Matteo sprinted out onto the terrace. “Mama!” He leaned down and kissed his mother. “You look good, Mama.”
Matelda did not hear him.
“It’s me. Your Matteo,” he said loudly before looking desperately at his father, sister, and niece. “Something’s wrong with her. Call the doctor!” When his father didn’t move quickly enough to his liking, Matteo, frustrated, stood and felt his pockets to find his phone.
Anina knelt before Matelda. The perfume she had spritzed on her grandmother that morning filled the air with the scent of gardenia. Anina buried her face in Matelda’s neck. She whispered, “It’s all right, Nonna. Go to your mother.”
Matelda took three short breaths and bowed her head. Anina stood.
Olimpio knelt before his wife, placing his hands on hers. He made the sign of the cross.
“What happened? Do something!” Matteo took her wrist. “Don’t go, Mama.” But there was no pulse. Matteo cried and turned away.
Nicolina stood behind Matelda with her hands placed gently on her mother’s shoulders, protecting her like an archangel. Tears silently flowed down her cheeks. In the bright sun, Nicolina’s face appeared to be made of varnished plaster like the saints in the courtyard at San Paolino.
Even though the ocean had called Matelda all her life, it had just been a lure to catch her eye. In fact, it was the sky overhead that would become the gateway to the eternal. It was the sky Matelda would reach. Her soul would ascend through a portal of clouds to a brocade of stars where she would find her mother and daughter, the father who raised her, and the father she never knew again.
“Fly.” Olimpio wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Fly.” He kissed his wife goodbye. Anina turned away and wept until the sea her grandmother had loved became a blur of blue.
* * *
The bells of Chiesa San Paolino rang as Matelda McVicars Cabrelli Roffo was carried out of the church and into the morning light fractured by the cypress trees. Olimpio stood behind the casket with Matelda’s brother, Nino, and his wife, Patrizia, followed by Matelda’s children and grandchildren. The spring day was neither warm nor cold, but suitable for one of Matelda’s beloved walks through the village.
Ida Casciacarro nodded to Giusto Figliolo, who took her arm as they processed behind the casket and family out of the church and into the piazza. Row by row, the ushers directed the standing-room-only crowd to recess.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” Ida whispered. “She kept telling me she was going to die; I just didn’t want to believe her.”
“She knew, Ida.” Figliolo remembered the day Matelda had given him a golden apple. “If we pay attention, we will recognize the day and the hour.”
“It’s that bird. That fat seagull! The bastard nipped her and marked her for death. If the superstition hadn’t killed her, the germs would’ve.”
“You talked to a strega?”
Ida shook her head that she hadn’t. “I have a little strega in me, you know. The Metriones could be seers when none were available. When that bird attacked her, I thought, The end is near.” Ida dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “I don’t like being right.”
Anina turned to look at the crowd of mourners who had gathered on the church steps behind the family. Paolo Uliana smiled at Anina and formed two fists with his hands. He mouthed, Coraggio. She nodded her head in gratitude. Paolo’s parents stood behind their son.
The procession followed Olimpio and the family to the cemetery for the burial. The priest said the final prayer. Matelda’s family and friends covered the casket in flowers.
The family led the mourners down the street to Ennico Bakery. Umberto had made fresh trays of cornetti glazed in apricot, and plenty of coffee with cream to serve with the pastry. He had blocked off the street with tables and chairs dressed in white cloths and festooned with vases of peonies and roses. Matelda’s funeral and reception went as she had planned.
* * *
The terrace doors at Olimpio and Matelda’s apartment were open. Beppe slept in the sun. Argento, the cat, rolled on the terrazzo underneath the dog’s chair. The turquoise sea was calm. Inside, Matelda’s grandchildren helped set up the luncheon. Nicolina handed them her mother’s best china and silver. The pressed-linen napkins were placed next to the luncheon plates. Anina rearranged the pink peonies in a vase before setting them in the center of the table.
Olimpio sat at the head of the table as the designated mourners milled around the apartment, taking in the details of the everyday life of the woman they gathered to mourn. Their home was as it had always been, except Matelda was no longer there.