Bound in Love

by Alexis Abbott

  “Serena, he’s gone. Bruno’s gone. But he’s with you—okay? He’s with you, wherever you go. You’re not abandoning him. He’s in your heart. And he would want you—and the baby—to be safe. Do you understand me?”

  I break away and look into his face, but my vision is completely obscured by thick, crocodile tears.

  “Listen to me,” he says more quietly. “You’re stronger than you think you are. Bruno knew it. I know it. Deep down, you know it, too. I need you to find that strength, si? Find that strength and use it to take care of yourself and the baby. We’re going to do everything we can to help you, but we can only help if you’re willing. Got it?”

  I give him a nod.

  “Okay,” I manage to choke out between sobs.

  Giovanni pushes the hair back from my face, pats me on both shoulders, and then gives me a brotherly kiss on the forehead. “Don’t worry. You’re going to get through this, I know it. And someday, I’m sure I’ll see you again, Serena. Hopefully under better circumstances.”

  Over my shoulder, he tells the flight attendant, “Take good care of her. She’s one of our own. And keep a barf bag nearby. She’s pregnant.”

  Then Giovanni turns me around and walks me through the opening to the jet. A flight attendant with a sweet smile takes my arm and leads me down the aisle to a comfortable, massive sofa-like seat complete with fluffy pillows and a downy blanket. As I settle into the seat, still totally in shock but knowing there’s no point in struggling now, I turn back to see Giovanni. He gives me a wave, a hopeful smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and then he disappears. The door closes, and I’m alone in this plane.

  Completely alone, in fact, except for the flight attendant. I’m the only passenger in this private jet, and I get the feeling this is not going to follow the usual prescribed route... wherever it is I’m going. As the plane starts to shake and rumble with lift-off, the flight attendant comes by and gives me two items—a barf bag, and a backpack. I set the first one aside and start to idly go through the contents of the backpack. I pull out several printed tickets, a passport that looks exactly like the one I have at home, and a huge wad of cash—in euros.

  No. No way.

  I pick up one of the tickets with trembling hands.

  The destination… Napoli, Italia.

  “Holy shit,” I murmur, and immediately reach for the barf bag.

  3

  Serena

  I stare out the window of the airplane, my eyes glazing over as I watch the gray and lavender clouds drift lazily by. The moon just barely strains through, its light splintering through the sky while the dull hum and buzz of the engine almost lulls me to sleep. But I can’t sleep. I’ve never been able to sleep on planes, even when I was little.

  Of course, back then it was because I was too excited, too interested in gazing out the window and being in awe of how far up we were to feel sleepy at all.

  My mom would fall asleep instantly, a silky pink eye mask over her face, her perfectly-lipsticked mouth hanging open and snoring. It made me laugh to see her looking like that, all undignified, especially since she was usually so prim and proper. My dad, on the other hand, would stay awake with me, playing card games or twenty-questions. We would make believe that we were the co-pilots of the plane, pretending we were soaring to some distant land like Malaysia.

  I’m sure he would have liked to catch up on sleep like my mother did, but he never gave in. He always did his best to entertain me on long flights, and it made all the difference. Playing with him was a great distraction from my motion sickness, my nervousness at being stuck on a plane with a bunch of strangers. I never properly thanked him for doing all that.

  I miss him. And I miss Bruno.

  Why do all the men I love have to leave me behind?

  I turn around in the seat and look around the interior of the cabin. I’ve flown first-class before, of course, but I’ve never had a private flight. Being the only passenger on the plane is awkward. I feel like the stewardess has got to be watching me, wondering who the hell I am and why the hell I deserve such special treatment. And she would be right to wonder about that. After all, I’m nothing special, myself. I’m just a random pregnant lady to them, some stranger.

  I can’t help thinking that the only thing that made me special was the fact that Bruno loved me. And now that he’s gone? Well, who the hell am I?

  I close my eyes and set my hands on my stomach, trying to send reassuring thoughts to the little baby inside, even though I can hardly reassure myself. I remember reading that the stress a mother feels during pregnancy can affect the child.

