Of volume lineage

 

XXVIII

 

Maria Lombardi

 

The ugliness inside of me grew stronger each day.

Some days I woke up surprised that the green monster who lived in my gut hadn’t climbed out during the night, its spindly tentacles tearing through my stomach and muscle and skin until it was free from its flesh prisoner. It lurked inside of me throughout the day, growing stronger as Vitale dismissed me, and I passed the family photographs.

It was the day I spotted my sister-in-law bent over a toilet, that the monster finally burst free.

Lucia was a sweet woman, who tendered to her strawberries and husbands needs. She liked watercolours and listening to people talk about themselves. Whenever we were alone together, she shivered, like her tender sensibilities couldn’t handle being in the same room as a monster.

“Are you sick?” I asked.

Lucia went pink. “A little bit.”

“Morning sickness?”

She said nothing. The dirt that covered my daughter’s grave was still fresh. Lucia getting pregnant, her welcoming a new baby into the Lombardi household so soon after the death of mine…It was unforgivable.

The monster cooed in agreement.

That night, I lay in the dark, counting Vitale’s breaths. When the insomnia grew too great, I went to my daughter’s room and stood amongst the dusty furniture. Her laughter and scent clung to the room, and sometimes I could see her from the corner of my eye, her angelic face puckered with delight as she discovered the world.

That should be my baby, I thought to myself. My baby lives here, her room is here, all her stuff and memories. Her entire life is in this house, in these hallways.

Lucia stole your baby, the monster whispered.

I frowned at the thought. Lucia didn’t steal my baby. My baby was asleep in the Earth, her soul dancing amongst the clouds in Heaven. I went back to bed and dreamt of my daughter.

A few weeks later, Angelo and Lucia stood up at di

A girl. A daughter.

My daughter.

The thought was erratic, insane. The idea was a symptom of my grief. Rationally, I knew my womb was not swelling with a daughter, but rather my sisters-in-laws. Yet, I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

Your daughter, your daughter, the monster continued to whisper.

When Lucia reached her fifth month, Vitale decided he was ready to rekindle our marriage. I had mourned the loss of my husband, but it had become secondary in my mind these past few weeks. He took me in his arms after di

When I didn’t respond, he said, “I know you miss Bella,” he said. “I miss her too. Some days I wake up and I can hear her giggling, or I roll over in the night and feel her little foot digging into my back as she recounts a nightmare.”

Fathers loved their children, they mourned them, I knew this. But Vitale had no idea what it was like to build something from scratch, to knit together someone’s blood and bones and heart. He had no idea what it was like to dance with Death just to bring your child onto Earth.

“I want my daughter,” I said.

“I know you do.” He rubbed my arms. “We have Junior. He is enough.”

No, he wasn’t.

“I would do anything to bring you back to me, Maria,” my husband said. “I would do anything to hear your thoughts and have my wife back. I miss you. I miss you more than I miss our daughter.”

“I miss you too.” His declaration was romantic, but it was his exact phrasing that caught the attention of the monster.

I would do anything to bring you back to me, Maria.

Anything?

Lucia grew fatter and fatter, her swollen belly a constant mockery. As she formed the child in her womb, I formed a plan in my mind. I did it secretly at first, hiding away from my morals and subconscious, but eventually, I was writing down notes and taking measures to carry it out.

I hid from the public, and when I had to be seen, I wore a large coat over my form. I went to the OB/Gyn for papsmears, but my gossiping bodyguard didn’t know that. I ordered baby furniture; I didn’t let myself eat soft cheeses.

On the day of the baby shower, the woman clumped around Lucia. They begged to know what the baby’s name was.

Isabella, the monster said.

Lucia laughed in that pretty way of hers, like she spent her days roaming blooming meadows and sucking on overripe berries. “Domitilla. Her name is Domitilla Lombardi.”

August came and the first year of my daughter’s death loomed. I waited and waited, then on the 29^th, the same day my baby died, Lucia welcomed her daughter into the world. Angelo rang us from the hospital and invited us to come see our niece.

The monster packed a gun into my handbag.

We arrived at the hospital and Vitale noticed my nervous energy. “We don’t have to see the baby if it’s too hard for you,” he told me.

I just said, “Remember when you told me you would do anything to bring me back to you?”

“I do.”

I kissed him. “I want you to remember that.”

Vitale said nothing. For all our issues, Vitale Lombardi and I knew each other. We had nursed our evilness beside each other’s, growing them together like vines intwining over the side of an old building. He looked down at my purse, then back at me, but remained silent.

We stepped into the hospital room. Angelo was beside Lucia, both glowing and staring at the bundle of joy in her cot. A pink blanket was wrapped around her.

I stepped closer and felt my heart drop.

It was my daughter. It was her brown hair and button nose and dark blue eyes that would turn brown in a few weeks. It was her. My Isabella, my girl. The baby stared up at me, almost like she knew who I was. Her wrinkly hands swung around.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” Angelo said lovingly. “Her name is Domitilla. We’ve been calling her Domi.”

I put my purse down on the bed. “She’s perfection.”

Eventually, Vitale invited Angelo down to the cafeteria. The men went on the hunt for food, which was code for a smoke and drink in the downtown pub.

Lucia shivered when she realized it was us alone but continued to stare at my daughter, besotted. “I think she’ll be a painter,” she said, touching her tiny fingers. “Look at these hands. These are the hands of an artist.”

I grabbed a spare pillow from the closet, fluffing it in my hands.

Lucia smiled. “I don’t need another pillow. Thank you.”

I just smiled.

My sister-in-law went pale. “Please. She’s…she needs me…”

“She needs me.”

To this day, I still recalled how it felt to suffocate Lucia. How she struggled and screamed and scratched at me. Some of those scars remain on my wrists, little pink reminders of what I endured to get my daughter back. Perhaps I hadn’t created her, but I had destroyed for her. Wasn’t that the same thing?

She died and slumped onto the bed.

I picked up the baby, swinging her gently in my arms. She let out a furious cry.

“It’s okay, little principessa,” I told her. “There’s no need to get angry.”

Angelo and Vitale returned not long after. My brother-in-law reacted badly as expected, always the more emotional of the Lombardi boys. He tried to kill me, but Vitale pi