Dark Night of the Soul

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Down, boy.” Django settled in beside me, warming me instantly. I was still shivering.

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” Bobby said. He handed me a travel mug with a shaking hand. “Meanwhile, drink this.”

  I lifted my head and he stuck a straw in my mouth. He’d made a hot toddy. I eagerly sucked the liquid down, anxious to blot out the images of the dead woman that kept surfacing. He watched me drink it, forehead furrowed.

  “Aren’t you fucked up from all that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It was pretty bad, but I sort of saw some of that as a paramedic.”

  For the first two years of college, he’d thought he wanted to be an EMT and had worked one summer as a paramedic.

  I lifted the empty mug toward him. “Can I have more?”

  He nodded and headed toward the kitchen area of the loft. He set the mug down on the counter and pulled a plastic trash bag out from under the sink. I tried not to look, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him in the open bathroom door lifting my clothes up with one hand and dropping them in the trash bag. He crossed the wide-open main space of my loft, opened the front door, and tossed the trash bag into the hall. Then he was at the stove in my kitchen, fixing me another drink.

  After I sucked that one down, he stripped. Only a few hours ago, I’d hoped for this moment, my sexy man naked in front of me. Now, I couldn’t even manage a smile at the sight. He pulled on flannel pajama bottoms and a soft T-shirt and crawled into bed on the other side of me. I was firmly sandwiched between my dog and my man, both pressed up against me. It was possibly the safest place in my world, but I felt like I was a balloon bobbing wildly in a fierce storm, drifting, unreachable, unmoored.

  Bobby reached over and with the press of a button on my phone clicked off the loft’s overhead lights. A small glow-in-the-dark Milky Way was on the ceiling above my bed came to life. I stared at it, willing it to soothe me like it usually did.

  Instead, all I could see was the Italian woman. Her face looming before me in the dark.

  Bobby sensed my unease. “You okay?” His words filtered across the dark expanse of my bed, drifting, reaching into my foggy head.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You sure you don’t want to have the hospital check you out?” His voice sounded worried. I’d fought like a wild cat when they tried to stuff me into an ambulance outside the restaurant until finally Bobby had rescued me.

  “That woman …” I finally managed to say.

  “You did everything you could,” he said. “You gave her a small measure of comfort during her last moments.”

  “She was the driver, right?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  A sob escaped me. “How many people died?”

  “The guy with the tire mark on him? A miracle. The EMT’s said he was damn lucky. He’ll live. Somehow missed his vital organs. He’s a swimmer and has crazy strong chest muscles or something.”

  “How many, Bobby?”

  He sighed. “I think two. Her and the guy under the car.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said.

  “Listen, Gia. I know this was a horrible, horrible night.”

  “Her head …”

  “You did everything you could.”

  I sat up on my elbow, peering over at his dark form. “Why are you so calm?” My words were tinged with anger. He was there, too. Even having worked as a paramedic, how could he be so cavalier about it all?

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But I’m feeling pretty damn grateful. A few seconds, a few inches, it could have been us.”

  That sobered me.

  “People die, Gia,” he continued. “Unfortunately, you know this better than most people. You’ve had to deal with more death than anyone I know.”

  I bit my lip, my anger fading.

  “I mean give yourself a break. You are learning how to live with that. It was only a few months ago you were afraid to commit to me because you thought it meant I would die, right? But here I am.”

  I nodded, but felt uncertain.

  “And tomorrow we’re heading to Italy to celebrate Dante and Matt’s wedding. That’s a big step for you.”

  He was right. Was it only a few months ago I was so afraid that I’d dreaded going away with him for a weekend? Now, we were spending three weeks together.

  “I couldn’t save her … her head. It was gone.” I laid back down, staring at the glowing planets on my ceiling.

  “Listen,” he said, leaning over and pulling the covers up to my chin. “I know you’re going to try to save everyone you can because that’s who you are. You have the biggest heart out of anyone I’ve ever met. But here’s the hard thing that you have yet to face: You can’t save everyone, Gia.”

