The priest finished the prayer, everyone blessed themselves, and Elisabetta realized that the time had come to say her final goodbye to her father. Tears blurred her vision, though she maintained her composure and told him how much she loved him, and always would.
“God be with you,” the priest said, walking to her as he closed his breviary, and Elisabetta thanked him, grateful that he had agreed to officiate, though they rarely went to Mass.
“Nonna, thank you for coming.” Elisabetta embraced her, moved to feel Nonna hug her fiercely in return, her grip surprisingly strong, and when Elisabetta pulled away, Nonna’s eyes were glistening.
“You have my sympathy.” Nonna wiped wetness from underneath her glasses with her handkerchief.
“And thank you, Paolo and Sofia, too.”
Paolo nodded. “Please feel free to take a few days off.”
“No, I’m fine. I can come in tomorrow.” Elisabetta needed the money, but she didn’t want to say so in front of everyone.
“Fine, then.” Nonna flattened her lips, and Elisabetta knew that she understood. After Nonna and the Servanos left, Elisabetta crossed to her father’s drinking buddies and thanked them for coming, out of respect to her father.
“Elisabetta, we’re so sorry.” Marco took her arm.
“Yes, we are.” Sandro took her other arm.
“Thank you both,” Elisabetta said uncomfortably. They were being nice, but competing to console her, which made her feel guilty. “I’ll be fine. Don’t you have to get to work?”
Marco squeezed her arm gently. “Sadly, I do.”
Sandro answered, “I don’t, not yet.”
Marco glanced at Sandro. “Take care of her, will you? She shouldn’t be alone.”
“Yes, of course.” Sandro nodded, and Marco kissed Elisabetta on the cheek, then left.
* * *
—
Elisabetta sat with Sandro on a bench at the cemetery, under the shade of an umbrella pine. Headstones, monuments, and mausoleums surrounded them, packed tight in rows among white oleander bushes, cypresses, and palm trees. The walkways between the graves were of yellow pebbles, and here and there a small green lizard darted into the sun, then escaped under a bush.
Her tears were finally spent, and she felt numb with grief. Sandro remained companionably silent. Her father’s grave was a few rows away, and she couldn’t bring herself to leave him just yet. She didn’t know how to separate from him. Was she supposed to just walk away?
Elisabetta wiped her face with her handkerchief. “Sorry to make you wait, Sandro. You can go if you need to.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“He wasn’t a perfect father, I know that.”
“Few are.”
“Yours is,” Elisabetta blurted out. “He’s a lawyer, an important man. Everyone looks up to him.”
“That’s true, I’m lucky in him. But he’s not perfect.” Sandro paused. “What will you do now, on your own? Can I help you? Anything you need . . .”
“No, I have it figured out. I’ll move, as rent makes up the most of our—sorry, my—monthly expenses, and I only need one bedroom.”
“You’ll stay in Trastevere, of course.”
“Yes. I’ve been looking around, but so far none of the landlords will allow Rico.”
“You can’t leave him behind. He’s your boy.”
“That, he is.”
“Maybe someday I’ll be your boy, eh? I’ll settle for second place, but not third.” Sandro smiled, and Elisabetta knew he meant Marco, but she felt awkward again and wanted to change the subject.
“Sandro, why do you say that about your father, that he’s not perfect? He’s your hero, isn’t he?”
“My hero?” Sandro pursed his lips, thinking it over. “No, not really. I love and I admire him, but I can’t say he’s my hero. I do have one, though.”
“The professor then. Levi-Civita.”
“No, not him, either.”
“Then who?”
“You, Elisabetta. You are my hero.”
“Me? I’m a waitress.” Elisabetta looked up to see if he was kidding, but his expression was sincere.
“You don’t see yourself as special, but you are. You do what needs to be done, no matter what. You kept doing after your mother left and you will keep doing after your father. I don’t know anyone who does that, but you. Only you.”
Elisabetta felt her mouth go dry, not knowing what to say, but she couldn’t deny the power of his words, or that they made her feel stronger, even on the worst day of her life.