by Joanne Lewis
Filippa turned her attention back to Dr. Lopez. “We’ll tell Buddy,” she said.
The doctor’s pager vibrated. “I know this is difficult. Any more questions?”
Filippa had a ton of questions, five hundred thousand to be precise. But with the doctor’s obvious impatience, she didn’t feel like asking them. She shook her head, no. The doctor turned and walked away. The squish of his sneakers on the floor grew softer and finally disappeared when he turned a corner and was out of sight and out of sound. Filippa wondered how he did it, how he told families that their children were going to die and there was nothing anyone could do. The answer was obvious as she thought of his pager and his matter of fact approach. He disconnected. Filippa wondered how they would find the words, the vibrations, to tell Buddy. Disconnecting from Buddy was not an option.
“Did he really say Buddy is going to die because we have no money?” Julio asked.
Filippa heard him; off in some faraway place. Up in space. On the moon. At the Russian Space Station. Buddy wasn’t going to die. He couldn’t. The Renaissance girl would save him, would save her. But what if someone had already won the contest? Or the contest was no longer going on? What if Buddy died before she could find the Renaissance girl?
The hallway closed in around her. Her head spun. The bile in her stomach kicked up. She felt as if she was barely hanging on to a dilapidated raft in the waters of Biscayne Bay during a violent storm.
Julio touched her arm. Filippa jumped.
“This must be God’s way.” Julio’s eyes glazed. “He is ready for Buddy to join him. We must thank God. Come, Filippa, give me your hands. We must pray. We must send our thanks to God.”
There was so much she wanted to say to Julio. Like, Buddy is dying and you’re thanking God? Julio was no different than Dr. Lopez. They both dealt with death by disconnecting.
“Give me your hand. Let us pray.”
The bile in her stomach churned and splashed against her intestinal walls. Her head spun as if she were seasick. She ran for the bathroom.
Chapter Thirty
Dolce’s back ached and the muscles in her shoulders burned. Her nose throbbed. Her breaths were short and quick. She wasn’t sure how long she had been bent like a wilted flower in the tiny storage closet in the back of Abramo’s shop but the lack of headspace and circulating air was stifling. She feared for Andrea. Was he still alive? Her heart beat so fast and loud and with unabashed vehemence, she could barely hear the voices on the other side of the door.
“The girl is not here,” Abramo said.
“When did you last see her?” Franco asked.
“It has been a very, very long time.”
“And you, boy? When did you last lay eyes on Dolce Gaddi?”
“My memory fails me on this.” Samuele’s voice was small.
“You are a poor liar.”
“I tell the truth.”
“Then look me in the eyes and tell me where the girl is.”
Silence, then, “I do not know.”
Dolce heard a door open, then close. The synchronized steps of foot soldiers, maybe two or three, followed. Franco, no doubt, was bowed elegantly at the waist with his arm extended, palm up, fingers out.
Dolce waited to hear the voice of the dignitary who had stepped into Abramo’s shop, wondering if she would recognize it.
“Do you have her?” A strong, male voice boomed, one that was familiar but she could not match the tone with a face or a name.
“No.” This time, Franco’s voice was small.
“Find her. Or else it will be your head on the tip of my sword.”
The door to the shop opened then closed again. The foot soldiers and the important one departed. There was a long, heavy silence. Then, finally, Franco spoke.
“Cosimo de’ Medici is true to his word. It will not be my head in the piazza, of that I will make sure. I will be back before sundown. If you do not produce the girl, your blood will float on the Arno and your heads will hang in the square.”
A slamming door. Dolce pushed her way out of the closet, screaming. She ran for Franco. She would not allow Abramo and Samuele to sacrifice their lives for her. Never. Samuele caught her, one hand around her waist, one over her mouth. He dragged her to the back of the store then pulled her tight into his chest.
“You will not sacrifice yourself for me.” Dolce cried.