  I hated to admit it. But he was right. It had been proven over and over in my twenty-three years. If I had any say in it all, a whole hell of a lot of other people I loved would still be walking this planet.

  He leaned over and kissed my forehead and then lay back, reaching under the covers for my hand and holding it tight. His words and his touch soothed me. With Bobby around, I truly believed I could love and have a normal life.

  But as he fell asleep and began to snore softly, that certainty fled. Even though I still held his hand, I felt utterly alone. No matter how hard people over the ages had tried, we all died alone.

  Even though I held a stranger as she died in my arms and tried to comfort her in her last moments, she died utterly alone. It was bitter and inevitable and there was no escape. No money. No love. No good fortune could prevent it. Nobody was exempt.

  I stared up at the stars glowing on the ceiling and the utter enormity of this realization flattened me. At the same time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the woman’s death was a bad omen. Bobby was right: people died. People I loved died. They died unjustly. Unfairly. Nonsensically. But he was also wrong. I didn’t have to face it or accept it. And I never would.

  The sun was rising to the west, casting an orange pink glow over everything for as far as I could see. The skyscrapers in the financial district to the west reflected the ethereal light. My rooftop haven, filled with pots of flowers, was bathed in the sunrise colors and yet it felt like a dark cloud hovered right above my building. Sitting under the lanai that extended from the greenhouse, I eyed the potted fern where I kept my pack of cigarettes hidden in the foliage, but resisted.

  Usually this was my hideaway, my safe spot, one of the few places I found soothing, but this morning I couldn’t get the dead woman’s green eyes out of my head.

  Bobby was still asleep downstairs, his silky auburn head barely poking out from the covers. I’d grabbed a fuzzy blanket and taken Django up the stairs. In a few hours, we were leaving for Italy.

  Sitting alone in the cold, I gave myself a pep talk. I vowed to not let last night’s events ruin our trip. This vacation was supposed to be a fresh start for me. When I bought the tickets, I’d realized that for the first time since my parents died, that I’d felt free. Free to live my life. Free to let my guilt go. I’d stopped all my bad habits. I drank like a normal person (a glass or two of wine with dinner each night.) I allowed myself one cigarette a month. I was in a healthy relationship with a man I was crazy about. I was finally, after so long, getting my shit together. I wanted to celebrate this new chapter in my life by treating my boyfriend and myself to a spectacular trip to Italy.

  He was the one who had shown me it was okay to care about someone.

  For so long, I was worried that falling for Bobby was his death sentence. He’d proven otherwise. And I had fallen for him. Hard. In a way I never had before.

  He’d been telling me he loved me for about a month. The first time he did, I stared, stunned and speechless. He’d laughed. “Don’t feel like you need to say it until you feel it. Or feel comfortable. I’m cool with that. I just can’t keep my feelings in any longer and I had to let you know.”

  It wasn’t until this past week that I realized I loved
him back. And had for a long time. It was the first time I’d loved a man. It made me giddy and filled with energy. I wanted to let him know so badly. But every time I tried to say the words, they failed me.

  Along with having copious amounts of amazing sex, scarfing down the most delicious food on the planet, drinking the finest wines, and celebrating my best friend’s wedding, my goal on this trip was to finally say those three words out loud to Bobby.

  Downstairs later, standing in my doorway, my neighbor Thanh-Thanh was hugging Django like he was a person. He was up on two legs and had his paws on her shoulder.

  “Oh, brother,” I said. “He’s going to be intolerable when we get back.”

  Thanh-Thanh giggled. “Django is a very courteous dog. Always genteel. He is super.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Eight months ago, when I met her, she hadn’t even spoken a lick of English and now she was putting me to shame with her vocabulary.

  “Your English is brilliant.”

  She beamed. “I’m studying very hard.”