  That worries me, and that worry stresses me out even more.

  I mean, even under normal circumstances, being pregnant is rough. I thought it would be a breeze with Bruno at my side, but now everything has changed. I’m a single mom now, and I don’t even have my own mom around to help me.

  If I tell her where I am, then the mob will go after her. Force her to tell them everything. I can’t put her in danger like that. I have to figure everything out on my own. I have to be strong for myself. I have to do it all.

  But all I want to do right now is cry. I curl up in the seat as best I can, tucking my legs underneath myself, trying to get comfortable. But nothing feels right, and why should it? My whole world has been dumped upside down. Nothing makes sense anymore. I just wish somebody could tell me what to do, how to feel. My brain keeps circling back to Bruno, those last beautiful moments we had together before he was ripped away.

  His smile. His twinkling green eyes. The feeling of his hand holding mine.

  My hands feel so empty and useless without his.

  Despite how hard I’ve tried to fight it, the tears start to fall again. My heart is broken, and it’s impossible to imagine a time when that won’t be the case. I know I’ll never love like that again. Bruno was my everything. He still is, even if he’s not around to see it.

  Suddenly, there’s a gentle hand on my elbow. I turn quickly to see the flight attendant kneeling beside me with a worried expression.

  “Miss, are you alright?” she asks softly.

  I hastily wipe my eyes with my sleeve and give her a nod.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

  She tilts her head to one side, looking unconvinced. “Are you sure? Is there anything I can get you? Soda? A glass of wine?”

  “Oh, I-I can’t,” I murmur, sniffling. “I’m pregnant.”

  And saying that out loud, for some reason, releases the floodgates. I start to sob uncontrollably, the stewardess’s eyes going wide at the sight of my sudden meltdown.

  “Oh no, Miss, I’m sorry. That man did say you were pregnant, didn’t he? I totally forgot. It’s just such a habit to offer guests alcohol, I didn’t mean to—”

  I reach out and take her hand despite myself. I know I probably look like a complete weirdo, totally off my head. But I don’t care right now. I just need a hand to hold.

  “No, no, it’s not the pregnancy. It’s—it’s just that m-my fiancé just died and I’m trying to hold it together but I’m pregnant and he’s never going to get to meet his own child and I’m going to be all alone raising this baby and I’m so scared,” I ramble all at once, the words stumbling over each other in between sobs. The flight attendant’s face has gone totally red and I can tell I am absolutely the most distressing customer she has had, maybe ever.

  To her credit, she doesn’t recoil from the emotional hurricane that I’ve become. She sits down in the seat beside me and squeezes my hand.

  “Oh, I am so sorry. That’s terrible. I can’t even imagine how hard this must be,” she says genuinely, shaking her head.

  “I miss him so much already and I don’t know when this is going to stop hurting so bad,” I confess tearfully. She pats my hand, nodding supportively.

  “It may take some time,” she says sagely.

  “How long?” I ask, fully aware that I’m asking her questions she doesn’t have an answer to, but unable to st
op the flow of crazy emotions pouring out of me.

  “Oh, I don’t know the answer to that. But I can tell you that you’re stronger than you think you are, and you’re going to be okay,” she adds, emphasizing every word to drive the point home. “You and that baby are going to make it out alright. I just know it.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble, suddenly feeling very tired.

  “Could I get you something to drink? And some tissues? What would you like?”

  “Do you have ginger ale?” I ask, rubbing my stomach. The nausea is coming back.

  She stands up quickly, releasing my hand. “Of course! I’ll be back in just a minute.”

  She rushes down the aisle and comes back with a box of tissues and a little bottle of ginger ale, which she pours into a glass with a bendy straw. She sets it on the fold-down table in front of me and then asks, “Is there anything else I can do? Should I turn the lights down so you can relax a little better? You’ve got a long flight ahead of you. It might do you some good to try and sleep if you can manage it.”

