In fact, it has almost taken on a life of its own.
“Luca, are you alright?”
Adrian interrupts my thoughts and as I glance at him, I find his forehead is wrinkled with concern. I smile. He has known me since we were boys and his family has worked for mine for generations. He certainly knows me well.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just distracted. What are your plans for the day?”
Adrian turns the wheel fluidly as he guides the Mercedes along the winding coastal road. He drives with ease, just like he does everything else. Everything is easy for him. People, love, life. I’ve been envious of that more times than I can count.
“Unless you need me for something else, I am planning on servicing your Jag this morning, then I am helping Tegan repair a broken stall in the stables this afternoon. If you don’t think you’ll have a late night tonight, I have plans to keep.”
“And miles to go before you sleep?” I smile as I recite a line from a favorite poem. Adrian shakes his head and laughs. He has never been an academic, so he probably has no idea who I am quoting. “Robert Frost,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes.
To be fair, Adrian has never needed to be academic. His charm got him through school and when his charm couldn’t accomplish something, I tutored him. He always knew that his plan in life was to work for my family, like his father before him. He is never serious and usually has plans in town on the weekends. It is nothing new. He loves the bustle and life of the city. I do not.
“That’s fine,” I tell him absently, answering his question. “I don’t intend to have a late night.”
Adrian noses the car through the massive iron gates leading to Chessarae and up the long manicured drive. The difference as we pass onto the property is immediate. It is quiet here, as though the property itself recognizes my need for serenity. I know it is a silly thought, but it is entertaining to believe that the land itself recognizes something within me, a need for peace and solitude.
“Will you be visiting your mother this morning?”
Adrian asks this seriously as the car draws to a stop and I open my door. I grit my teeth. It’s Friday again. Already.
I nod curtly and he shakes his head.
“You don’t have to, you know,” he tells me. “I don’t know anyone else in their right mind who would. It’s not like she would know the difference anyway.”
“
I
would,” I tell him. And I leave him with the car as I turn and make my way into the house.
As I walk through the doors, an instant feeling of reverence passes through my body, as it always does when I return home. This home, this mansion, is a thousand years old. It was built by the Knights of Malta back when they first occupied the country, when their strength was at its peak. The interior, of course, has been redecorated many times throughout the years, but the exterior has remained the same. Heavy stone blocks create a formidable presence. It is ancient and permanent.
And it is mine.
I wind my way through the house and push through the heavy mahogany doors to my study. Each door is carved with the dignified crest of the Knights. Although my family has never belonged to the order, we have left their imprint on Chessarae in homage to their rich history. It gives the house character.
I walk straight to the bar that sits behind my desk. If I am visiting my mother today, as I always do on Fridays, I will require sustenance. My particular brand of sustenance comes in the form of forty-year old Scotch. I pour a glass, neat. I down it in one gulp. I savor the familiar burn in my mouth and then pour another.
“Don’t,” Adrian says from the door. He is uncharacteristically somber as he watches me drink. “Don’t do this to yourself, Luca. She doesn’t have the right.”
“Leave me,” I instruct him. “You know I have to go. I’d just as soon do it alone.”
“But you don’t have to do it at all,” he insists. “You don’t have to allow her to treat you as she does. It isn’t right. You don’t deserve it.”
“Ah,” I answer, as I swirl the amber liquid in the glass. “But therein lies the problem. You know that I do.”
I gulp it down, then thump my glass down on the antique wooden sidebar. It makes a satisfactory clang in the silence and I turn to Adrian.
“Don’t you have a car to service?”
I am being an ass and he doesn’t deserve it. I know that, so I smile at my oldest friend.
“I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”
Adrian nods and reluctantly leaves the room. He knows me well enough to know not to push it, particularly on Fridays.