  “I can tell,” I hitched my duffle bag on my shoulder. Bobby was waiting below, but I was reluctant to leave for some reason. “You know where everything is. The phone number for the vet is on the fridge. If you need a break, Darling’s number is up there, as well. As a matter of fact, you might consider bringing him by the salon if you’re getting your hair done.”

  My close friend, Darling, owned a hair salon and was obsessed with my dog. Maybe even more than Thanh-Thanh. Leaning over, I scratched Django behind his ears and tried not to feel sad. It was just a dumb dog. Not even a person. An animal!

  Thanh-Thanh gently pushed me toward the door. “Leave. I have it under my management. Completely. Everything is adequate. I will take excellent care of him. I guarantee.”

  I cast one last glance at my apartment and my dog. Everything would be fine. If anybody could be trusted with my dog it was Thanh-Thanh. She was the reason he was alive. She’d rescued him a few months ago when the first building we lived in burned to the ground.

  Still, I couldn’t help feeling a frisson of foreboding as I watched her close the door on me. Maybe it was the woman dying in my arms. Maybe it was nervousness about this trip with Bobby. Whatever it was, there was definitely something there, hovering in the shadows, beating its black wings. But I didn’t know if the dark shadow that had just crossed over my grave meant something bad was headed her way. Or mine.

  Chapter Three

  Miss Italia

  I’d forgotten that Italian men are not shy in their admiration of the female form. From the minute we stepped off the plane until we were ensconced in our Positano villa overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, I’d been ogled, winked at, bowed to, and catcalled.

  The attention came from the very young–the pre-teen boy who held the door for me at the airport and then winked suggestively—to the very old—the caretaker at the villa who kissed his fingertips and tossed them away, “Bellissima! You are the sister of Francesca Chillemi, no?”

  I raised an eyebrow. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Miss Italia? You know her, yes? You are the American Chillemi!”

  “No.”

  “You are her twin sister. You were separated at birth, no?”

  “No.” Miss Italia, huh? I pulled her picture up on my phone and scoffed.

  “Maybe her ugly stepsister?” I offered. I absentmindedly fingered my scar. It ran from my cheekbone up to my hairline. It was a constant reminder that King was still in the wind. The man who cut my face and murdered at least ten people, including my good friend, Ethel, in his sick ethnic cleansing operation. He was still on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

  Staring at Chillemi’s picture, I laughed. I looked nothing like her. The Italian model was insanely gorgeous, with sleek black hair that fell to her breasts, smoldering dark eyes, and full, pink lips with the upper lip just slightly bigger than the lower one.

  “Yes,” the man said. “Chillemi. Either her or young Claudia Cardinale.”

  I knew who Cardinale was, of course. Now, I knew he was crazy. Maybe half blind? I shoved a wad of euros at him, shot him a smile, and pushed him out the front door. Guy just wanted a good tip. He didn’t know I was already an excellent tipper. No lies or flattery necessary.

  Bobby reached for my phone.

  “It’s the hair,” I said as he peered at the picture. “My hair looks a little like hers. On a good day. After Phillipe has his way with it.”

  “No,” Bobby said, looking from my phone to my face. “It’s the eyes. You both have magnetic eyes. They glitter.”

  “Aw, you’re biased,” I said, giving him a playful swat.

  “Frankly, I don’t think she holds a candle to you.”

  “Must be the scar.” I said, drily.

  “I like your scar.” He leaned over and ran his finger down it, slowly, sexily.

  “Oh, stop. Now I know you’re full of it.” I didn’t embarrass easily, but I felt my cheeks grow warm. I tried to change the subject. “Let’s explore this joint.”

  The villa, like most of the buildings in Positano, was a pastel stone structure, carved into a cliff on the Amalfi Coast overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  From the front door, all I could see was brilliant blue through the floor-to-ceiling window across from me. I led Bobby around by the hand, squealing in delight. It was even better than the pictures. Giant French doors opened onto a lanai open to a turquoise pool. The pool teetered right on the edge of the cliff, the water lapping gently over a row of boulders separating the pool from the sheer drop to the sea below.