  I take a sip of the ginger ale and try to fight down the urge to race to the bathroom and vomit. I’m finally just starting to feel comfortable and sleepy in my seat and the last thing I need is to get back up. I look up at the stewardess and say, “Okay. Yes. That would be nice. Thank you.”

  She brings me a bigger blanket and then turns down the lights, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. I glance out the window to see the darkness settling in, the sky turning from light purple to dense navy blue. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of the moon, thin and hook-shaped between dark clouds. I force myself to close my eyes and try to relax, pushing every dark thought out of my mind. If I alone am responsible for this baby, then it’s our best interest for me to get some sleep. Especially since I have no idea what awaits us when this plane lands.

  Finally, slowly, I drift off to dream.

  “Dolcezza! Could you get the camera?”

  I come down the stairs with a pink diaper bag and a camera slung over my shoulder, walking into the nursery to see Bruno looking amused and impressed. He’s holding the baby in his lap, both dad and child staring at each other with lovely green eyes. Our daughter is barely old enough to hold her head up on her own and she’s already trying to stand, pushing off Bruno’s lap with her pudgy little legs. On the crown of her head little curly sprigs of dark hair grow, and her cheeks are chubby and pink. She’s giving her father a gummy, adoring smile.

  “She’s going to be an athlete. I just know it,” Bruno says. “Look at this!”

  “I know,” I tell him, shaking my head in awe at our little bad ass. “The other day in the living room I looked away for one second and when I looked back she was rolling over onto her stomach. I didn’t even know that was possible at her age.”

  “I wish I’d been there for that,” he says. “Did you get a picture of it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course,” I laugh. “Speaking of which…”

  I flash a photo of Bruno and the baby, her tiny legs struggling to straighten out and balance on his thighs. She blinks in surprise at the sound of the camera shutter, then giggles.

  Bruno chuckles. “She’s perfect, you know that, right? A perfect kid.”

  “I’m sure we’ll take it back once she gets to the terrible twos but… right now I totally agree with you on that,” I answer, unable to stop grinning. Everything is going so well. The doctor yesterday at our checkup appointment said the baby is progressing even better than we hoped. She was born a few weeks earlier than we intended, so there had been some concern at first. But now she’s blown all our expectations out of the water. She’s got her father’s strength, that’s for sure.

  She yawns and lets out a whimper. “Oh! Probably time for a nap, is it?” Bruno coos, wrapping her in his arms with her little head on his shoulder. He stands up and walks over to the crib to gently lay her down. For a minute, she fusses, her sweet little face screwing up and turning pink like she might cry. But instead, she just yawns again and stretches out, her hands curling into tiny fists as she closes her eyes.

  “What a good girl,” Bruno says, beaming down at her. I stand next to him watching our daughter fall asleep. My husband, my rock, my guardian angel, puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. He kisses me on the cheek.

  I turn to kiss him on the lips softly, then gaze into those glorious green eyes I adore so much. I smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” I whisper.

  “Life just gets better and better,” he murmurs back.

  Thump.

  “Bruno!” I mumble, blearily opening my eyes.

  I wake up with a sense of panic, the plane lurching to one side suddenly. It takes me a moment to find my bearings, looking around the cabin in confusion. The events of the past day or so come rushing back to me.

  The explosion. The cars. The gunshots. The plane.

  I look out the window to see the sun streaking through the clouds. It’s morning. I’ve finally gotten some proper sleep. But now I’m forced to remember everything. Bruno is gone. That dream… is only that. A dream.

  Just then, my stomach turns and I hurriedly grab the backpack and get up from my seat, hobbling down the aisle to the bathroom to throw up. After I’m done, I look in the tiny square mirror and take note of the bags under my eyes, the paleness of my face. I look like the living dead.

  I haven’t eaten anything in a while and anything that might have still been in my system is certainly gone now. My stomach grumbles, as though it’s agreeing with my assessment.