Even still, I find that I don’t want to leave. This study is my solace, my own fortress. The ceilings are extraordinarily tall in here, the walls paneled with cherry and framed with stone. It is dark, it is quiet and it feels like the safest place in the world. It was my father’s before it was mine and his father’s before his and so on. The idea of what these walls have seen, the secrets they must be keeping, is intriguing. And there are days, such as today, that I would just as soon never leave here.
But there are days, such as today, when I have unpleasant tasks to attend to.
I stride quickly out and down the halls to get this particular thing over with.
It takes almost five full minutes to walk from my study doors to my mother’s wing. She has an entire wing of the house all to herself, and many nights, I can see the lights flickering on and off in the various rooms as she is up throughout the night.
Ever since my father died, since he committed suicide, my mother has not been well. Not that she was ever
well
to begin with. Not truly. But she is worse now than she has ever been. Now, to put it less than eloquently, she is fucking insane.
I stand for a moment outside of her doors, and I take a deep breath as I pull the key from my pocket and turn it in the lock. I am scared of nothing in this life. But I am not fond of my mother.
I push the doors open and find her rooms dark. Very dark. Her drapes are drawn and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the absence of light. But once they do, once I can see the silhouettes and shapes from within, I still don’t see her.
“Sophia?” I call out. My mother’s personal attendant has been with us for years. She has tolerated more than any one person should ever tolerate, years of verbal and physical abuse from my mother, yet she still remains. I can’t imagine why. I would have left long ago. “Sophia?”
“Yes, Mr. Minaldi?” She appears from nowhere, from the door leading to my mother’s sitting room. She looks tired, as though she hasn’t slept in a week. Her graying hair is disheveled and her clothing is rumpled, which is very unlike her. Sophia is not a pretty woman but she is always perfectly groomed, perfectly professional.
“Where is my mother?” I ask. Something passes over Sophia’s face and I can’t read it so I ask. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing, sir. I just don’t know that today is a good day for you to visit. Mrs. Minaldi has not had a good week.”
“How so?”
I look around and everything in the suite seems to be in place. There have been times when my mother has completely thrashed the place during violent tantrums. Nothing appears to be broken now, which is a good sign.
Sophia sighs.
“She is hallucinating again,” she tells me tiredly. “She thinks that she sees your father. It’s all I can do to keep her contained in this wing.”
“But you keep the doors locked,” I pointed out. “Even my mother cannot escape a locked door.”
“There are windows,” Sophia answers grimly.
I startle as I stare at the walls of windows that line this room. Every room in the suite has similar windows. My mother insisted upon it when she was moved to this wing. Although her wing is located on the ground floor, the windows are still too high up to climb through. She would probably break every bone in her body if she attempted it. She is frail in her older age.
“What do you suggest?” I ask. “Bars on them?”
Sophia shrugs. “I don’t know,” she answers. “But she is desperate at times to escape, to find your father. She wants to save him.”
“Her medication isn’t working?”
Sophia shrugs again. “It is more effective at times than others. There are moments when nothing can touch her hysteria. I don’t know what the answer is.”
“Dr. Bianchi is on vacation,” I tell her. “He won’t return for two weeks. But we’ll call him when he gets back and see if there is anything we can do.”
“Perhaps a change of environment would be good for her,” Sophia suggests. “There are homes in town where she can receive twenty-four hour care. Perhaps if she is in a place where Nicolas never was, it will ease her mind. Dr. Bianchi has already recommended this.”
I’m already shaking my head. “No. My mother would never want strangers to see her in such a way.”
She would rather be dead than that.
“You are a good son, Mr. Minaldi,” Sophia tells me. I can see the admiration on her face but I don’t deserve it. And since I don’t deserve it, I don’t acknowledge it.
“You never said where she was.”
Sophia is hesitant. “She is resting in her sitting room.”
“Sleeping?” I am hopeful. But Sophia shakes her head.
“No.”
“Sedated?”
“Yes.”
“Well, thank God for small favors.”
Sophia smiles at me.
