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Why the fuck did I just do that? Why would it matter to me if she got her fancy shoes wet? I turn and head toward the pharmacy. Mrs. Pisano’s heels click on the pavement as she tries to keep up, but I maintain my steady pace, mad as hell at myself.
I hold the pharmacy door open for her, making sure my gaze is focused straight ahead and over the top of her.
When she passes me, I post myself by the door and clasp my hands behind my back. I won’t be looking at that woman again unless it’s absolutely necessary. Forming any kind of connection with a person you intend to eliminate is never a good thing.
My resolve falters barely a minute later when I hear her voice. She is speaking in an even, casual tone, but there is a faint note of distress in it. I turn my head to the side to see her standing at the counter, speaking with the pharmacy employee.
“I’d really prefer to have Melania help me. Please.”
“Ma’am. I already told you. She went to the back room to take a private call,” the male on the other side of the counter says in a condescending tone. “If it’s just a prescription, I’m completely capable of handling that for you.”
“I . . . I’ll come back later. Thank you,” Mrs. Pisano says and turns to leave.
“Ravi?” A woman in her early twenties comes out and then turns toward her colleague. “I’ve got this, Charles. Go take your lunch break.”
When the guy disappears out of sight, Mrs. Pisano places a paper on the counter. “How are you, Melania?”
The girl takes the prescription but instead of checking what’s written on it, she glances in my direction, then quickly looks away. “I’m great.” She smiles, but it seems artificial. “And how are you? Everything okay at home?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Pisano says.
The girl nods, reaches into the drawer under the cash register, then places a white paper bag on the counter. She hadn’t even looked at the prescription note.
Mrs. Pisano takes the package, but instead of saying goodbye, she remains in place. Nervous energy seems to radiate off her, matched by the pharmacy girl on the other side of the counter. The moment is brief, barely a few seconds, but it feels like the two are having a wordless exchange. And I doubt it has anything to do with settling the payment, either.
“Thank you.”
There is an unusual tone to Mrs. Pisano’s words when she finally says them. It doesn’t sound like a simple courtesy.
“Any time, Ravi,” the pharmacy girl whispers and places her hand over Mrs. Pisano’s. Her eyes once again dart toward me before she quickly slides the prescription note off the counter and stuffs it into the pocket of her lab coat.
My charge walks past me on her way out, and I can’t help but wonder what she just received in that package. Because I’m willing to bet it sure as fuck wasn’t what was written on her prescription.
***
I don’t know what I expected when I parked the car in front of the building where Mrs. Pisano’s mother lives, but it wasn’t a place that looks like it’s barely holding together. The elevator is out of order, so we climb the four flights of stairs and head down the narrow hallway with cracked and peeling paint and a scuffed linoleum floor. Some of the bulbs are out or missing entirely from their fixtures, the dim light only accentuates the derelict conditions. The stench of body odor and piss that hangs in the air is hardly a selling point here, either.
Mrs. Pisano stops at the last door and reaches to take the bags I’m holding. She insisted on bringing all twenty of them inside, saying that she wanted to show her mother the new clothes she bought.
I look around the place and feel disgusted. Instead of spending the thirty grand on the clothes she seemed to care little about in the first place, Mrs. Pisano could have moved her mother out of this shithole and paid rent on a new place for an entire year with that money. Is she really this selfish? What the fuck is wrong with her? Why would she let her mom live here and also feels the need to brag about the crap she’s just purchased? I wish I can see her eyes to get a sense of what’s happening in her head right now, but she still has those fucking sunglasses on. She hasn’t bothered taking them off even in this murky hallway.
“You can stay here,” she says, tugging on the bags. “I won’t be long.”
I keep a tight hold on the bags and knock at the door.
The woman who opens it is a spitting image of Mrs. Pisano, only older. Black hair speckled with grays, the same green eyes, and an identical small nose. There’s a twinkle in her brilliant depths as they land on her daughter, but as soon as she notices me, that glint disappears.
“Mamma. This is Alessandro,” Mrs. Pisano says. “May we come in?”
The older woman nods and steps aside. When we enter, I let Mrs. Pisano take the bags and shift to stand by the wall, right next to the door, focusing my gaze on the window across the room. Even without looking around, I can see that the inside of the apartment, although clean and tidy, isn’t much better than the building itself.
The mother and daughter sit down on the beat-up sofa and start looking at the clothes. Every few moments, the mother throws a quick look in my direction.
“This one is beautiful, Ravi,” she says but her tone doesn’t seem to match the sentiment. “Oh, and look at that skirt, you’ll look stunning in that.”
Mrs. Pisano doesn’t say a word, just keeps taking out the clothes. In fact, the whole scene feels off. Staged somehow, as if they are acting for my benefit. I turn my head to the side so I can see them better but pretend that I’m still looking at something beyond the window. I school my expression to appear vacant, bored even, so they’ll stop paying me any attention.
Mrs. Pisano reaches for the largest bag, the one that holds the faux fur coat, and quickly pushes it behind the sofa, out of view. Then, she takes out a few of the blouses and passes them to her mother, but when she comes to the expensive purse, that ends up tucked behind the sofa, as well. When they finish perusing her purchases, she puts everything back into the bags. The boots, however, are nowhere in sight.
