The next day I tell Stella I’ll take our rent money to Signor Fiorelli. I want to thank him for coming to visit the hospital.
‘Bella Mia, where have you been? I’ve been thinking of you every day, my dear.’
‘Thank you, Signor Fiorelli. I’ve been busy. Painting, mostly.’
‘How is Luca?’
‘The same.’ He holds my gaze, but I need to look away. The words ‘the same’ mean nothing. No better, no worse, no closer, no farther.
‘What are the doctors saying?’ he asks quietly.
I shuffle my feet and say the words I’ve been doing my best to avoid. ‘They’re saying that it doesn’t look promising.’
‘You said you’ve been painting?’
‘Yes. It’s pretty much one of the only things that’s keeping me going right now. I’d like you to come to the villa sometime.’
‘Mia, I haven’t been home … to the villa … in a very long time,’ he says, sighing.
‘To see my work, Signor Fiorelli. I’m ready to share it.’
‘We’ll see, Mia. Did you bring your supplies today?’
‘No, I just came to give you the rent money.’
‘Keep it. You haven’t been working much this month.’
‘It’s fine. Honestly.’
I hand Signor Fiorelli the crumpled envelope. ‘Oh, I have something else for you,’ I say, handing him the tin of photographs and letters.
He takes a minute before he recognises the box. Gently prying open the lid, he pulls out the photographs and slowly unties the ribbon that holds them together with his wrinkled hands.
He holds the photographs to his chest.
‘I thought you might have missed them,’ I say. ‘I know they must be very special to you.’
‘Thank you, dear. I very much appreciate this.’
He hands me some brushes and sets up an easel for me. ‘Join me.’
‘I’d love to.’
I spend the afternoon with Signor Fiorelli, and when I finish my painting he stands back and admires it. It’s a painting of a girl, sitting on the edge of the Ponte Vecchio, holding a padlock.
‘What’s it called?’ he asks.
‘The Love Lock.’
He asks me whether I’d be willing to sell it.
‘Oh, I don’t know if it’s good enough to sell, Signor Fiorelli.’
‘Let them be the judge of that, Mia,’ he says, gesturing towards the crowd of tourists in the square.
I let him take my painting. Leaving me at the stand, he returns in half an hour with my painting mounted in a wooden frame. He sets it up in prominent view and then takes a fountain pen and a white card from the pocket of his jacket.
‘One of a kind. The Love Lock by Mia …’ He looks up at me.
‘Moretti.’
‘Two hundred and fifty euros.’
‘It will never sell at that price, Signor Fiorelli.’
‘Come back tomorrow to collect your money, Mia.’
Three days later, I return to visit Signor Fiorelli.
‘You finally came back. I have something for you,’ says Signor Fiorelli with a cheerful smile as he reaches into his pocket.
He pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to me.
‘Your painting sold within the hour.’
‘That’s amazing!’
‘Mia, look at me, dear,’ he says, his crystal-blue eyes fixed on mine. ‘You must believe in your abilities as an artist. Your work is selling because your work isn’t simply steeped in colour. It’s rich with emotion. The kind of emotion that can only be expressed when you’ve lived what you’ve lived. Do you understand? You paint from your heart, and with your heart.’
I nod. ‘Thank you, Signor Fiorelli.’
‘Now, let’s paint,’ he says, handing me a brush. The loneliness I have been feeling becomes less overwhelming with every brushstroke. It’s now October. Summer has passed and so has the vendemmia. Grapes at their ripest have been stripped from the vines, ready to be fermented into wine. Before they get ready to fall, leaves start to paint themselves with hues of rich colour as the temperature begins to drop. Even if my heart is immensely grateful for Luca’s life, I can’t help wondering what next summer will look like for the two of us. That’s if there will be a two of us.
I enjoy painting in the company of Signor Fiorelli, hanging on to his every word as he recounts old memories of his Amelia with such passion and vividness. Before I know it, he and I have a routine going. Each day I leave a painting with him and each afternoon, that painting is sold. In the two weeks since I started painting with Signor Fiorelli, I have sold almost 4000 euros worth of paintings.
On this particular day, I’m about to start a painting when I’m interrupted by my phone ringing.
It’s Stella.
‘Mia, you need to come quickly.’
My heart skips a series of beats before the rush of adrenaline starts pumping through my body. ‘I’m coming.’
I drop my phone into my pocket and Signor Fiorelli looks up at me with surprise. My paintbrush falls to the floor.
‘It’s Luca! I have to go.’
‘Go, signorina, go.’
I rush to my bike and pedal furiously, weaving in and out of the pedestrian traffic of the city centre.
Oh, God, please don’t let him be gone.
Oh, God, please let me make it in time.
Oh, God, I should have been there with him.
I hastily park my bike outside the hospital and bound up the stairs to the entrance, jarring my knee on the way up. When I reach Luca’s door, puffed out, legs shaking, my body freezes. I stop to catch my breath. My hand rests on the door handle. What if he’s gone? I’m too afraid to turn it. I don’t know what I’ll do if I see a bed without his body in it.