“You can take a break,” I tell her. “I’ll sit with her for a bit.”
“Are you certain?” she asks and her hesitation is back. “You might need me.”
“If I do, I’ll call you,” I assure her. “Go. You deserve a break.”
She nods and slips away and I decide to just get this over with.
I find my mother curled on her side on a sofa. She is partially covered with a cashmere throw and her dark eyes are fixed in front of her, staring at nothing. She is small and slight, and the only things I have inherited from her are her dark eyes. My father’s were green.
I sit down in the chair next to her.
“Mother, how are you feeling today?”
I have to force the words. I honestly have no wish to speak with her.
She doesn’t answer and at first, I am hopeful that I can simply sit here in silence with her and then slip out unnoticed.
I have no such luck.
Her dark eyes turn toward me, slowly and eerily. I fight the shivers that ripple up my spine. She is a small woman, this woman who gave birth to me. There is no need to feel such trepidation around her. Yet, I do. When she looks at me, she sees through me, to the very depths of me. No one else can do that and it shakes the hell out of me.
“You came back.”
Her words are throaty and simple.
“I always do, mother,” I tell her. I start to reach for her hand, but change my mind. I am safer over here. I don’t want to feel her skin. She will feel like ice, as she always does.
She turns her head more and now she is looking at me squarely. Her eyes are lucid and clear today and I wonder at what she is thinking.
I do not have to wonder for long.
“You left me here with that bitch. You don’t love me.”
I sigh. My mother doesn’t have Alzheimer’s. But she does have a wretched form of dementia that causes her to be cruel.
“She’s not a bitch, mother. Sophia is good to you. You should be nicer to her.”
My mother sniffs and then delicately sits up, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. I eye her warily. She could fly into motion at any time.
She watches my hesitation and her mouth stretches into a grotesque smile.
“You are afraid of me?” she asks. And her voice is ragged and edgy in this quiet room, this giant room that feels so much like a mausoleum. “Little Lukey, are you afraid of your mother?”
I steel myself against her and I can’t help but resent her. She sometimes called me Lukey as a boy. Sometimes it was lovingly and sometimes it was mockingly. Even back then, you never knew what you were going to get with her. One moment she was kind and the very next, she was bitter and cold. The constant was that she was always detached. She never wanted to get that close to me, which might be exactly the reason why I do not feel close to her now.
“No. I’m not afraid of you, mother. Is there a reason why I should be?”
As soon as I ask the question, as soon as the words pass my lips, I know it was a mistake. A light ignites in her eyes, an eerie, unnatural light, and I unconsciously lean away from her.
“Why, yes,” she answers. “Yes, there is, Lukey. You should always fear me because I know what you are.”
And then she opens her mouth and begins to scream and twist and rock in her seat and I grit my teeth. This is the mother that I know now, the one who may or may not be feigning insanity. This is my life and she is but a piece of it. I close my eyes and let her scream.
Chapter Seven
Eva
What should I wear?
I ask myself this question as I look into my small closet. It’s not that big of a question, because it’s not that big of a closet. I didn’t bring a lot of clothing. I choose a simple pair of khaki shorts, a black button up shirt and a pair of black slip-ons. I pull my hair into a low ponytail and slide on some lip-gloss. When in doubt, always go with a classic look. It’s something my mother taught me and it’s always held true.
I check the time. 6:55. Adrian should be here any moment.
For some reason, I feel a little nervous. It’s silly, but true. I haven’t had time for dates in so long, first because of medical school, then because of my residency. My personal life took a hard hit, I’ll be the first to admit it. And even though I’m not truly interested in Adrian, at least not long term, it will still be nice to sit down with someone charming for a dinner. And that makes me nervous because I’m out of practice. I’ll have to make an effort not to psycho-analyze him. Men tend to dislike that, if my memory serves me correctly.
There is a knock at the door and I glance at the clock. 6:59. He’s right on time, early in fact.