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One Year Later
I lovedthe bedroom I shared with my little sister. It was cool in the summer heat, with its white walls and bedding and our two beds had canopies of lace above them. When Salvatore wasn’t to be found at the beach, I sought out refuge in our room.
The first two weeks of September were behind us already and I’d only seen him six times. I knew he was a few years older than me, maybe five or six or even more. He had grown taller and broader with every year that had passed. Even standing down on the beach and looking up at him, when he stood up to leave, I was convinced he had to be the largest man I’d ever seen, although there didn’t appear to be a single ounce of fat on him. Two days before, he’d travelled to our beach on his bike like normal, only on that day he was wearing only jeans and a loose vest. I’d found it hard to look away from his muscular arms and torso, and it seemed his ever-growing expanse of tattoos.
As in previous years, he hadn’t come close enough to me to be accused of anything improper, but our connection felt stronger every single time our eyes connected. When I was happy, he was the first person that I wanted to share that exuberance with. Without the slightest hesitation I would run down to the beach, throw my arms up into the soft, warm breeze and twirl around especially for him, with surprisingly no embarrassment whatsoever. Then, worn out by my exertions, I would look up to his rock as I now referred to it and wait for his beautiful face to slowly break out into a smile. A single smile bestowed on me would warm my insides and keep me on cloud nine for days afterwards. And equally, when I’d butted heads with one of my siblings or my parents, I’d seek him out. Very often he’d pre-empt my sadness and cookies would be waiting for me.
We communicated organically, without the need for words. I wasn’t sure why I felt so allied to Salvatore, I only understood that my English/Italian existence felt more constant with him in it.
‘Sera?’
‘Mia?’ I answered in return, copying her tone. I grinned as I moved the magazine that I’d been lying on my back pretending to read out of the way. Then I turned my head to face her and aimed my grin straight at her.
‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Okay.’ I poised myself, as I raised myself up using my hand and then rested my elbow onto the soft mattress underneath me.
‘I know you want to be a doctor.’
‘I do,’ I agreed.
‘Well, I’m going to be a mama. Is that okay?’
I looked at her and smiled. My beautiful little sister, with her thick dark hair and brown eyes beneath her circular, dark-rimmed glasses.
‘I think at ten years old; you still have time to be anything you want to be.’ Absentmindedly, I licked my finger and turned over another page.
‘Is being a mama a good job?’
Fleetingly, I thought about our mum. She’d made it her life’s work to bring the five of us up, and I was in no doubt of the love she had for us all. I knew she’d done as good a job as she was allowed.
‘I think it can be an amazing job if you put your heart and soul into it.’
She moved her gaze away from me, tucked her hands underneath her head and looked back at the ceiling.
‘Then I shall marry Gabriel De Luca.’
I couldn’t help the soft sigh that left my lips. At her age, I’d already understood that who I would marry probably wouldn’t be my decision. I loved that she seemed oblivious to the fact. Although Gabriel could be a choice our papa would make.
‘Do you think he’s handsome, Serafina?’ Her question took me by surprise.
‘Yes, Mia. I think so.’ I answered her with a small smile lifting the corners of my mouth.
Inside my head I pictured Gabriel, who had recently celebrated his fourteenth birthday and although he was a year younger than myself, he was already much taller than me. I refused to acknowledge why I felt so disappointed that unfortunately Salvatore hadn’t been there to celebrate with us. Mia’s question had conjured up pictures in my mind, and I flicked through all the De Luca boys, which was something I allowed myself to do occasionally as I appreciated how good looking they were growing up to be, with their matching dark hair and eyes. But, as always, my mind rebelled against any control I tried to convince myself I had over it and images of Salvatore filled my head, pushing all the others away.
His was a face I was beginning to think I was obsessed with.
I heard my sigh of recognition and in my peripheral view caught the look of concern Mia offered me. So, I stretched out my limbs to try to convince her I was merely stiff and uncomfortable. Thrown off the scent she settled back down and lifted her book back up to her face.
‘Your dress is beautiful, Sera.’ She spoke again and turned her head towards me to gauge my reaction.
‘Thank you.’ I lowered my voice as I cast my eyes over to my first communion dress that was hanging over the front of my wardrobe doors. It definitely wasn’t what I’d have chosen for myself, as it was far too young looking for my liking, with its round neck, long lace sleeves, full tulle skirt, and a full satin sash, which was to be tied around my waist and finished off with a bow at the base of my back. I knew that although my mum had asked my opinion on what I would like to wear, my papa had made the final decision.
The whole thing was crazy. I should have had my first communion back in London when I was nine years old, when the rest of my classmates had theirs. If I had, I knew I would have loved what was hanging on my wardrobe, but I was no longer a little girl. Once again, being half English and half Italian, the two cultures had made a stand for their opposing beliefs and my Italian side had won. In nineteen hundred and ten the then Pope had decreed that the first communion age could lower to seven, but sticking with tradition our locality in Calabria voted to keep the “spose bambine,” or child brides, and therefore a girl’s first communion was still undertaken at around fourteen to fifteen years old, the year when most girls would have gone through puberty and the year before they could legally marry with parental permission.
I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant for my sixteenth year, but I tended not to dwell on the fact that however much my papa loved me, I knew I was without a doubt, at this moment in time, his most valuable bargaining tool.
Will I get a choice?
