Emma
“All done here,” the doctor said, tapping Emma’s knees gently.
It was her sign that Emma could finally get up off her back, make her lower half decent again, and take a breath.
Having her cervix checked hurt and was uncomfortable enough. But having it regularly checked for even the slightest of changes was much worse.
“You’re not opening,” the doctor explained, pulling off the gloves and tossing them in a waste basket.
Emma’s relief was palpable. “Not even a little bit?”
“No, but you are thinning.”
Shit.
A woman’s cervix needed to do two things to properly aide in delivering a baby. One was to dilate—to open. The other was to thin out, and that was usually helped along by the pressure of the baby’s head pushing down on the cervix.
Emma couldn’t afford for either of those things to happen. Not yet.
It was too early.
At thirty weeks, Calisto’s son had a much better chance of surviving outside of Emma’s womb as a preemie. But she still had weeks to go at just twenty-five weeks. But the facts still remained the same, and those were scary. It was still possible for the baby to suffer from other consequences because of an early birth. Health issues or learning delays.
She wanted to keep this baby in for as long as possible.
“Can we put the stitch in?” Emma asked.
The doctor spun her stool around so she could face Emma. Quickly, Emma readjusted the sheet on the bed to better cover her lower half and bare legs.
“It’s a dangerous procedure as it is, Emma,” the woman explained. “And doing it too early could cause several other complications, including forcing you into active labor, which we can’t turn back, or even sepsis from infection. That is not a risk I want to take with you and this baby.”
Emma wrung her hands together. “What should I do?”
“What you have been. And you’re doing great. Rest. Get lots of food in you for energy. You’ll need it during the birth. Fluids, fluids, and more fluids. Keep track of the movements of the baby in case you notice any changes. More importantly, keep track of any changes in your body. Pain or otherwise. If I can help it, you will carry this child to term, or as close as I can get you. Do not push yourself beyond what you can handle. Okay?”
It helped to have her doctor be so upbeat and encouraging.
Most times, it felt like Emma was going to drown in her own anxiety where the baby and pregnancy was concerned. Her doctor was always optimistic.
“Okay,” Emma said. “I got it.”
“And try not to get stressed out while you’re at it.”
Emma laughed, and her doctor just smiled. She really hadn’t meant the laugh as a joke, but apparently the woman took it as one. Unfortunately, stress was inevitable.
How could it be any different?
Emma was Affonso Donati’s wife, after all.
“Boss, we’ve got a problem.”
Ray slid in between Affonso and Emma, forcing her to take a couple of steps away from her husband. It wasn’t that she minded being further away from Affonso’s side, but it did irk her how Ray took every chance he could to dismiss Emma’s presence.
She wasn’t sure why he did it, but it started when Affonso had returned home after Calisto’s accident all those months ago. It was possible Affonso had explained to his underboss about the affair that had gone on between Calisto and Emma, but she didn’t think that was likely.
Affonso was all about image. Admitting his wife had slept around with his illegitimate son wouldn’t help how his people looked at him.
Affonso sighed, and scrubbed a hand down his face. His gaze cut to Emma, and she just as quickly looked away. He’d taken to drinking heavily during the evenings again, and the subtle signs were starting to show. While her husband was still dressed impeccably, and his demeanor was as cold as ever, it was the smaller things she took note of that showed his stress and how he tried to manage it.
He’d opted for sunglasses that morning, something he rarely did. He had a few days’ worth of stubble dotting his jaw and cheeks. He’d even topped off his breakfast with a glass of brandy.
Yeah, Affonso’s threads were showing, and they were thin as hell.
Emma couldn’t help but wonder why, or rather, what was happening that caused Affonso’s stress. He wouldn’t tell her if it was about Cosa Nostra business, and since he didn’t talk to her at all unless it was to criticize her, she chose not to ask in the first place.
It was easier this way.
“Today is not a good day for this,” Affonso said to Ray.
“I’m aware. But we had some sights on a few cars. It could be an issue.”
Emma’s brow furrowed, as she had no idea what they were talking about.
