It could have been – would have been – daunting, being the focus of so much attention, being surrounded by so many people.
But somehow, today, it wasn’t; it was only family, catching her up in a warm, familiar embrace, with all the foibles and daftness and scandal of any normal family, of course, but even so: it was hers, and as the bread was passed around and she grated pepper onto the heavenly ragu with its thick coiled pappardelle, she found, despite the sad circumstances, that she was . . . she was okay. She really was.
Afterwards, family members dispersed to have a nap or go back to school, with arrangements to meet up again in the evening, and Marisa finally found a chance to walk with Lucia and find out what was really happening.
It was boiling hot; Marisa hadn’t packed anything suitable in Cornwall, so they found a tourist shop that opened over lunchtime, and bought her a huge broad-brimmed hat to protect herself, and a fine white cotton shift that she would never have worn in the UK, but here she could happily float around in.
Then they wandered down to the beach near the port where the huge yachts anchored, and walked past the blue and white striped umbrellas and happy families playing, throwing balls, standing in the water, nattering in bikinis.
The prognosis, as her mother’s face had indicated, was not good. Yes, the stroke was awful, but once they’d started doing tests – she had everything, her mother said. She obviously hadn’t been to a doctor in years. She was tough as old boots, but basically . . .
Lucia started to sob. It was the strangest thing to be here, in paradise, children eating huge ice creams, couples lingering over the finest seafood and a cool glass of Soave in the shade of the restaurants lining the beaches, teenagers kissing in the water, music playing, and shouts and yells of glee, that there could be so much sadness. Marisa put her arms around her mother.
‘Oh, she’s old, I know,’ said Lucia. ‘And she’s had a good life. And this happens to everyone, everyone in the world. Everyone, if they are lucky, loses parents that they love, in the end.’
She swallowed hard.
‘It doesn’t make it any less horrific when it happens to you.’
‘It doesn’t,’ said Marisa.
Lucia smiled suddenly through her tears.
‘It’s like when you and Gino were born.’
‘What do you mean?’
Her mother took her hand as they walked further up the beach, away from the crowds, splashing through the blissfully cool water, their shoes dangling from their free hands.
‘Well, when you were born, I just felt so joyous and happy. Even though, you know, loads and loads of people get to have a baby and feel just exactly the same.
‘But it felt such a special private thing to me. And I suppose this is the same thing in reverse. Just because everyone’s been through it doesn’t make it any less awful for you; just like knowing billions of people have had babies before you doesn’t make yours any less special.’
Marisa squeezed her mum’s hand.
‘But is there no comfort in knowing that you are connected to everyone in the world who’s been through this? That so many people have shared this sadness?’
‘You sound older and wiser than me,’ said Lucia, smiling wryly. She turned to look at her only daughter. ‘You’ve really been through the wringer, haven’t you?’
Marisa couldn’t speak, and Lucia held her tight.
‘Ah, you were always like that dad of yours,’ she said, her voice a little thick. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought . . . I thought I’d get a little girl just like me and we could dress up and have fun together and go to parties and sometimes when you pulled away from me . . . it just hurt so much.’
‘But I don’t need fun,’ said Marisa very quietly. ‘I just need you.’
Chapter Sixty-six
It was astonishing how quickly a plan was put together. Everyone knew someone’s brother who could help with putting handles in the bathroom or take on shifts, and before the next day’s evening meal they were almost organised – by which time Marisa was almost dropping with exhaustion and the unfamiliar sense of interacting constantly, all the time, with other people. Although it gave her energy too, in its own way; everywhere she looked, people were chatting and gesticulating, shouting or laughing out loud.
She had missed this, she thought. All the parties skipped, the weddings postponed, the fun put on hold. How much time she had wasted in that little prison she had built, brick by brick, of sadness and fear, all by herself.
This was entirely different; this was a joint effort. It reminded her of the villagers in Mount Polbearne, all pulling together to repair the causeway and look after people’s homes. When one was needed, everyone was there.
And Marisa was all over it: joining in the cooking, helping the cousins with their English homework, debating whether to buy new sheets for Nonna’s bed (they decided against it in the end; she wanted familiarity and the ancient embroidered handed down family sheets, in a massive heavy linen nobody made any more, not new things she wouldn’t recognise that might annoy her, they figured). She was also drawn in to arguing with the senior clinician, who happened to be German, with excellent English, about the benefits of bringing their grandmother home, something he was adamantly set against, insistent that she would die. Lucia through her sobs pointed out that they’d told her she was going to die anyway and he had made a slightly stiff nod and said, ‘Well, this will be quicker’ and Lucia had said, ‘Good!’, and it had more or less deteriorated from there.
Marisa, used to being around grieving relatives, was able to calmly state their case, and her speaking English seemed to impress him, oddly, even if the old argument – we can free up one of your beds – didn’t have anything like the same power here as it would have done in the UK.
Her mother watched, drying her eyes, quietly proud that her unmarried daughter with the mental health issues that she found so hard to brag about was calmly negotiating in two languages in front of everyone, particularly her sister, Ann Angela, and found herself smiling a quiet smile of satisfaction to herself which she hid with her tear-stained handkerchief.
Finally it was arranged. Marisa made a decision. She called Polly and apologised and said that she didn’t know when she’d be back, and Polly said lots of people were complaining that the pizzas weren’t as good and Marisa said she was very sorry about that and Polly said that was okay, as even not quite as good pizza was still very good and popular pizza, so come back when she was ready.
Marisa was too tired – and her Italian was giving out, it had been a long day – when everyone announced they were going out to dinner at, of course, nine at night. She kissed them all fulsomely but announced she was going to have a quiet night. Tomorrow, with Nonna coming home, was going to be a very big day and she wanted to read her book in the bath and turn in early.
Chapter Sixty-seven
With everyone gone, the house was silent; the cicadas played their little creaky song outside, of course, but she had practically ceased to notice it. She went into the tiny garden and, taking in the warm scent of the lilacs and the herbs, stood under the warm sky.
Perhaps she should stay here always, she thought. Her family was here. The weather was good, it was beautiful, she could find something to do.