Andrea Canobbio - Three Light-Years

* * *

She thought of confessing to Cecilia that she knew everything. In her head she tried out several things she might say to approach her. She never got beyond the introductory phase, in which she struggled at length to justify Luca’s choice, as if her brother-in-law’s decision to tell her everything incriminated her as well, as if she, with her weakness and frailties, had forced him to break the vow of silence.

But each time she found herself in Cecilia’s presence, even before she started to speak, she was certain that she would not raise the subject that day. There were more urgent things, things that were more interesting, less difficult. She had to wait for the right occasion. And not cause additional, unnecessary friction between Luca and Cecilia. She kept telling herself that if she didn’t talk to her about it, it was out of a sense of responsibility, not because she didn’t have the courage.

Still, she felt a little less like a black sheep; her sister had become more human and fallible in her eyes — a tragic figure, a Medea. And she realized that she loved her dearly, she realized that she cared about her and the children the way you care about a real family. Except superstitiously, to ward off the possibility, she never gave serious thought to the idea that Cecilia and Luca might break up; they were fated to be together.

* * *

The day Silvia discovers she’s pregnant, Stefania stays over at her house. They talk for an hour in front of the muted TV set. Every now and then they get up to look for information on the Internet. They search for whatever essential facts they need concerning the timing and methods for terminating a pregnancy. They open and close pro-life and pro-choice sites after just a few seconds. They go to bed early; both of them sleep very badly.

The next day is much better. Stefania goes to the office. Silvia phones the editor for whom she’s revising the book on Hindu mythology. The editor lets her persuade him to give her two more weeks with surprisingly little argument. Most likely he’d lied to her about the schedule. No matter, the news fills her with joy and gives her an unjustified confidence in the future. Everything will work out.

So the following night, the feast day of the city’s patron saint, she goes out with Carla to watch the fireworks. In the middle of the bridge across the river she confesses the truth. Carla wants to know all the details. She wants to know who he is. She wants to know if it’s out of the question for them to continue seeing each other. Then she tells her she has to talk to Cecilia about it. In any case. Whatever she decides.

“Have you decided?”

She shakes her head: “I can’t think straight.”

“Do you want to keep it?” It doesn’t even seem like a question; Carla manages to say it in a perfectly neutral tone so that the words don’t express opinions, judgments, prejudices, or fears.

“I can’t think right now. But I don’t think I have any choice given my situation.”

“Talk to your sister. Promise me?”

“Why do you all want me to talk to my sister?”

“Because she can help you, she can make it less painful.”

She looks at Carla, not comprehending.

“You know in whose hands you could end up? You hear stories about women treated like criminals.”

“But I haven’t decided anything yet…”

“Of course. But, in any case, you should decide.”

Talking to Cecilia becomes a way to buy time and reach the inevitable decision. As though Cecilia, as a doctor, possesses enough natural cynicism to state flatly that there is no other choice.

“I’ll wait another two or three days. I want to be able to think about it.”

On Friday morning she does the third test, just to use it, since she bought it. It turns pink, then blue, then blue.

She decides to go to the shore with Stefania. Staying in the city, she’d spend two days at home going around and around the same subject. At the shore she spends two days at the beach going around and around the same subject. Stefania again urges her to talk to Cecilia. No matter what she decides. “All right, I’ll go see her on Tuesday,” she says, to stall for one more day.

She works very efficiently all day Monday. In the evening she imagines possible ways to broach the subject with Cecilia, possible ways the conversation might develop. She talks about it at length on the phone with Francesca, who not being face-to-face with her is perhaps more sincere. She tells her that raising a child alone seems like madness, “even though you’re not alone, we’re here, you know,” but she’s referring to the other two, since she isn’t actually there.

The next day she gets to the ER, goes inside. But when she sees Cecilia at the end of the hall she turns on her heels and flees. Outside it’s a normal late-June morning in the city. It’s already hot, the sky is overcast, there’s not a breath of air. A short walk restores her courage and enables her to return to the ER. But the more she thinks about it, the more difficult talking to Cecilia about an unwanted pregnancy seems. If Cecilia hides her feelings, she won’t be able to bear seeing her impassive face. If she crumbles, she won’t be able to bear seeing her emotional face. And she isn’t even sure she wants advice from her.

She walks for ten minutes, headed back home. She’s no longer upset, she no longer feels pregnant. She feels drained, as if it were already over. She’s tired, so she gets on a bus, lets her thoughts drift, lets her gaze wander over the city. Despite the grimy, rattling window, the world has never seemed so vivid, its contours so clear and sharp.

If she stayed on that seat for a whole week maybe the jiggling would make her lose the baby. Maybe she’ll lose it anyway. She skips her stop, she doesn’t feel like getting off, going home, to do what? She continues riding to the last stop, then retraces her route.

She passes the pedestrian zone where Rumi’s club is. Rumi has red hair like Enrico Fermi, but unfortunately he’s not Enrico Fermi. Enrico Fermi introduced her to so much music! If she were to go to him now, if she confessed everything, maybe he’d take her back. He’d put on “Sweet Song” by Blur and they’d dance in each other’s arms in his studio apartment. But the truth is she doesn’t want to get off that bus.

* * *

The year her father died, following Luca’s confession, she’d continued her raids even after her mother left for the shore with the grandchildren and the house wasn’t being restocked with fresh food. One day, pacing back and forth in the dark corridor, she began smiling and talking — acting as if she were welcoming a guest to the house and inviting him to sit in the living room, and she pictured herself as the mistress of that house, a person with a real job and a real love life, and in any case something to talk about. The game didn’t last long, but she liked it so much that she went back the following day. She imagined discussing with an architect how she wanted to renovate the apartment, she imagined the architect falling in love with the house and with her. (Many years later, she would want her son to become an architect, and her son would disappoint her, would end up reconstructing different architectures.)

She didn’t have the courage to enter her father’s room. She stayed in the kitchen and recalled epic fights with her mother. There was a crack in the wood table where her gaze had retreated during those battles. She stood up and went to sit in her father’s place, trying to remember how she looked at sixteen, the clothes she wore. Her father would stand on his head to side with her without irritating her mother. She remembered when she’d invited Enrico Fermi to the house on a Saturday afternoon, thinking her parents wouldn’t be back before Sunday night; he showed up with a tray of pastries, some they ate, some they threw out the window at passing cars, and some they eventually used in a food fight waged throughout the entire house. Until her mother, whom they hadn’t heard come in, appeared in the doorway. The moment their eyes met, Silvia read not anger and disapproval in her mother’s stare, but only shock, and realized that if she had caught her fucking on the kitchen table it wouldn’t have been more consequential.