“This is a day to celebrate the life of a holy man before he’s put to rest,” Affonso said. “No one would desecrate that, surely.”
Ray clapped Affonso on the shoulder. “You give them too much faith.”
“Not them, but the respect they have for God.”
“Like the respect you have for it?” Ray asked.
Affonso’s features hardened. “You’re awfully bold today.”
“It could be an issue,” the underboss repeated.
Giving a nod to Ray, and nothing more, Affonso turned back to Emma with a small smile. She didn’t trust his smiles—she had learned long ago that nasty usually followed Affonso’s fake happiness or joy.
He was a snake in that way.
“Would you mind going on ahead without me?” Affonso asked. “I’ll be in to give my respects in just a few minutes.”
Emma shrugged. “Sure.”
She didn’t mind getting away from her husband.
Leaving Affonso behind to finish his conversation with Ray, Emma stepped into the main floor of the unfamiliar church. The somber mood of the day clung to the tapestries on the wall. The tall, stained-glass windows were barely lit up with light seeing as how it was overcast, cold, and rain was threatening to fall.
If nothing else, it was appropriate for the day.
Father Day’s body had finally been released and approved for a proper funeral and burial. The church wasted no time getting the arrangements set up, and sending notices out for the members of the priest’s congregation that might want to attend.
Their church was still closed, due to the investigations, and the fact the office needed to be cleared out. Apparently, it had been a bloody mess.
Emma took a few steps down the aisle, ignoring the curious gazes watching her from the pews. Already, the church was filling with people who had already paid their respects to Father Day and were now simply waiting on the funeral procession to begin.
If it were any other priest, Emma might not have come.
She didn’t like funerals, or the sadness they brought. Despite people often proclaiming that they wanted nothing more than to celebrate the life of the deceased, grief was still forefront, saddening everything it could touch.
But no matter how much she disliked funerals and the pain they brought, Emma couldn’t bring herself to disrespect Father Day in that way. Months back, the morning before Calisto’s accident, Emma had learned of her pregnancy.
She’d been terrified.
Ashamed.
She hadn’t known what to do given the circumstances. She knew there would be no hiding what had happened between her and Calisto because of the pregnancy, and she was just scared.
Stupid, foolish, and scared.
Emma went to Father Day, needing a safe place to land as her emotions crashed and burned all in one fell swoop. He’d listened to her sins, mistakes, and fears. He let her tell the story, and how it all led into the predicament she found herself in.
Father Day never judged her.
He held her hand, and he’d wiped the tears away with a promise that she would find her path again someday, but it might take a while of walking before it showed up.
More than anything, Emma had needed those words in that moment.
Father Day had given her hope, no matter how small it was, at a point when she felt helpless. That was invaluable to Emma.
So, no. She couldn't imagine not saying goodbye to the man, or thanking him for the small thing he did for her.
At the foot of the altar, a few men in robes stood talking with a priest. A young altar boy directed Emma to a quiet room in the back where Father Day’s casket was waiting for those who wanted to view his body and say a private goodbye before the official funeral began.
Emma waited outside the doors of the private room while a couple and their two young children went in to pay their respects. She recognized the family as members of the congregation she attended, and that Father Day had preached to before his murder.
She expected Affonso to be back at her side before the couple exited the private room, but he wasn’t. Emma ended up going in alone.
The sight of the polished, gleaming black casket sitting in the private room made Emma’s steps stutter. A dull pain settled in her heart as she eyed the large arrangements of calla lilies resting on either side of the casket.
Candles burned on a small table just a few feet away. Even more unlit candles were waiting for guests to light them up, and say a prayer for the priest.
Emma skipped over the candles, not entirely sure what she would pray for. She approached the casket slowly, worried about what she might see. There had been rumors about how the priest died, and that it might be a closed casket.
It wasn’t.
Thankfully, Father Day looked only like he was resting in a deep sleep. And despite the paleness to his tone, as he had been olive-complexed, he looked at peace. His hands were folded together right under his breastbone, and a cross rested between his fingertips. They had dressed him in his robes with a high neckline and his white collar.