Then I hear the sounds of animated Italian chatter, and at first I think I must have the wrong room, because it’s not the sombre tone I’d expect to be hearing after losing him. Someone has seen me through the frosted window and opens the door for me as I almost fall through it. All eyes are on me as my gaze moves to the bed.
He’s awake.
Alive.
Living.
Breathing.
I let out a loud gasp as my shoulders drop and my hands cover my mouth. If there was ever any doubt in my mind about miracles and wishes not coming true, my living proof is staring me in the face. I stand at the end of his bed, and our eyes meet. Stepping closer, I reach for his hand and press my lips against his cheek ever so gently, afraid I might break him. He looks so fragile lying there, still connected to countless numbers of tubes. He looks at me and smiles, although I’m confused by the intangible but very real distance between us.
‘I love you so much,’ I whisper, tears of relief pooling in my eyes. My head falls on his chest and he slowly reaches his arm over to cradle me. Eventually, I resurface and search his eyes for reassurance that everything’s okay.
He is silent. He closes his eyes, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s still so weak or if it’s what I said.
The energy in the room has shifted and the animated chatter has completely stopped as Paolo, Rosetta and Stella wait for someone to speak.
‘Are … are you okay?’ I ask.
Luca opens his eyes and nods before turning his gaze away from me. He’s lying. This isn’t how I imagined this would be. Something isn’t right. I’m frustrated that I don’t understand.
‘What’s wrong? Are you in pain?’ I ask, my voice uneven.
Why isn’t he looking at me?
‘It’s going to take time,’ says Stella, shifting uncomfortably.
‘Luca?’
Somebody mutters something about giving us space, and they all file out of the room.
‘Luca, amore, look at me. Are you okay?’ I ask, placing my hand gently on his face. It’s overridden with a sadness I’ve never seen in him before. He might be alive, but he is lifeless. My heart sinks at the realisation that something is wrong, terribly wrong.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘No, Mia.’ His voice is barely audible.
‘When did you wake up?’
‘Early this morning.’
‘You mean this afternoon,’ I say, worried at his confusion. The doctors warned there was a risk of injury to his brain. ‘I should have been here. I’ve been coming every day. I was going to come this afternoon—’
‘No. I told the doctors to hold off calling you. I’m sorry.’ I’m almost sure I see a flash of guilt cross his face.
‘What? Why would you do that?’ I ask, searching his face for answers.
‘I’m sorry if you’re still angry at me. I know I was wrong. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’m so sorry about what happened in Positano. I shouldn’t have left you like that. It was so wrong of me.’
He slowly lifts his hand and puts his finger on my mouth to silence me.
‘I’m not angry with you, Mia. There’s nothing to forgive,’ he whispers.
‘I don’t understand. You’re scaring me. Is it the drugs? If you’re in pain they can increase your dosage. You don’t need to feel the pain.’
His face twists into a distressed expression and I feel helpless at not being able to soothe it. ‘That’s the problem, Mia.’
‘What is, amore?’
‘I can’t feel my legs.’
‘What did you say?’ I whisper, my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach. This cannot be true.
‘Nothing. I can’t feel anything. The doctors say it’s spinal damage. They’ll know more once the inflammation goes down.’
It takes several seconds for me to absorb the full impact of the news.
‘Oh, God, this is all my fault. They said you were upset before coming to see me.’
‘No. A car veered onto my side of the road. It wasn’t your fault,’ he whispers.
‘I can’t believe this has happened. It’s probably just swelling. You just need time to recover. You need to give these things time. Wait for the inflammation to go down.’
‘No, Mia. They said there’s a high chance I will never, ever walk again.’ The second wave hits me, harder than the first. Statistics. Beating odds. Having to be strong. I’m so tired of this. I take a deep breath, letting my lungs expand as I hold it for several seconds before exhaling.
‘That you will walk again, you mean?’
He responds with silence.
I swallow the dread and the familiar feelings this messy situation is reviving in me. I lift his hand and squeeze it. He pulls away.
‘Don’t do this, Luca. I know you’re upset, but don’t push me away. Please.’
‘You were right. It’s best if we take a break,’ he says coldly.
I close my eyes, not wanting to listen, not wanting to hear what he’s telling me. The tables have turned. Karma is here, biting me, and it stings big time.
‘I wasn’t right. I was all kinds of wrong. I know that now, Luca. Look at me. Please!’
He ignores me and continues, ‘The doctors say they’ll discharge me from this hospital next week …’
‘So soon?’ I ask, unsure of how that would be possible.
‘But I’ll be transferring to the hospital in Orvieto,’ he says.
‘No way. You can’t do that. Stay here. I’ll be here—I’ll take care of you,’ I plead.
I place my trembling hand on his cheek and try to turn his head towards mine.
‘No, Mia.’
‘No. You can’t do this to us,’ I whisper.