He cupped her face in his hands. “I can think of no greater honor than to die for you, the greatest love of my life.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Filippa stood at the foot of Buddy’s hospital bed and watched him sleep. Julio sat in a chair pulled close to the bed. He stroked Buddy’s forearm. The crux of Buddy’s elbows and the backs of his hands were black, blue and purple from hacking attempts to find suitable veins.
When Buddy awoke, she and Julio had agreed they would tell him he was going home, the treatment wasn’t working, the doctors had done all they could. As Buddy had made Filippa promise, they were going to tell him the truth about his cancer although Filippa still didn’t believe it.
Julio laid his cheek on Buddy’s arm. “Dios has plans for you, my son. You must go to Him.”
Filippa braced her hands on the rail at the end of the bed and glared at Julio. “You’re so close to God. Tell him to take me instead.”
Julio turned his eyes toward her. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not? Why can’t I make a deal with Him? If someone has to die, why should it matter who it is? It would be my honor to die for Buddy.”
“That’s not part of His master plan.”
“How do you know anything about His master plan?”
“I know you are a sinner and a nonbeliever and you must ask forgiveness.”
“Give me a break.”
He sat up. “Have you considered that God is taking Buddy to right your wrongs?”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. He sacrificed Roman to teach you the evil of your ways but that must not have been enough so he took Grandpa Raj on the day of your incarceration. But still,” Julio pointed at her, “God knows the truth about you. Since he loves all his children he won’t give up on you. So now, he’s taking Buddy.”
Filippa felt her face get hot. Anger grew inside of her like a cauldron of boiling oil. Still holding the rail, she leaned toward Julio. “If God really wanted to save me, he would have struck you dead a long time ago.”
Julio laid his cheek down again on Buddy’s arm. “Filippa George, you must pray for forgiveness for your sins.” He closed his eyes.
She knew there was no point talking to him, unless she wanted to grow more angry, more frustrated. She looked at Buddy’s innocent slumbering face and wondered how such a sweet boy could share DNA with Julio. Filippa had never known Buddy’s mother except that she was a troubled woman who abandoned her son at an early age and was never heard from again. God had gotten one thing right. Buddy had not been made in the image of either of his parents.
Filippa turned brusquely and left Buddy’s room. She had a bone to pick with God.
The hospital chapel was located on the first floor. Twelve rows of wood pews were dissected in the middle by an aisle fit for a procession. The pulpit was a raised stage. A wood carved Jesus hung in front of a stained glass window, his head hanging low, and a tear dropping to his cheek. He wore a loincloth and a crown of thorns. His ribs jutted from his sides. Prisms of red, blue, green and gold from the stained glass bounced off silver candelabras. White candles burned in varying stages of melting wax.
Filippa thought of the last time she had gone to church. It was years before the accident, before she had been sentenced to prison for Roman’s death. She had never liked church, had never felt she needed to kneel at a pulpit or say Hail Marys to be heard by God. Of course, she had spent a lot of time throughout her life doubting the existence of God. After all, what God would have given her the life she’s been living? Her mother overdosed the day she was born, she had no id
ea who her father was, she had spent a lifetime dealing with drug and alcohol addictions, two prison terms, Julio’s abuse and her inability to leave him.
Yet all those happenings, the tragedies of her life, were insignificant in light of two boys.
Roman and Buddy.
Filippa walked down the aisle and noticed an older, small framed woman seated on a bench in the second row. She was softly sobbing. Filippa fell to her knees in front of the pulpit and folded her hands into prayer position. The old woman sniffled. Filippa looked over her shoulder and saw she was staring at her. The woman’s smile was slight and sad.
“I know I’m in a church,” Filippa said, “and this is a place of worship where no one is supposed to be judged but I feel like a loser. My whole life I’ve felt that way. And now my,” she hesitated, “my son is dying. A brain tumor. The doctors say there is no cure unless we have a lot of money. He doesn’t even have a home to go to where he can die peacefully since the bank’s about to take that. I feel useless. Have you ever felt that way?”
