Why Do You Cry?

“Excuse me, pardon me!” Blonde curls zig-zag through a sea of finance bros with their copy-paste haircuts, boat shoes, and Stuart & Lau briefcases. Late, late, late – she can definitely hear her mother screaming in Italian, scrunching her brow as she mutters prayers and profanities under her breath.

Not only is she late, but it’s her first day at the Federal Reserve. This job forced her to go $87,342 in debt, move back in with her parents, work unpaid as an intern, and complete 50 soft-skill training sessions for her LinkedIn profile. She published research on women’s impact in finance, then passed the International Monetary Fund certification—all in just three years.

She took the stairs by two; the click-clack of her light pink heels echoed off the aging concrete and mural-adorned walls.

Click, clack, click, clack. The repetitive pattern attempted to soothe her mind as it raced, thinking of all the excuses she could come up with to soften the blow of her tardiness.

“There was a kitten on the bridge, sir, I just had to pull over…” She shook her head in protest. Who would believe that?

She reflexively bites her glittery nail, gnawing to the nailbed before moving to her next victim.

“I took the wrong connection…” A contemplative gaze and twisted lips question her terrible fib, “...and parking was a nightmare.” She shrugs and whispers, “That will have to–” a broad shoulder slams into her, forcing her three steps back, almost splitting her head and heels onto the marble floor.

“Excuse–” her eyes widen, and she’s abruptly hit with an aroma she hasn’t smelled in over a decade. She turns to see an older man walking away, wearing a worn plaid shirt and an olive green alpine hat – a pheasant feather gently tucked on the side. He took a couple of wobbling steps, attempting to find his footing, and revealed a wooden cane to regain his balance.

The only sound was the cane’s thunderous booms against the floor.

The pungent smell of that cologne.

Boom

The pins that littered the alpine hat.

Boom

The worn purple plaid that he never took off.

Boom

The 111-year-old building crumbles around her like a forgotten relic, taking her back to a world she tried so hard to leave behind. Memories she buried deep begin to resurface, as if a hidden door in her mind has swung open.

The loud pounding of her heartbeat and rushing blood fills her ears. Tears well in her eyes, her head shakes in protest of what she smells and sees, attempting to close the door that floods her mind with pain.

Why is she crying?

The man she knew so well turns to her.

Then, utter stillness.

A soft voice, both near and far, lilts through the quiet void, “Non piangiere, bellina.”

Her eyes grow wide, the world goes black, and she’s taken back.

***

Soft songs from his old radio filled the car, and warmth from the midday sun shone through the freshly washed windows. A wrinkled olive-toned finger caught her attention in the corner of her eye. “I remember when this entire field was just apple trees and farm land,” he said, pointing towards the four-story housing complex. “I used to pick up garbage there, mah, but they still have their cavalli.”

Her ears perked, and a skeptical grin crept onto her face. “Nonno, is it okay if we see the horses today?” she quickly asked, clasping her hands in a pleading gesture.

A soft smile creased his prominent cheekbones and crinkled his worn blue eyes. “Si, biondona,” the Italian phrase rolled melodically, and winked at her, “maybe they’ll finally let you pet them.”

Boom

“Again, Nonno, again!” Two young sisters swung in time with the loud polka flowing from the traditional fisarmonica. They giggled and fell onto the soft carpet as he chortled along with them.

“Uno, due, tre!” He counted them in. He expanded and compressed the bellows of the large instrument, pushing hot air through its tiny vents. A woman with curly brown hair peeked into the connecting room and set down the last drying plate. “Let Nonna join!” their grandmother shouted in her thick accent, her hands interlocked with the dancing girls as the crescendo intensified.

Blonde and brown hair twist into a twirling tornado while bare feet skip in time with the trills of every new note. Her eyes found him through the swirls of music around her, the sound magically filled her heart with the swift fingers maneuvering the piano keys – his eyes closed, body swaying in time, as if he felt the same magic.

The maestro and his audience of three.

Boom

“Bellina? Were you listening?” the thick accent whisked through her preoccupied mind, a bright phone screen forming a film over her gray eyes.

“I’m sorry, Nonno, what were you saying?” A red-hot flush of embarrassment crept up her neck; she hadn’t heard a word he said.

He smiled sweetly at her, the dimple on his chin pronouncing itself, and looked back at the road. “Just another one of my stories, allora, cosa fai oggi?” No huff of disappointment or roll of his aged eyes, just a constant soft presence wanting to be part of her expanding world.

It made her heart feel as if it were being electrocuted, seizing at the thought of a world without him.

“Just a hard day at school,” she sighed. She was fighting with her boyfriend.

Again.

It was only Tuesday.

She rolled her eyes and looked back at her phone, 12 green blobs of text in all caps. She shut her phone down and threw it in her backpack.

They slowed to a stop at a red light, and he looked over his shoulder, “Biondona, pick out a coupon.”

As if her muscles had a mind of their own, she reached for the latch to open the center console and grinned. She didn’t even need to look down to find the thick stack of fast-food coupons bundled together by a large paper clip. Fresh from today’s morning paper.

“What are you feeling?” she chirped, thumbing through each coupon to find the best deal.

He turned on his blinker, easing off the brake. “Anything you want,” he smiled quizzically, “but I need my patate fritte… don’t tell Nonna.” He put a finger to his lips, then quickly pointed to his heart with a comical grin.

She stared at him, perplexed. Of course, he’d be all right.

There was no world without him.

Nothing could happen to him.

