“When are you going to let me read it?”
“When I’m finished,” Elisabetta answered firmly, since they had had the conversation many times.
“Why are you taking so long?”
“It takes time.”
“You’re not going on and on, are you?”
“No, I hope not.” Elisabetta rose, smiling. “Now I have to get to work.”
“Why can’t I read it now? Don’t you realize I’ll have valuable suggestions?”
“I’m sure, and you can make them when I’m finished.” Elisabetta picked up her glass, but Nonna stopped her.
“You think I don’t know how to wash a glass? Now tell me, what’s your book about?”
“You’ll see, soon. Good night.” Elisabetta kissed Nonna on the cheek, picked up the Olivetti, and went upstairs, her thoughts already turning to her book. The story had completely captured her imagination, and she realized that Nonna had been right. Writing had given her something to think about other than Sandro or Marco.
She entered her bedroom, switched on the light, and set the Olivetti on her desk. She changed into her nightgown, so she wouldn’t wrinkle her dress, then sat down at her chair and took out her manuscript, setting it beside the typewriter. A Talkative Girl, read the title page, and under it was something she had wanted to write for years: By Elisabetta D’Orfeo.
She ran her palm over the smooth, cool page, then rested it on the manuscript, as if she could feel its heartbeat. The main character was a girl named Zarina, who was a lot like her, though Elisabetta hadn’t intended that. She had made up the plot as she had gone along, and Zarina had acquired a vain and careless mother, a loving but feckless father, and a pet she loved very much, only it wasn’t a cat, but a parakeet. And when Zarina had fallen in love with a young man who had fallen out of love with her, Elisabetta had realized that she was writing everything she held in her heart, all of the things she thought but hadn’t said, which was when it had struck her that she was a talkative girl with no one to talk to.
And when she had gotten to the middle of the novel, she had found herself writing about an angel who appeared from nowhere, which was strange because Elisabetta hadn’t intended to have any magical elements in her book. Then she had remembered that Grazia Deledda had magical elements in her novels, so she had kept writing, and when Zarina was in her most terrible trouble, the angel had fluttered to her side, taken her by the hand, and showed her the way to safety, and that was when Elisabetta realized who the angel was.
She picked up a piece of paper, loaded it into the typewriter, and rolled it up. Despite what she had told Nonna, she had finished writing the entire novel except for the dedication. She had been mulling it over all day, because she wanted to word it perfectly. She typed:
For Nonna, my beloved angel
Her eyes blurred with tears, and her heart suffused with gratitude. Thanks to Nonna, she had let go of everything that had been locked inside her, forgiven her mother for leaving and her father for drinking. She had set herself free, so that she could finally breathe, and she did, inhaling and exhaling, just once.
Fine. The End.
She unrolled the dedication page, slipped it under the title page, and squared the stack of papers. She rose with the manuscript, left her bedroom, and padded downstairs in bare feet, to surprise Nonna with the news. She went to Nonna’s door, where the light was still on, since Nonna always read until late.
Elisabetta entered the bedroom, but Nonna had fallen asleep with her glasses on and her book open on her chest. Elisabetta put the manuscript on the bed and went to her side. Nonna was sleeping with her head slightly to the right. Elisabetta hesitated to wake her, but she knew that Nonna would want her to.
“Nonna, wake up.”
Nonna didn’t stir, but she was a sound sleeper.
“Nonna?” Elisabetta touched her shoulder, and Nonna’s head slipped down, but she didn’t wake up.
Elisabetta’s gaze fell to Nonna’s body, which was very still. Her chest wasn’t moving, nor was she snoring, as she often did.
Elisabetta reached for Nonna’s hand, but Nonna didn’t awake.
Elisabetta realized what had happened. She felt her chest wrench with the deepest sorrow. She held on to Nonna’s hand, as if it were a way to tether Nonna to the earth even though she had become an angel, truly.
“I finished my book,” Elisabetta said thickly, blinking tears from her eyes. “I’m so sorry I waited to show it to you.”
Nonna didn’t respond, of course, and Elisabetta realized what she had to do, for it was the last time they would be together. She released Nonna’s hand, slid off her glasses, and folded them carefully, then set them on the nightstand. She removed Nonna’s book from her chest and set that on the nightstand, too.