Just under his right ear, something caught Emma’s eye. It was a thin line of stitches that disappeared under the collar of Father Day’s black robe.
His throat had been cut.
A heaviness settled in her stomach at the sight of the injury, though it wasn’t exactly easy to see. It looked, by all means, that every attempt had been made to hide the injury. The clothing choice and makeup work done by the undertaker had clearly been a decision made to hide the way the priest had died.
A violent death, Emma thought.
He’d probably been terrified.
No one deserved to die like that—frightened and alone. But especially not a man like Father Day, who had seemed to want nothing more when alive than to care for his flock of lambs.
Chancing a glance over her shoulder, Emma found no one was waiting at the doors to come in and pay their respects. She took that opportunity to pull an item from the pocket of her trench coat, one she had been holding onto for a while.
The black rosary swung to and fro as she held it up, looking at the golden cross hanging off the strand of beads. After he had given it to her, Calisto had told her once that the rosary belonged to his priest, who gave it to him as a way of comfort. He then gave it to her, and she used it for her own comfort through the grief of losing her baby.
Emma didn’t want to let the rosary go—it was one of the very few pieces of Calisto that she had left to hold onto. One small piece of their puzzle that proved there had once been something, even if he couldn’t remember it, and that they were real.
Some days, it felt like Emma had just imagined it all.
Like maybe everything she had been with Calisto was just a dream.
Emma knew it was crazy—it was impossible to forget what she had shared with Calisto Donati. All their love, the stolen moments, their foulness together, and the beauty underneath it all were real.
They were real.
But he didn't know.
He didn’t know any of it.
And little by little, with every day that passed her by, Emma found she was losing those pieces that reminded her they had existed once.
Just like the rosary.
All too soon, Emma knew … there would be nothing left.
Still, as she stared at the rosary, she couldn’t deny the urge to give it back to its rightful owner. To put it back where it started, and let it make its way home.
The rosary had served its purpose. It comforted her. It gave her hope. It grounded her.
But it still wasn’t hers.
And she thought maybe … just maybe … Father Day would like to have his rosary back.
Emma quickly leaned over the coffin, and grabbed hold of Father Day’s cold, unmoving hand. She lifted it, and put the rosary over top his other hand before laying his palm down on it again. The black beads tangled around the cross he held, while the golden cross attached to the rosary was hidden between his hands.
“Thank you,” Emma said, straightening back up again. “Thank you for giving me sanctuary.”
She hadn’t found the road that Father Day said she would.
Not yet.
But the lingering faith she had wouldn’t let Emma go.
For that, she was grateful.
With one last quick goodbye, Emma made her way out of the private room, intent on finding her husband and then a pew to sit in. As it was, she had been standing for too long.
She was twenty-six weeks along in her pregnancy. It was nothing more than a miracle that she had made it this long without her cervix weakening and putting her into early labor.
She wasn’t supposed to be on her feet like this.
Nonetheless, she felt like she had to do this today. She owed it to the priest.
Right outside of the private room, Emma froze, finding Calisto standing off to the side. He was leaning against the wall, and staring at an intricate, rich-colored tapestry hanging off a curtain rod just outside of the confessional room. He didn’t seem to notice her presence, but he must have known she had been in paying her respects, or he would have interrupted her.
Emma didn't say a thing—she took that moment to just stare at Calisto when he didn’t know she was doing it. He looked more like the old him before his accident than he had in a long while. His suit jacket was tossed over his arm, and the sleeves of his silk dress shirt had been rolled up to the elbows.
A clear sign he was stressed.
The strong lines of his face were darkened in his frown, and it was impossible not to see the pain flickering in his eyes.
Emma thought most times, Calisto often looked confused. She didn’t think anyone else knew it, because he hid it well, but she saw it. Like he was staring around at his world and knowing something wasn’t right, but still being unable to make it better.
Between the fingers of his right hand, he twirled an unlit cigarette.
In his left, he held the rosary she had given him last Christmas.
“Cal?” Emma asked.