Boom

She ran to the car with her sister. Keys and gift cards jostled in her bag as she jumped into the passenger seat. “He’s going to be fine, right?”

Her sister looked ahead, hazel eyes glazed over and stagnant, staring at the steering wheel as if it would magically move. “I don’t know.”

The walls of the emergency room felt as if they were closing in on her. The floors squeaked with every step of her tennis shoes. The sisters turned a corner. Several scratchy armchairs sat next to a small flat-screen mounted on the wall. A coffee table, littered with gossip magazines and coffee cups, stood parallel to the TV. A fake dusty plant was in the corner.

The girls embraced family who rushed to the hospital; whispers of “he’ll pull through,” “he’s resilient,” “it happened so fast” saturated the air like perfume. It suffocated her; her insides churned as if in a vortex.

The creak of a door reverberated through the hall, and every head snapped towards the sound. A young woman with white scrubs and a messy bun peered over at the sisters, “Please, come with me.”

The smell was worse past the glass doors, more pungent, burning all the way up her nose like a wildfire.

He’ll be fine, she thought to herself. The words dribbled into an ocean of doubt, quickly becoming a persistent plea.

Before she opened her mouth to ask, she saw her mother turn around, eyes rimmed red. “Please,” her mother croaked, “when you see him, don’t cry.”

He will be fine.

He will be--

He was on his side, a hospital gown covering his pale skin. A blood-soaked gauze wrapped around the side of his neck, a large needle inserted into his jugular vein. A nurse came to change it, the vein pulsing erratically, her stomach flipped.

Blood, there was too much blood.

It seemed as if hundreds of lines, tubes, and needles protruded from different aspects of his body. The beeping of the monitors rang in her ears. Whispers of the doctors behind her blurred with the muffled sounds of her mother and sister, as they attempted to shake her from this catatonic-like state.

They said he would be fine.

Hands reached out to stifle the bleeding; why did they look like hers?

A large cry exploded from her mouth, tears spontaneously rushed from her eyes, and her hand jerked away from her grandfather to her mouth to stifle her scream.

Blue-green bloodshot eyes looked to her, mournful. “Non… piangere.. Biondona,” he said as his pale-olive green fingers reached out to comfort her.

As if she were the one in the hospital bed. As if she were the one dying in front of all those she loved.

Nails dug deeply into her arms and pushed her away, stifled and stern utterances encroached her thoughts, “GO!” her mother yelled, tears glistened – begging to be free – “You’ll only make it worse!” As quickly as the sea opened for her to see him, it pushed her out into the tide, salt water filled her vision and lungs.

She was far away from shore and let the sea take her without protest.

***

Boom

“STOP!” she screams, tears flooding down her face. “I can’t do it, I can’t do this!” She raises her hands above her head and slams them into the ground, a thunderous shake reverberates beneath her, cracking in response. “I can’t relive losing you!” Her skin felt too hot, as if it were melting off her, chest heaving in an attempt to capture any air she could to fuel her fury.

“Please...” she begs, “I can’t do this again...”

The anger of not being there when he died.

The rage of preventable events that could have saved him.

The pain of years without the man she loved from first sight.

“You were my best friend,” she croaks, “I didn’t even make time to see you, before you–” her words peter out, dying in her throat.

A whisper, soft as silk, weaves through her bitter tears, “Bellina..”

She howls, one hand on her chest, the other gripping her sweat-slicked hair. It felt as if her brain was a wildfire, a maelstrom ripping her foundations beneath her trembling limbs. One minute, she was on solid ground; the next, the waves drowned her. Salt water and foam flooded her swollen eyes and lungs.

She tumbles against the violent current, snapping her head in odd angles, dragging her flailing body as if in reckoning. Stringy blonde hair loops around her neck, a noose pulling tighter, choking the last bit of air from her throat.

The anger.

The rage.

The pain.

Maybe this is what she deserves, an endless fall into the abyss.

Maybe this was penance.

Maybe this would finally be peace.

“Bellina…” A whisper grows louder, the familiar sound echoing deep within the surge that swallowed her whole.

But the darkness was comforting, the screams of self-hatred and vile remarks poisoning the water around her. She did not deserve to escape this end.

She did not deserve kindness.

But then, a soft light pierces through the darkness, and a familiar hand reaches into the foamy surges.

A hand with wrinkled skin and olive-green tones that toiled in a backyard garden, and held her when she cried.

It waited, as if asking for permission to save her.

The storm ceases, and waves turn to soft lulls. The hand pushes deeper into the poisoned depths and grasps her, then pulls.

Brightness is all she sees, eyes squinting at the sudden change from darkness to light.

A melodious accent tickles her ears, “Why do you cry?”

Her lungs fill with fresh mountain air, as if she is back at the mountain cabin he built by hand.

She is playing bocce in the grass with her sister as Nonno defines the winning inches with a red string.

She is standing on his toes, dancing at his birthday party.

She is combing his hair and painting his nails before bed.

She is listening to his stories over and over, committing each twist to memory.

Her eyes adjust, and all she can see is him, after almost a decade.

Her hands graze the stubble on his chin, the length of his nose, the crows’ feet near his eyes.

“How can you still love me after all of this?”

His voice, both near and far, caresses her ears. “I never stopped, biondona,” he says softly, leaving a gentle kiss atop her forehead. “For that is why I saved you.

From yourself.”

As if waking from a dreamless sleep, she finally feels the sand beneath her fingers, returning from sea at last.