  I wash my hands, splash some water on my face, and pull my hair back into a ponytail. Then I pull an oversized sweatshirt, sleek black leggings, and some comfy sandals out of the backpack and change into them, leaving my old clothes on the floor. I don’t want them anymore. They just remind me of the last night Bruno and I spent together, at that party, surrounded by people who cared about us.

  My stomach growls again, taking me back to the present moment. I make the silent promise to myself that I’ll find something to eat when the plane lands, whatever it takes.

  When I come back out, the flight attendant gently informs me that we’ll be landing in about half an hour. Nervousness overwhelms me instantly. It hits me that I don’t know where exactly to go when we get there. I go back to my seat and start pulling more tickets out of the backpack Giovanni gave me. The first one is a ticket from Napoli to Taranto. A train ticket. I immediately feel sick again. I have never visited Naples before, but I’ve heard about how crowded and scary it can be for a not-so-savvy foreigner.

  I must look green in the face because the stewardess comes back and says, “Sorry you’re not feeling well. When I was pregnant with my son Tyler, I was the same way. Constantly sick. It got better around the fifth month, though. It’ll get easier, I promise.”

  “I hope so,” I tell her, forcing myself to smile weakly.

  I spend the next thirty minutes clinging to the edge of my seat, closing my eyes and trying not to vomit again. I tell myself this is not the time for me to be fragile. I’m about to take on a solo journey in a foreign country. I don’t speak Italian, even though my parents spoke it to each other occasionally when I was growing up. I dig through the backpack and find, to my relief, an English-to-Italian phrasebook. Paperwork, tickets, money, clothes, and now this? Apparently Giovanni thinks of everything.

  I hardly have time to peruse the phrases, though, before the plane comes to a smooth landing. I gather up the backpack and its contents, get myself straightened out, and pool what little composure I have left. When I disembark, the flight attendant comes out with me. She takes me by the arm and gives me a confident smile.

  “I’ll help you with this next step, but then you’re on your own, I’m afraid. But I have full faith in you. Napoli is busy and intimidating, but you can handle it,” she says, walking me through the airport. We get to the busy street out front and my jaw drops. This place is packed with locals and tourists alike, everyone jabberi
ng away in languages I don’t understand. Lots of people give me death glares, dirty looks, scanning me up and down like they can tell instantly I’m not from around here. I feel very exposed, very vulnerable. Especially with my pregnant belly. Luckily, the oversized sweatshirt hides the teeny barely-there baby bump completely, but I still can’t shake the feeling that people can just tell somehow.

  The flight attendant hails a cab for me and helps me into the backseat with what little belongings I have, then turns to the driver and gives him instructions in Italian. The driver nods and looks back at me, saying, “I speak some English. I’m taking you to Napoli Centrale. Si?”

  I nod, hoping that’s correct. Just before the cab drives off, the flight attendant gives me a nod and a thumbs up. “Good luck!” she calls out as the window rolls back up.

  It’s about a fifteen-minute ride to the train station, and I spend nearly the whole time staring wide-eyed out the window at the bustling city passing by. Constant horn-honking, shouting, vendors racing after people going past their wares without looking. The cab driver weaves in and out of standstill traffic, only barely avoiding a collision over and over again. Finally, it starts to make me so nauseous that I give up and start perusing the backpack again, looking to see what else Giovanni left with me. To my infinite joy, I find a simple little cell phone, pre-programmed with all the necessary apps, a portable charger hooked up to it. This is a great discovery, since my American cell phone is long dead and I couldn’t charge it overseas.

  When we arrive at the train station, the cab driver helps me count out the euros to pay him, and then I get out and I’m alone again. Alone in this big, sprawling, teeming city full of strangers who don’t speak the same language as me. I swallow back the bile creeping up my throat.

  I need to be strong. For the baby. For Bruno.

  I hold my head up high and hoist the backpack over my shoulder, walking into the station as confidently as I can. Fake it ‘til you make it, I remind myself. The girl that used to walk into a room, confident and wearing the season’s hottest styles seems like a distant dream, but I try to conjure her up once more, even in the far less fashionable outfit I’m wearing now.