‘SHUT YOUR FACE!’
‘It’s all right,’ said Gino cheekily, whose last boyfriend had looked like a young Robert Redford. ‘Personality is what really matters.’
‘Shut up! I like the way he looks. He’s kind of big.’
‘Moose big,’ said Gino wisely, till she giggled.
‘. . . and half-Mongolian and he has these brown eyes that just look at you and well, I don’t really see the rest.’
‘Which is probably just as well?’
It was so strange. Despite the elephant in the room and the way they kept looking at their phones in case the hospital had been in contact, they had a lovely time, and Marisa was nearly half asleep by the time they called it a night and made their way to bed; Lucia in her mother’s room, Marisa and Gino sharing twin beds in a spare room.
On her way there, yawning with tiredness, Marisa passed the laptop. It was still plugged in – she realised suddenly; of course it was still plugged in.
She pressed a button so it jumped into life. Sure enough, there she was, peering into her own home, back in Cornwall.
It felt incredibly odd, as if she had passed into another realm, was looking to find herself back there, or staring through both sides of a telescope at once.
She noticed how neat and tidy the room was; how devoid of character. It looked cold, especially in the moonlight. She glanced around her nonna’s kitchen: ancient recipe books stained and lined up; vast old glass jars full of pasta and different types of beans; flour and sugar and polenta; a huge box of tomatoes; a straining bag for making mozzarella, something Polly had suggested in the bakery and Marisa had instantly backed away from. Photos everywhere of loved ones. The sweet scent of the garden, a tiny window always open for the night air. Her grandmother had made her home exactly as she liked it. There must be a way for her to do the same with her own.
Even with Gino breathing heavily in the bed next to her, she was still asleep as soon as she crawled in under the heavy starched cotton sheets and eiderdown. Her nonna had never quite got to grips with anything as new-fangled as a duvet. Outside, she could hear cicadas squawking in the warm air, a noise as comforting as a lullaby. She meant to have a think back over the day, be mindful as Anita would say, think about what she had been through and what she had done; be thankful for what she had managed and hopeful for the trials and days ahead, even find a way to forgive Alexei.
But she couldn’t. She was asleep.
Chapter Sixty-five
One of the things that had most tormented her about her grandfather’s death had been how sudden it was.
So she didn’t even pretend she didn’t want to cling on to her mother’s and brother’s arms, tight, as they marched towards the hospital. She clung to them both, nodding to the staff as they marched up to the old faded yellow facade of the little Ospedale Imperia, sitting above the industrial port, asking the nurses for directions. Marisa felt incredibly nervous as they made their way up in the lift to the fifth floor.
They were directed to an end room with two beds, one occupied by a large woman snoring loudly, and there in the corner, eyes half open, staring at nothing, her mouth twisted deeply down on the left-hand side, was the tiny swaddled figure of her nonna.
All three paused before they went to her; she was so fragile and small in the bed. And those beady eyes, so quick to miss nothing at all; to see them focusing on nothing was sinister.
Lucia was straight to her side, grasping her hand, practically kneeling, putting Nonna’s hand to her face. Gino stood to one side, looking rather awkward. Marisa slowly stepped forwards, and sat at the foot of the bed, staring into her nonna’s eyes.
There was something; a little flicker of recognition.
‘Nonna.’
Her grandmother tried to lift her left hand, but it was useless and could do nothing but twitch. Her other hand was in Lucia’s. Her voice made an indeterminate, slightly wet noise. Marisa instinctively looked around for a tissue, and gently moved up and wiped the dribble from her face. The old lady leant her face into Marisa’s palm, Marisa’s hand, and Marisa stroked her, quite naturally.
She’d expected to be terrified, repulsed. But she wasn’t at all. She felt nothing but love, suddenly, for her grandmother and, wider, for her family.
She thought back to Alexei’s refusal to accompany her and knew that he had been right; these were not moments that could be shared.
‘Mamma?’ Lucia said, and once again there was a twitch of the head, some recognition.
Marisa asked if she wanted some water and the old lady nodded so indistinctly you could hardly notice it, unless you were looking very closely, but Marisa’s heart leapt to see it; there was still someone in there, who understood what was going on.
She sat on the bed while her mother bustled off to talk to the doctors, gently helping her grandmother sip, then wiping the excess off. Gino frowned and looked at his phone after distractedly patting his grandmother on the arm. That was okay, thought Marisa. He was there. They were there.
The next hour was spent awkwardly as they sat and stroked her, asking her questions she couldn’t answer, making silly conversation about nothing at all; looking at the doctor to read her face. At one point Marisa patted her nonna’s arm, only to find, suddenly, that her sleeve was being gripped, hard, by her grandmother’s good hand. She looked at the others, then leaned in.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s okay. Tell me. Take your time.’
There was obviously something she desperately wanted to say; her mouth was moving incoherently. Marisa didn’t rush her, didn’t try and guess what she was saying or smooth things over. She simply leant her ear in closely.
‘La . . . la . . . la’
Marisa stayed stock-still.
‘La . . . la mi . . . la . . . la mia casa’
Home. Her nonna wanted to go home.
The doctor had the slightly harried air of doctors everywhere in every language and she adjusted her glasses as she pointed out that their family member was extremely sick and shouldn’t be moved anywhere. Lucia pushed her for a prognosis, and the doctor shot a look at nonna on the bed and took her out of the room. When Lucia came back in alone, her face was pale. Nonna, meanwhile, had fallen asleep. Marisa smoothed the dyed black hair. The white roots were coming in. She would absolutely have hated that.
‘At any rate, enough now,’ said the doctor, as Nonna was quite clearly sleeping.
Lucia’s jaw was stiff and she was just about to talk to them when suddenly there was a chattering of noise from outside, and, into the room, numbers swollen by the knowledge that the British end of the family was here, Rossis started pouring into the room in a great wave.
Half-remembered distant cousins and aunties descended upon her, demanding hugs and cheek pinches, and before she knew it, they were being borne off to a nearby restaurant, where, somehow, a table for fourteen was commandeered and without ordering or preamble, olives and sparkling water and bread appeared, followed by a rich pot of ragu and a small glass of rough red wine to wash it down with, and many questions about England, and insistence that the awkward teenagers in the ensemble – her cousins once removed, Patrizio and Niccolo – were made to speak English and ask her halting questions about her work while blushing furiously.