The woman nodded.
“There is a way for me to get the money but it seems futile. I’m sure people have been trying to find the Renaissance girl for years. And even if I could find proof of her existence and win the contest, I’d have to leave Buddy and go to Florence. What if he dies before I get back? What if I can’t find her? Then I’ve wasted that time away from him.”
She looked up at Jesus and noticed his right big toe was covered in a layer of dust. How odd, she thought, to notice such a minute detail at a time like this. It reminded her of her first moment of consciousness after she had gotten into the car accident that killed Roman. When she awoke, she was sprawled across the front seats of her car. Her body was covered in broken glass. The car’s engine was smoking and the streets were eerily quiet. And she noticed a bug on the windowsill. Not smashed, but alive. It fluttered its wings and seemed to look at her before flying away. Filippa shook off the memory. She had come to the hospital chapel for a reason. She had to stay on task.
She looked up at Jesus. “I know the perfect solution. God can take me instead of Buddy. I know He’s done it before.” She turned back toward the woman. “Look at Jesus. Didn’t God sacrifice His son so we could live? I’m not sure if I really believe that but maybe it happened. I mean, Julio—that’s Buddy’s father and my ex-boyfriend—he believes all that stuff. He says God is letting Buddy die because I’ve done bad things in my life. I don’t believe that ‘cause if God was mad at me, He would have let me die in that car crash instead of Roman.”
The woman scrunched her eyebrows.
Filippa waved her hand. “You don’t need to know about that. What’s important is I’m here to ask God to take me over Buddy.” She turned back toward the pulpit and folded her hands into prayer position again. “So, God, just in case you’re real and you’re listening, I am begging you to take me instead of Buddy. He deserves to live more than I do.” She felt that lump in her throat again. “Please,” her voice cracked, “don’t let Buddy die.” Tears fell down her cheeks. Filippa looked back at the woman. “I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I know you have problems of your own. I’m sorry to burden you with mine.” Filippa got up, off her knees, and sat next to the woman. The woman held out her hand, palm open. Filippa laid her hand in hers.
She looked more closely at the old lady, at the tears that edged her eyes, the wrinkles around her mouth, at her brown skin. “No habla ingles?”
“No hablo ingles,” the woman confirmed.
Filippa turned away then looked back at the woman. She was gone. Or had she ever existed at all?
Chapter Thirty-two
Four months later, in the back of Abramo’s shop, Dolce looked in a mirror. The swelling on her nose had finally gone down. She adjusted the cap on her head and tucked in loose strands of long hair. Without thought, she rested her hands on her belly. Her stomach was beginning to arc.
“What are you doing?” Samuele asked. “Is that half a moustache? You look like a boy.”
“That is my desire. I am going to help Andrea.”
“His trial is underway. What can you do?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“No,” Samuele took her hands in his and nuzzled her cheek with his lips and his nose.
She smelled currency, ink, oil and wax and was drawn in by him. By all of him. His scent. His dedication and determination. His love for her. Her love for him. They never spoke of this but she was sure he too knew they did not love each other the same. Samuele’s love for Dolce had no boundaries. Dolce’s love for him knew many walls built with bricks and mortar of fear. She loved Samuele the best she could, the most she could love anyone, except maybe the child growing inside.
She pulled away. “I have to help Andrea. He saved my life.”
“And according to what you told me, you saved his. Now, you are wanted for murder.”
“Hence the disguise,” she said.
He kissed her. “If this is what kissing a boy is like, then I’m all for it. I have something for you.”
He ran into the shop and returned with poster board. Ghastly white gleamed. She imagined La Citta di Dolce rising into the clouds. Then saw a green heel smothering it. She pushed the board away.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Just because you lost the drawings doesn’t mean you can’t design your city again.”
“It took me years. I don’t have the strength.”
“I know you’re tired. You’re with child. But you can do it.”
