper again. “You’re free now, Mom.”

The days after Langford blur into something that isn’t time.

I wake up. I don’t know what day it is. Domenico is beside me, or he isn’t, but if he isn’t, he comes back within minutes. The light through the windows is wrong—too bright, too dim; I can’t tell morning from afternoon.

Food appears. Domenico sits on the edge of the bed with a plate balanced on his knee and says, “Eat something.” Not a request. Not quite an order. Something in between, delivered in a voice that’s gentler than anything I’ve heard from him.

I eat because it’s easier than arguing. The food has no taste.

He cancels things. I hear him on the phone in the hallway, his voice low and steady, rearranging meetings, postponing shipments, telling people no without explanation. Once, I hear him say, “My wife needs me,” and the rawness in those four words makes something twist behind my ribs.

He asks before making calls about Mom. About the funeral, about Langford’s paperwork, about whatever comes next.

“Do you want me to handle it?” he asks, standing in the doorway. At least I think that’s where his voice’s coming from.

I’m curled on my side, facing the wall. I haven’t moved in hours, and I’m not going to do so now.

“Yes,” I say. “Please.”

I know I should care. I should get up. Shower. Brush my hair. Answer the texts that have been piling up on my phone—Carly, Father Joseph, people from Saint Benedict’s who heard what happened. I should be doing something productive with this grief instead of letting it pool around me like dirty water.

But Mom’s dead.

The words live in my chest now. They’ve moved in and made a home. Every time I think I might be able to stand up, to function, they rise up and remind me: Mom’s dead, and nothing you do will change that.

The grief comes in waves. Not the pretty, poetic kind you see in movies. No, this grief is made up of ugly and vicious waves that I can’t control or weather.

Sometimes I sob until my throat is raw and my ribs ache. Domenico finds me like this once, curled on the bathroom floor with my forehead pressed against the cold tile, and he doesn’t say a word. He just sits down beside me, his back against the tub, and puts his hand on the back of my neck. His palm is warm. He sits there until my breathing evens out, and then he helps me up and runs a bath without asking if I want one.

Sometimes I sleep for twelve, fourteen hours straight. Domenico checks on me. I know because I wake up sometimes to the weight of his hand on my forehead, brushing hair away from my face, and the door clicking shut behind him.

Sometimes I seem almost normal. I get out of bed. I put on clothes. I make coffee and drink it standing at the island while Domenico works at the table, and for ten minutes, I can pretend the world hasn’t ended.

And then something tiny destroys me. It’s always something small and insignificant.

Like when Donna suggests a certain dish for dinner. She looks distraught when the suggestion, which happens to be one of Mom’s favorite foods, sends me to the kitchen floor with my knees pulled to my chest.

I’m crying so hard I can’t breathe. Domenico’s by my side in seconds, picking me up and carrying me to the couch. He sits with me in his lap, my face against his chest, and his hand strokes my hair while I cry.

Carly stops by on the third day, or maybe the fourth. Time is slippery. The first thing she does is hug me so hard my ribs creak.

“I brought wine,” she murmurs against my hair. “The good kind. And brownies that Gio definitely did not help make.”