Saving Francesca

I start wondering how the rest of the world sees us, and this is what I’m sure of.

They look at us as if we’re guilty. My dad, Luca, and I have become the villains. I know what they’re thinking. How could someone as lively and passionate as Mia feel this way? It’s her family, they whisper in my head. They’ve sucked the life out of her. All three of them. They see my father for who he is out there in the real world and not the person he is in our home. They see him as the guy who rode around on my Malvern Star bike once and broke his arm, or the husband at Mia’s university di

Then I picture the way they see me. Have you seen the eldest? I can hear them ask. She’s a dead loss. Has no idea what she wants to do with her life. She’s so insipid, she’s almost invisible. Her closest friend’s mother didn’t even know who she was.

What about the son? He still sleeps with his sister and he’s ten years old. No wonder Mia’s given up.

I do the deals-with-God thing. Make her better … make us all better and I’ll change the world for you.

But God doesn’t talk to me. It’s because every night I lie here with music in my ears and I say my prayers and fall asleep in the middle of them. He only talks to people like Mia. People he thinks are worth it. Because they have passion. They have something. I have nothing. I’m … Keep awake, Francesca. Keep awake and start to pray.

I’m a waste of space.

I am …

I …

My dad does the only thing he knows how to do this morning. He makes us eggs for breakfast.

“We don’t like eggs, Papa,” I finally tell him, because I think deep down I’m a bit pissed-off with him. Why can’t he fix things up? “We never have.”

He looks from Luca to me and then hurls the eggs against the stainless steel.

I watch the design they make as they run down the splashboard, and then he’s crying. My dad is crying and Luca is hugging him from behind, saying, “I’ll eat the eggs, Daddy, I’ll eat the eggs,” and he’s crying too and I can’t bear watching them. All I want to do is scream out “What’s happening?” over and over again because ten days ago my mum didn’t get out of bed. No visible symptoms, no medicine, no doctors. My dad says she’s a bit down and my cousin says it’s a bit of a breakdown. I’ve looked up the word “breakdown” because I am desperate for any clue: “collapse, failure of health or power, analysis of cost.” None of the definitions make sense to me. A breakdown of what, I’m not sure. But she doesn’t eat, that I know.

It has almost become an obsession. Every morning I study the fridge and pantry to see what’s there, and every afternoon I study them again to see if something’s missing. But nothing is. There are no plates in the sink, no food wrappers in the garbage. No evidence of papers being marked or of the phone being answered. Nothing. Nothing makes sense. My mother won’t get out of bed, and it’s not that I don’t know who she is anymore.

It’s that I don’t know who I am.

I stand in front of William Trombal for the fifth time this week. Luca tries to avoid his eyes. I don’t know what we look like to him, but he doesn’t ask our names. He just looks at us and for a moment I see sympathy, and I hate him for it.

No sermons today.

Even the prince of punishment doesn’t think we’re worth talking to.

chapter 7

TODAY THE GRANDMOTHERS step in. Mia’s been in bed for two weeks, and decisions about us are made. Luca goes to Zia Teresa’s and I go to No

Luca sits on my bed as I pack away a few of my things. He looks just like a stereotypical little soccer freak, ball in his hand and the Inter Milan jersey dwarfing his ski

“What’s happening?” he asks in a voice that doesn’t sound like his anymore.

“Everything’s going to be fine. You always have fun at Zia Teresa’s.”

What I hate about this most is that no one gets how we’re feeling. No one asks us if we want to be separated. They just presume that Luca will want to be with his cousins and I’ll want peace and quiet.

He lies down next to me and we hold on to each other tight. I can’t tell horror brother-and-sister stories about Luca and me. We’re crazy about each other, and our arguments are limited to who gets control of the TV remote between 7:00 and 7:30 p.m.

Life at my grandparents’ is a different story. No

Then there’s the news. The 5:00 p.m. news on Cha

Tonight, we watch a cop show where someone gets shot dead. No

“She has the mouth of a viper,” he tells me, twisting his bottom lip with his finger to further illustrate the point.

Ever since I can remember, my no

Later, No