Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I thank him, but my praise is weak. I can’t imagine doing something so intimate and clinical for money, but I’m also desperate. This kills me to admit, but I can’t give him a definite answer until I’ve had time to weigh the pros and cons.
I can’t do that while being eyeballed like the last dessert at an empty buffet, so I tuck the leaflet into my pocket, tell Luca I’ll think about it, and return to my mother’s room to continue packing.
With my mother too frail to walk, and my faith in the Maps app too low to consider busing it home to check if the battery charger is functional, I use the last of our funds to take a taxi to my aunt’s apartment.
The driver doesn’t speak during the commute. He stalks us through the rearview mirror, and he eyeballs Mom like the disease stealing the life from her eyes also stole her beauty.
It hasn’t. My mother is a beautiful woman. Men of all ages admire her, and during her youth, she often had more than one date a night.
The further we travel, the more I realize this ride is nothing like the one I took this morning. There are no leather seats or hints of quiet confidence from a powerfully rich smell. Just the rattle of loose change and the aroma of stale cigarettes.
Needing to distract myself from the surging fare, I peer out the window and watch the city slide by. The market stalls shut hours ago, and instead of chasing pigeons, the children are playing football in the street.
Everything is distant, as if I’m watching someone else’s life from the outside. It’s a scary outlook. This isn’t meant to be my life. My mother left her abuser. She escaped the torment, so why is she being so cruelly targeted?
When I seek answers from the only person who can give them, I learn that the half-dozen stairs at the front of San Giorgio’s must have exhausted Mom. Her head is resting on my shoulder, and the breaths of her faint snores dust my cheek with warm air.
I kiss her temple before breathing in the comforting scent of honey and amber. I feel like crying. Salty blobs have been threatening to spill from my eyes all day. But I can’t release them yet. I need to remain strong for Mom.
Furthermore, crying won’t help anything. It will just add another problem to my already overstuffed plate.
“One more step, Mom,” I say, aiding her slow climb up the stairwell in my aunt’s building that’s painted the color of an old lemon. “We’re almost there.”
Aunt Maria is at her front door, ready to welcome us with open arms. She helps me settle Mom into her bed and is rewarded with my first genuine smile of the day when she fusses over every minute detail. Maria gives Mom the best pillow and wraps her in the softest blanket.
Although the apartment’s sole bedroom is compact, it’s clean, and the sunlight warming the aged walls provides a luxurious ambiance Mom hasn’t experienced in months. The rays highlighting her petite features burst happiness through her eyes.
“Go fetch some milk from the corner store.” My aunt presses a few coins into my hand. “I’ll pop the kettle on. Your mom’s been dying for a sneaky granita di caffè for a week.”
Grateful for the excuse to get some air, even if it’s only for a few minutes, I collect my purse from the kitchen and leave.
Freshly baked goods and sun-kissed skin permeate from the busy supermarket. I place some discounted bakery items the store will discard tonight if unsold and a pint of milk in a basket.
When I get to the register, I pull out my phone and hope for the best. The cab fare took me down to my last ten dollars, but because I forgot about the bus fare this morning, I’m suddenly not confident I’ll have enough funds.
The cashier barely glances at me when I tap my phone against the payment terminal.
My heart plummets to my stomach when the machine beeps and then flashes red.
Declined.
My cheeks burn when I try again and achieve the same result. Mumbling that there must be a bank error, I fumble for coins at the bottom of my purse. On the counter, I count out what little funds I have while striving to ignore the internal alarm announcing payday is still four days away.
I don’t have enough, so I tell the cashier I’ll return when the bank fixes its error to purchase the baked goods I have to leave behind.
Outside, the ghastly humid air adds to the sting of humiliation painting my cheeks red. The coins I gathered in a hurry feel heavier in my pocket than they should. They’re a testament of how little stands between us going under. Even the smallest comforts, like a sweet pastry or a cup of coffee, are luxuries now.