Of volume lineage

II

 

Isabella

 

The phone rang during di

The strings of the cello and clatter of utensils were the usual background music to Lombardi family di

Father looked towards the foyer, where the ringing was located.

I turned my head just in time to see my mother’s collarbones protrude.

“Vitale.” A single word, a command.

Both my brother and I turned to Father to spot his reaction, the pair of us clutching onto this strange and unusual entertainment with the same viciousness as a dog with a bone. Junior and I were never in sync–except when it came to watching our parents.

The ringing did not cease.

“Maria,” Father replied.

Mother’s knuckles whitened around her fork.

The two didn’t need words to combat each other. I had grown up watching them argue with only their eyes and facial expressions. Sometimes they even mouthed Italian curses to each other, teeth and lips gnashing together with their rage.

Junior and I continued to turn our heads from right to left, following the argument like a te

The ringing stopped.

We all paused, breaths clutched in our chests–

It began again.

I could’ve sworn the fork my mother was holding had bent beneath her grip.

Father’s chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back. “Excuse me.”

Father didn’t need to be excused but it was a way to placate my mother. It didn’t work–the woman looked like she was going to erupt from her skin. It might pain me to admit but I knew Maria Lombardi. She wasn’t having such a visceral reaction to the conventions of di

“Back to your meals,” she snapped.

Junior and I, despite being adults, obeyed.

All three of us tried to make out Father’s voice but he had moved to his study to take the call. I couldn’t make out any clear words, only his tone. Deep and harsh...something was happening.

Mother looked up at the clock. “After six...” she muttered to herself.

I didn’t double check my mother’s words. Not because I trusted her implicitly but because of her. That damn painting of her above the clock. My sister, my namesake.

My ghost.

Exactly one year after Isabella Lombardi died, I came into the world. Same day, same hour, same minute. Before I had even taken my first breath, I was named Isabella Lombardi, the second coming of the perfect daughter.

It just took ten minutes after my birth for everyone to realize that I was nothing like my namesake–instead, I arrived on earth with a scowl, bit not one but three kids in day-care and my first word was “fuckoff”. I was the cheap copy, store-brand if you will, of the real Isabella Lombardi.

Most rooms in this house had a portrait of the first Isabella, every moment of her short life immortalized. The one in the dining room was of her standing beside a chair, only five-years old, dressed in white, with sweet eyes and a placid smile. Perfection, Mother had described her as. She was perfection.

I had never been called perfection.

My thoughts were interrupted when Father returned, expression tight. He didn’t say anything to Mother, only sent her a loaded look.

She rose to her feet. “It’s him?”

“Yes.” Father resumed his spot at the head of the table. “Sit down and let us finish our meal.”

The atmosphere was rippling with energy and unspoken questions. Each movement, each sound, felt like electricity zapping through my blood.

“What’s going on?” A stupid question, I knew, spoken from instinct instead of curiosity. It was obvious what was happening; the organization was under attack. But by whom?

My parents snapped their heads to me.

“This doesn’t concern you, Isabella,” Father said. “This is Famiglia business.”

Junior had a strange look on his face. When it came to Family matters, Junior was always in the loop–the Lombardi heir had been a capo since he was eighteen. “Do you need me to alert the men, Father?”

“No.”

I looked at my brother. He met my eyes, shaking his head slightly. Junior didn’t know what was going on either.

“Isabella,” came Mother’s warning voice at my straying attention. “Eat your di

My first instinct was to listen to her, to obey, but I said, “The phone ringing during di

“Isabella.”

“And who’s him?” I directed this question to my father. “Is it the same person who’s been making your men run around like headless chickens for the past few months?”

I might not be welcomed into Famiglia matters but that didn’t mean I was blind to them. I heard the late phone calls and raised voices from the study, I saw the stress lines and empty whiskey bottles. Conversations were tense, money was ru

Something was happening.

“You’re too astute for your own good, Isabella,” Father warned.

“I just want to know–”

A look in my direction had me falling silent. “It has nothing to do with you, child. It is the men’s business,” Father said.

I rolled my eyes. Everything was the men’s business until it was time to be a virgin and marry who your parents told you to and pop out some future soldati. “It impacts my life. It is my family, too.”

“Leave it alone, Izzy,” Junior warned. He was the only one who didn’t call me Isabella.

“Nothing good comes from nosey women.” Father’s temper had finally taken control of his voice, hardening and sharpening the tone until it felt like a sword against my cheek. “Mind your business.”

I met my mother’s dark eyes. “Aren’t you nosey, Mother?”

There was one thing I could do that Isabella the First couldn’t: set Maria Lombardi’s temper alight. I took special pride in the fact that I was the only one who was able to get under her skin. However, Maria was just as good at getting under mine.

“Go upstairs,” she hissed. “Go upstairs now, Isabella.”

“Happily.” I dropped my fork with a clatter before storming out of the room. My parent’s anger followed me out, quickening my step.

I slammed my bedroom door as a reminder to everyone downstairs but instead of revelling in my anger, I slumped against it, breathing deeply.

In the wake of my tantrum, I felt the familiar piercing feeling of shame low in my gut. If I was a bit quieter, a bit smaller, a bit prettier, maybe I would enjoy family di

I could be sweet–I could have sugar and honey for blood. Mrs. Gorgazzi called me a sweet girl whenever I brought her flowers and sat with her while she watched Jeopardy reruns. But there was so much more than sweetness thundering inside of me.

I envied those who leaped from feeling to feeling, moving and shifting gracefully with their emotions. I, however, went from extreme to extreme. I threw myself into my emotions, into my window-shattering rage or endless brooding. I wasn't happy, I was euphoric. I wasn't sad, I was miserable.

I casted my eyes to the emotive paintings that hung around my room and decorated my many easels.