  “This is my favorite!” The patio area was filled with cushy furniture, a fire pit, an outdoor kitchen, and fully stocked bar.

  “I could stay right here the entire time,” I said, standing at the waist-high wall overlooking the sea. Every room in the villa had sweeping views of the turquoise sea.

  Bobby grabbed me by the waist. “I feel a little guilty,” he said. “Do you think the groom has such luxurious digs?”

  “Of course. Dante’s villa costs five times this one. We’re good. No need to feel guilty.”

  Seeing Bobby’s delight in our digs filled my heart with joy. We were both giddy. We’d slept on the plane and were ready to begin our three weeks of debauchery. I took his hand and led him to the bedroom on the second floor. Like the lanai, one whole wall was open to the sea. Time to break in the bed. I pulled Bobby by both hands over to the foot of the bed and reached up to kiss his lips, then his jaw, and then moved down his neck … He groaned and threw me on the bed, accidentally ripping my shirt in his haste to get it off. I didn’t complain.

  It was dark by the time we showered and dressed and made it to the town square. I was ravenous. I led Bobby by the hand as we made our way down the row of restaurants on the sea side of the square. “This place? No, this one? Oh, how am I ever going to choose?”

  Finally, a maître d’ standing at a podium in front of his restaurant convinced us. He crooked a finger as we passed and I slipped over like he was the freaking pied piper.

  He had distinguished gray hair brushed back from his temples, a tuxedo and only the slightest Italian accent. “Look no further, bellissima.”

  “Why’s that? What makes your place so special?” I challenged him with a wink.

  “There is no competition. Here. At my establishment, you will have the finest meal of your entire existence. I will order for you. Off the menu. Only my most exquisite meals for a most exquisite young woman. You will have an experience that will linger on your lips for a lifetime. You will think of this meal on your death bed.”

  Bobby shifted, obviously not digging the death bed talk. “We were going to walk down to the end of the row first and then decide.” While he was a little freaked out by the death bed part, that was the deciding factor for me.

  “We are at your mercy,” I said, linking my arm through the maître d’s arm.

  “You can call me Uncle Ricco. You are in good hands. You will not be d
isappointed.”

  He led us to the finest table in the house. The one tucked into a corner by itself on the edge of the patio overlooking the sea. A thick railing on two sides of the table was covered with white candles.

  The maître d’ bowed. “You will allow me to order?”

  “But of course.”

  “We will start with our house white wine with grapes grown on the hillsides across from here. It will be a perfect accompaniment to your first course of scialatielli ai frutti di mare, a dish served at every restaurant along the Amalfi coast, but made famous here. It contains a variety of blue fish, redfish, pezzogne, bream, sea urchins, and octopus all served on buttery linguine.”

  “Sold,” I said.

  When he walked away to get our wine, Bobby reached across the table and grabbed my hand. His fingers rubbed my palm seductively.

  He leaned over and began kissing my neck. I leaned into it and then Bobby abruptly drew away. I gave him a questioning look and he jutted his chin at a table behind us. I turned. A man sat across the patio in a suit and silver tie, black slicked back hair, and sunglasses. At night. He noticed us looking and raised a glass of red wine. I smiled and looked away, embarrassed. He looked vaguely familiar. Like a movie star or some other celebrity.

  “Who is that?”

  “What do you mean?” Bobby asked.

  “I don’t know. He looks like a famous actor or something, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  Bobby took a sip of his wine. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You didn’t skimp on our accommodations or the location, Gia. I’ve heard about this area. It definitely attracts the celebrity crowd. Look.”

  He pointed out to the sea below. Yachts with sparkling lights dotted the bay.

  I sighed with contentment. “It is lovely!”

  Bobby grabbed my hand again, working on my palm once more. “Thank you. Thank you for spoiling me.” His eyes were amber liquid in the candle light. I could stare into his eyes all night long.

  “My pleasure.”