He closes his eyes and flops his head back on the pillow. I know he’s exhausted and needs to rest. I reach over and kiss his lips, lingering there for a heartbeat to see if he’ll reciprocate.
Nothing.
I stand up, ripping a tissue from the box sitting on his bedside table and head towards the door.
‘I’d prefer if you didn’t see me at the hospital again,’ he mumbles as I reach the doorway, his eyes still closed. I know it’s because he can’t bring himself to look at me. The icy-cold words send a shiver through my body. I’m frozen, ready to shatter if I take a step forward. I stagger through the door and into the bathroom. No amount of cold water on my face can help me. I scan the foyer, looking for Stella so she can take me home. She’s chatting with Rosetta. They’re discussing the news and their views on his future and whether he’ll be able to walk again with some intensive rehab. Stella is telling Rosetta he should stay here, in Florence. Rosetta says she agrees. We all know though that it’s her brother’s decision.
Paolo is having a heated conversation with the doctor, having stopped him in the corridor.
‘What do you mean you don’t think he’ll be able to walk? Are you sure? What tests have you done?’
The doctor clears his throat. Conversations like this can’t be easy, not even for him. Doctor Pirelli looks as though he’s had a lot of experience breaking bad news to families. The muscles in my feet tense up, then my legs, hands, shoulders and jaw. Oh my aching jaw. I join the two men, and Paolo reaches for my hand. He gives it a squeeze without shifting his attention from the doctor.
‘We’ll know more when the swelling goes down, but this is the information we have from the latest scans. I know it’s a shock, but I’ve seen enough patients like this, with this kind of injury, to tell you that I am almost positive he won’t walk again. I’m sorry.’
I tear my hand away from Paolo’s.
‘Excuse me, Doctor. Do you believe in miracles?’
He looks at me strangely.
‘Do you?’ I repeat.
He clears his throat. ‘Yes, yes I do. I’ve seen a few in my time as a doctor. The mere fact that Luca has pulled through when the odds weren’t in his favour is an example of us not getting it right every time.’
‘Well, then, I’d appreciate it if you would keep your opinions to yourself.’
‘Signorina, with all due respect, we need to be realistic about the situation for Luca’s sake.’
His voice trails off, and I’m immune to the rest of his words. Everything that was once in my grasp is spiralling out of control quicker than I can fathom.
‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt.
‘It can be very overwhelming for patients like this and just as overwhelming for the family. I understand,’ he says. ‘I hope for Luca’s sake that you get the miracle you desire.’ Then he leaves us.
‘God, Paolo. This is going to destroy him,’ I say.
Paolo’s gaze meets mine, hand stroking his forehead. ‘I know, Mia. I know.’
‘We’ve been so focused on him coming out of the coma that I wasn’t prepared for anything like this. I thought we’d lose him or he’d just wake up and things would be … normal.’
This is so far away from normal.
‘I think we need to give it time. We need to be here for him and support him as much as we can.’
‘He doesn’t want me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s his pride. He doesn’t want me around if he can’t walk.’
‘I’ll talk to him.’
‘He wants to go back home. With Rosetta,’ I say.
‘We won’t let him. We’ll do whatever we can to convince him to stay,’ he says, placing his heavy hand on my shoulder.
The trip home with Stella is filled with an awkward silence, mainly because Stella usually doesn’t shut up. As we take the last bend, that fateful bend that almost took Luca’s life, she glances at me, her hands gripping the wheel. ‘You know,’ she says, ‘you were the first person he asked for when he woke up.’
‘I was?’
‘Yep. And it was only when the doctors ran some tests and realised he’d lost the ability to move his legs that he begged them not to call you. Rosetta told me when I got there.’
I wind down the window and let the cool breeze sting my face.
When we get home, the odour of antiseptic is still on my clothes. I peel them off my body and slip into my comfiest pyjamas. I don’t bother joining Stella for dinner. I flop on my bed, not even bothering to slide under the warm quilt.
Stella knocks on my door and delivers me a bowl of penne drizzled with olive oil and a sprinkle of parmesan. I tell her I’m not hungry.
‘I know it’s hard, Mia, but he’s alive. Surely you can find a way to focus on that?’ she says.
‘Everything aches, Stella. I just want him back.’
‘Sweetheart, I know.’
‘I don’t want him to be hurting like this. He’s there in the hospital, dealing with this on his own. I can’t even begin to imagine how he’s feeling right now.’
‘It’s a shock for all of us,’ she says.
‘I shouldn’t have left him in Positano like that.’
‘Yes, and he shouldn’t be pushing you away either. But sometimes when you love someone, it’s only natural to not want them to hurt because of you. But love is about moving through ups and downs together. Letting someone love you can sometimes be one of the biggest gifts you can give that person.’
‘Do you think he’ll change his mind? About letting me see him at the hospital? I mean, he’s so stubborn.’
‘Yeah, he is. But he also adores you.’
‘That’s the problem.’ I sigh.