Calisto barely acted like Emma had startled him as he turned to glance at her. “Afternoon, Emma.”
“You can go on in.”
He didn’t move. “In a minute. But thanks.”
Emma knew it probably wouldn’t do her any favors to ask, but she couldn’t help herself when the words slipped out. “I know you were close to Father Day, so this must be hard for you.”
Calisto barely reacted. “Harder.”
He had found the priest, too.
She couldn’t begin to imagine.
“I’m sorry, Cal.”
Calisto did smile then. It was small and fleeting, but it had been there. Just as fast, he pushed off the wall, pocketing the cigarette and rosary he held. Stepping past Emma and into the entryway of the private room, he stopped for a second to mutter, “I should say goodbye before I convince myself otherwise.”
Why did she feel like he was talking about more than just the priest?
“Horrible day,” Affonso muttered, glaring up at the gray sky.
“Fitting for a funeral,” Emma replied.
Affonso didn’t bother denying it.
Light sprinkles of rain fell on the graveyard and over the people as dirt was thrown into a waiting grave. Not five minutes before, Father Day’s casket had finally been lowered after a long and well-deserved procession.
They had moved from the one church to the graveyard at Father Day’s church so the man could be buried at his parish.
It was the only thing about the day that really made Emma wish she hadn’t come, or at the very least, excused her way out of the burial by saying she needed to get home and rest. That would have been a viable, believable excuse, surely.
But no.
Instead, she was standing in a graveyard that she hadn’t visited in months. More months than she wanted to admit. Her baby boy was buried just four rows down, under a maple tree where he was both shaded, but also where he could be colored by falling leaves in the Autumn.
Emma had come to the graveyard on and off after her baby passed away shortly after his birth, but then her trips went from once a week to maybe once a month.
Then she stopped altogether.
It was less painful this way.
She didn’t want to get caught up in remembering the hell that day had been when she birthed him, knowing he would die. She didn’t want that sadness and fear to color up her current pregnancy, and put her straight into an anxious, driven mess.
So she avoided it.
Or tried.
“Well,” Affonso said, tugging on the lapels of his jacket. Another shovelful of dirt was tossed into the grave, and people began to turn to leave. Quite a few stayed behind. “I suppose that’s that, isn’t it?”
“It is. What was that about with Ray earlier in the church?” she dared to ask.
Affonso pulled off his sunglasses, ones he didn’t need with the current weather, and peered over his shoulder. Emma followed his gaze, but found he was staring at nothing but the row of parked cars along the road of the cemetery.
“Nothing,” Affonso said after a moment. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
Emma forced herself not to glare.
He always did that. Dismissed and deflected while making her concerns seem petty and useless. It irritated her more than she could explain, but it was nothing new.
“Before I get any wetter from this godforsaken rain,” Affonso mumbled, glancing back up at the sky, “I am going to the car. Let’s leave.”
Emma hesitated. No doubt, she needed to get off her feet for a while. She had an appointment with her specialist in two days to check her cervix again and make sure a stitch wasn’t needed just yet, but she didn’t want to push her luck.
Still, while she was here …
“Would you mind if I caught up with you in a couple of minutes?” Emma asked.
Affonso tossed her a look, cocking a brow. “I can’t see how watching the gravekeeper toss in dirt will be more enjoyable than the dry, warm backseat of my Mercedes.”
Emma brushed his comment off. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“I thought I should go say hello to the baby, since I’m here and all.”
Affonso straightened a bit, his passive, uncaring mask firmly back in place. “Oh.”
Emma didn’t let his response, or lack of one for that matter, bother her all that much. Affonso wasn’t an emotional man, and on the topic of things that did poke at his nerves, he was content with acting like he didn’t have feelings at all.
Their dead son was just one of those things.
“Will you make it fast?” Affonso asked. “I have a meeting to get to.”
Emma’s brow furrowed. “What meeting?”
“It was a last-minute thing. Something came up. I told you not to worry about it. Make it fast, yes?”
“Fine.”
But she wasn’t promising a damn thing.