Andrea Canobbio - Three Light-Years

“If you want I’ll buy you a present.”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t need one. They give them to us at camp, for hikes in the woods at night.”

“Yes, but this will be yours. You really wanted one.”

“I don’t remember, when?”

“Can I buy it for you as a gift?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Yes, but can I give it to you as a gift?”

He nodded. “Sure, okay.”

They reached the checkout counter and paid. She pictured Mattia turning the flashlight on at night, inside the sleeping bag, so he could inspect his amulets or read a comic book.

“You really don’t remember how much you wanted one?”

The boy shook his head.

As soon as they got into the car, however, she saw him take it out of the bag and put it in his pocket, rearranging his things a little, as if to make room for it, to welcome it to the family. And that gesture cheered her up.

* * *

She missed the children a lot. She missed Michela, when she’d sit next to her on the couch in the evening and start telling stories about her classmates, stories about other parents; she had a gift for seeing the most comical side of people, she could imitate them perfectly. She was delightful, not always, but she missed her, even in her less-likable moods. She’d driven her to the shore and during the trip they’d talked about a friend of hers.

“Laura’s parents don’t speak to each other.”

“Who told you that?”

“Laura.”

“They never speak to each other?”

“When she’s there, no, they never speak to each other. Maybe they talk when she’s not there.”

“Well, they must say something to each other now and then.”

“Better off separating, then.”

“Every family is different.”

“You and Papa talk to each other.”

“Of course.”

“Did you ever fight?”

“Oh, sure, we fought a lot.”

“Laura’s parents don’t speak, because if they spoke they would fight.”

“Who told you that?”

“Laura. She’s not sure. She thinks they don’t speak so they won’t fight.”

Pause.

“When do you two fight?”

“Now we get along pretty well. But in the past we fought.”

“That’s why you separated.”

Her daughter knew the difference between separation and divorce.

“Yes, that’s why.”

“And then you’ll get divorced.”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t see you.”

“You didn’t see us what?”

“I didn’t see you fight.”

“We tried not to fight in front of you.”

“Oh.”

Pause.

“You could have though. I wouldn’t have gotten upset. Mattia would have, maybe.”

What she missed about Mattia was their conversations. Without being aware of it, she talked of little else, she told everyone about their phone calls in great detail. Only her sister proved to be loving or cruel enough to tell her she was overdoing it.

“Take advantage of this time to get out,” she said. “We can go to a movie, there are outdoor concerts, or let’s go have a drink, that way you can see people.”

“It’s too hot.”

“Is the heat wave dangerous?”

“No, you just have to drink a lot of water.”

To show Silvia that she wasn’t cut off from the world, she’d have liked to tell her about her relationship with Viberti, if it was a relationship, but she didn’t feel like it. Better to talk about the children, stick to the predictable, the predictable was more satisfying. She told her she’d spoken with two counselors at Mattia’s camp. They assured her that the child was fine and was eating well, in fact “heartily.”

“They used that word? ‘Heartily’?”

“Yes, ‘heartily.’ Did you ever think you’d hear them say that about your nephew?”

“Well, sure, why not?”

“So isn’t it awful that as soon as he leaves home he starts eating?”

Without thinking, Silvia said she thought it was perfectly normal. Then she saw the expression on her sister’s face, as if she had stabbed her in the back, and tried to remedy things:

“Lots of kids are more willing to eat away from home.”

But Cecilia was still upset.

“Besides, you think so, too, you’ve told me a hundred times. Didn’t the psychologist say the same thing? Didn’t she say that it’s his way of reacting to what’s happened?”

Then Cecilia asked, “What reaction did Michela have, in your opinion?”

Silvia thought for a moment, then said: “She’s not as carefree as she used to be.”

“I still think she’s over the top no matter what.”

“Yes, but not like before.”

“She’s grown up.”

“That’s true.”

“And you haven’t noticed anything unusual?”

“What should I have noticed?”

“Her relationship with her brother…”

“What about her relationship with her brother?”

Cecilia sighed, she didn’t know if she wanted to talk about it at all, she didn’t know if she wanted to talk to her sister about it.

“Is something wrong?” Silvia asked. “It seems to me their relationship hasn’t changed … They get along all right together, they have fun, they fight, like all kids. Or they ignore each other.”

Cecilia told her about a few incidents, including the one with the toy cars in the hallway.

Silvia shook her head. “Don’t do this, please.”

Maybe she should listen to her sister and stop. Maybe, by voicing certain thoughts she might conjure them.

“Do you think it’s possible that Michela, in some way … don’t ask me how … encourages Mattia to not eat…”

Silvia stood up and held her hands out in front of her with a frightened look.

“… or actually compels him, that she has such influence over him…”

“Please, that’s enough, please,” Silvia said.

Cecilia stopped and bowed her head. “All right. I know I’m scaring you, and I know you’re right, I’m sorry, but telling you helps me stop thinking about it.”

“Right, promise me you won’t think about it anymore, promise me.”

“I can’t promise you, how can you promise not to think about something? But I promise that when it pops into my head I’ll remember the expression you have now and I’ll ignore the thought.”

* * *

She went out with the shy internist one evening because her sister had told her to take advantage of the children’s being away to have a little fun, or maybe because Mattia was doing well and the future looked less bleak than the past, or maybe because she felt guilty for having made Viberti fall in love with her, or because for some nights she’d been imagining him in scenes that were no longer merely fraternal, hand in hand, head on his shoulder.

She hadn’t dreamed up such detailed fantasies since she was seventeen or eighteen, as if her curiosity had returned, as if the novelty had never worn off. For instance, she wanted to suck his lips as she’d done that afternoon in early June, she wanted to slide her tongue over his eyelids. She wanted to squeeze his cock, feel the blood throbbing, feel its firmness. She wanted him to grab her between her legs as if he wanted to rip her open. She wanted to bite him.

She came, and her eyes flew open in the dark. Dear God, she really wanted to bite him. But of course she wouldn’t do it. She got up to check the anatomy book to see what one of the carpal bones was called. If the children had been home she would never have masturbated and she would never have gotten up in the middle of the night, turning on all the lights, to go and look for a huge anatomy textbook that she hadn’t opened in who knows how many years, to reread the morphology of the hand bones, sitting at the kitchen table: there, that was it, the pisiform bone , an unmistakable shape.