cough. Maria lies on top of the bed, acquiescent, and this frightens Gail a bit.
“Are you okay? Do you want me to stay?”
“No, no, no.
Nulla
.”
“Stop saying that. It’s not nothing.”
Maria reaches for Gail’s stomach.
“Bambina. Bella bambina
.
”
“If it’s a girl, I’ll name her Nulla, after her stubborn grandmother.”
Maria laughs, provoking a coughing fit, which brings her torso off the mattress. Gail eases her back down. She kisses Maria’s forehead.
“Rest.”
After Gail starts the car, she has a moment of uncertainty. She turns the engine off and reenters the house, as quietly as she can. She takes the stairs slowly, her bulk bringing a few groans from the wood. She doesn’t want to scare Maria, wants to make sure she’s okay. She pushes the door to the bedroom in a few inches. The soft light of late afternoon sun is muffled by the curtains; the humidifier spews moist air over the bed. She hears Maria’s labored breathing, a few staccato coughs. She sees the dark bulk of her body turn in search of comfort.
Gail exhales. She is a mother, prone to checking on her charges, even when there’s no reason. Maria is resting. All may continue. She leaves the house as quietly as she came. She pulls the car delicately out of the gravel driveway, hoping not to disturb Maria. By the time she picks the boys up at the Landini house, her mind has moved on to a host of trivial concerns: what to make for dinner, whether Michael has to work this weekend, what to get the new neighbors as a housewarming gift.
She doesn’t think of Maria again until Enzo calls that night and tells them through rolling sobs that he came home from the store and found Maria cold and lifeless in their bed.
* * *
Bobby arrives in the shadow of Maria’s death, two months after she is put into the ground. His tiny body is pressed to cheeks streaming with tears, equal parts joy and grief. All look at him and think of Maria and how she would have loved to hold him. He spends his first day in this world without a name; they have been too busy, too guilt ridden and grief stricken, to worry about names. If it was a girl, the name was easy. But a boy?
Gail lies in the hospital bed, worn out in every way. Michael sits in a chair, holding his new son, trying to be happy. In the hallway, Enzo moans and shakes, his grief disturbing the happy idylls of the surrounding families and their brand-new bundles of joy. Tiny arrives with flowers. He is a new dad himself. His daughter, Maria, is a month old. Fatherhood suits him. He’s gotten a touch thicker above the belt and below the chin. Enzo sees him and hugs him with vigor, crushing the flowers between them. He shepherds Tiny into the room. Tiny kisses Gail, lays the pressed bouquet on her lap. He takes the petite, placid wonder into his arms. He asks for a name.
Michael and Gail exchange a nervous glance. The boy needs a name. He does not know their sorrow. He has done nothing to deserve this. From the hidden recesses of her brain, Gail remembers Maria sliding a photo across the kitchen table to her. Something she wanted to share. A fragile, faded, black-and-white thing, with dozens of fold lines crisscrossing the two people depicted: a young girl dressed in a blazer and skirt. Large glasses on a long thin nose. No classic beauty, but a touch of eccentric comeliness. Maria. A boy, a few years older, stood behind her, blithely handsome, on the verge of masculinity. His hands folded across his chest in mock defiance. Gail pointed to him.
“Enzo?”
Maria shook her head, carefully turned the flimsy, yellowed paper over so Gail could see the writing on the back: Roberto e Maria. Lecca. 17 aprile 1931.
She turned the photo over again, pointed to the boy.
“My brother.”
“Roberto?”
“Si.
Morto
. He died in the war.”
“He was so handsome, Maria.”
Roberto. Robert. Bobby.
“Gail?”
Gail looks to Michael for guidance. His eyes are tired, blank; no name is resting on his
“Are you okay? Do you want me to stay?”
“No, no, no.
Nulla
.”
“Stop saying that. It’s not nothing.”
Maria reaches for Gail’s stomach.
“Bambina. Bella bambina
.
”
“If it’s a girl, I’ll name her Nulla, after her stubborn grandmother.”
Maria laughs, provoking a coughing fit, which brings her torso off the mattress. Gail eases her back down. She kisses Maria’s forehead.
“Rest.”
After Gail starts the car, she has a moment of uncertainty. She turns the engine off and reenters the house, as quietly as she can. She takes the stairs slowly, her bulk bringing a few groans from the wood. She doesn’t want to scare Maria, wants to make sure she’s okay. She pushes the door to the bedroom in a few inches. The soft light of late afternoon sun is muffled by the curtains; the humidifier spews moist air over the bed. She hears Maria’s labored breathing, a few staccato coughs. She sees the dark bulk of her body turn in search of comfort.
Gail exhales. She is a mother, prone to checking on her charges, even when there’s no reason. Maria is resting. All may continue. She leaves the house as quietly as she came. She pulls the car delicately out of the gravel driveway, hoping not to disturb Maria. By the time she picks the boys up at the Landini house, her mind has moved on to a host of trivial concerns: what to make for dinner, whether Michael has to work this weekend, what to get the new neighbors as a housewarming gift.
She doesn’t think of Maria again until Enzo calls that night and tells them through rolling sobs that he came home from the store and found Maria cold and lifeless in their bed.
* * *
Bobby arrives in the shadow of Maria’s death, two months after she is put into the ground. His tiny body is pressed to cheeks streaming with tears, equal parts joy and grief. All look at him and think of Maria and how she would have loved to hold him. He spends his first day in this world without a name; they have been too busy, too guilt ridden and grief stricken, to worry about names. If it was a girl, the name was easy. But a boy?
Gail lies in the hospital bed, worn out in every way. Michael sits in a chair, holding his new son, trying to be happy. In the hallway, Enzo moans and shakes, his grief disturbing the happy idylls of the surrounding families and their brand-new bundles of joy. Tiny arrives with flowers. He is a new dad himself. His daughter, Maria, is a month old. Fatherhood suits him. He’s gotten a touch thicker above the belt and below the chin. Enzo sees him and hugs him with vigor, crushing the flowers between them. He shepherds Tiny into the room. Tiny kisses Gail, lays the pressed bouquet on her lap. He takes the petite, placid wonder into his arms. He asks for a name.
Michael and Gail exchange a nervous glance. The boy needs a name. He does not know their sorrow. He has done nothing to deserve this. From the hidden recesses of her brain, Gail remembers Maria sliding a photo across the kitchen table to her. Something she wanted to share. A fragile, faded, black-and-white thing, with dozens of fold lines crisscrossing the two people depicted: a young girl dressed in a blazer and skirt. Large glasses on a long thin nose. No classic beauty, but a touch of eccentric comeliness. Maria. A boy, a few years older, stood behind her, blithely handsome, on the verge of masculinity. His hands folded across his chest in mock defiance. Gail pointed to him.
“Enzo?”
Maria shook her head, carefully turned the flimsy, yellowed paper over so Gail could see the writing on the back: Roberto e Maria. Lecca. 17 aprile 1931.
She turned the photo over again, pointed to the boy.
“My brother.”
“Roberto?”
“Si.
Morto
. He died in the war.”
“He was so handsome, Maria.”
Roberto. Robert. Bobby.
“Gail?”
Gail looks to Michael for guidance. His eyes are tired, blank; no name is resting on his
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