“My dreams have died. There will be no Citta di Dolce.”
Samuele touched her cheek then grabbed the board and flipped it over. “Then how about this?”
Dolce read, “Whoever desires to make any model or design for the lantern on top of the dome shall do so by the end of 1436.” She stared at the script, as if not understanding.
“It’s a competition,” Samuele said. “You must enter. No one has more talent as an architect than you.”
“Filippo Brunelleschi does.”
“You have been studying his work for years.”
“I’ll make a fool of myself. And no one wants to consider designs from a girl.”
“When they see how brilliant you are, it will not matter.”
“You are innocent, Samuele. That’s why I love you.”
“And you are beautiful and talented and courageous. That’s why I love you.”
She read the poster again. “The prize money is more than we can earn in our lifetimes. But how can I do it when there is a warrant for my arrest?”
He adjusted the cap on her head. “You’ll think of something.”
She picked up a pen, looked at her reflection and drew the other half of a moustache above her lip. “For you and our child, I will do it. But I must help Andrea first. If he is found guilty, he will be put to death.”
“I can’t let you go.”
She kissed him gently. “You cannot stop me.”
“I will go with you then.”
“I must do this alone. I will return before the eighth chime.”
“I insist. I’m going with you. Let me tell my father.”
He ran to the front of the shop. Dolce heard him say to Abramo, “I am going with Dolce.”
“Where?” Abramo asked. “The Arno is getting ready to flood.”
Dolce didn’t wait to hear Samuele’s response. She ran out the back door, into the alley and on to the street where she sprinted toward the courthouse. She dodged people hauling bags of sand and placing them by the riverbanks. She jumped over broken urns, discarded tools, parts, and other debris. She zigzagged around barking dogs and lazy cows. Appearing to be just another boy frolicking along the rising water.
Chapter Thirty-three
Buddy sat on the edge of the bed. His face was grey and drawn. His eyes still sparkled. Filippa folded a pair of his pajama bottoms and held them to her nose. They were soft and blue and had a repeated pattern of sailboats floating among whal
es and dolphins. They smelled of Buddy, Twix bars, and sweat. She held back tears, dueled with that too familiar lump in her throat, and placed the PJs in his suitcase. She checked the dresser drawers next to the hospital bed and made sure each was empty. She packed his bathroom supplies and the cards and gifts given to him by his teachers and classmates. She zipped the suitcase closed. Her duffle bag leaned against a corner of the room.
“You look so serious, Lippa. Everything’s going to be okay.”
She went to ruffle his hair but stopped. Her hand hovered over his head. She cupped his cheek. She couldn’t get used to Buddy with no hair.
He looked up at her. “You’ll find the Renaissance girl and win the contest. I know you will. Do you think we’ll see Vikings in Norway?”
“Definitely.”
“Good. It must have been cool to be a Viking.”
She sat next to him. “Are you sure you want me to do this? I feel bad leaving you.”
“I’m positive. I can take care of dad.”
The tears came swiftly. “I’m going to miss you.”
Buddy hugged her. “I’m going to miss you too, Lippa.” He pulled off the white hospital band from around his wrist. “Here.”
She took it, put it in her pocket.
Julio pushed a wheelchair into the room. “Ready, Sport?”
Buddy slowly slid off the bed. “Ready.” He sat in the wheelchair. Gently, Julio placed the suitcase on Buddy’s lap.
Julio turned to Filippa and shook his head. He appeared as if he was going to say something, then turned his back and pushed Buddy out of the room. Feebly, Buddy raised his arm and waved good-bye. She ran to the door and watched Julio roll Buddy away. She wanted to run after Buddy, ask him one more time is it really okay that I leave you? but her decision had been made. It was the only way to save him. But one more kiss, one more hug, one more breath of him into her soul—that was what she needed. She was about to jog down the hall and catch up with them when she saw Julio stop, lean over and say something to Buddy, then come back to Filippa.
