Chapter 2: The Bowl on the Table
He didn't put me down.
That was the thing I remembered most clearly, even more than the bowl or Bianca's face. His arm stayed locked around my back and my legs wrapped around his ribs and my face pressed into the black fabric of his shirt where his gold chain was warm against my cheek. I could hear his heart beating hard and fast under there and I could feel his breathing, slow and controlled, like he was trying to keep it even.
He turned with me still holding on. The marble hallway was bright behind us and the air moved when he moved, quick, toward the other room. I didn't see Emma's hand anymore or the purple phone. I just heard the soft scuff of his dress shoes on the marble and then the darker wood under them when we crossed into the dining room.
The dark wooden table was right there under the chandelier. I'd eaten breakfast there a hundred times on a little booster seat. Now it looked bigger and empty except for the light reflecting off the polish.
Vittorio reached down with his free hand. I felt his shoulder shift as he did it. On the floor beside the mat where I'd been sitting earlier, the stainless steel bowl was still there. He picked it up by the rim with just his fingers, like he didn't want to touch more of it than he had to. It made a faint metallic ring when his gold ring brushed it.
He set it down in the middle of the dark table. Not slammed. Placed. The bottom of the bowl made a dull, flat sound against the wood, heavier than I expected. A little water still inside sloshed and settled.
Bianca was already there, seated. I hadn't even seen her move. She was in the chair at the near end of the table, her pink satin robe pulled tight at the waist, her blonde hair falling forward over her shoulders. Her left cheek was still bright red, the color standing out against her pale skin. Her hands were in her lap, clutching at the fabric of her robe. She didn't look at the bowl right away. She looked up at him, and then at me over his shoulder.
Her lips were pressed together in a thin line. Her jeweled choker caught the light from the chandelier every time she swallowed. She didn't say anything. I remember waiting for her to say sorry or to explain, the way grown-ups always explained things to me then, but she just stared.
Vittorio stood over the table with one hand still holding me and the other resting at his side, his fingers curled slightly. His neck tattoos stood out dark above his black shirt collar. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't touching her. He just looked down at her, his eyes fixed, his jaw tight. The way he stood made the table feel smaller, like there wasn't any space to get around him.
I could feel his chest rise and fall against my cheek. My own breathing was fast and shallow and I had my arms locked around his neck so tight my fingers hurt. I was afraid if I let go I would be back on the floor next to that bowl.
For a long second nobody moved. The chandelier hummed faintly overhead. Somewhere in the house a door had been left open and I could hear the quiet tick of the big clock in the hallway.
Then Vittorio shifted his weight, just enough to nudge the bowl forward an inch on the wood with the back of his knuckles. It scraped lightly. It sat directly in front of Bianca now, centered on the dark grain, the steel catching the warm light and throwing it back up onto her robe. The empty room reflected in its curved side, warped.
Bianca's eyes finally dropped to it. Her mouth opened a little and then closed again. Her red cheek twitched. She didn't reach for it. She didn't push it away. She just sat there with her hands knotted and her shoulders up near her ears, looking at what she'd put on the floor for me.
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I didn't understand the word for it then, but I understood the shape of it. The thing she'd made me do was now sitting where she sat for dinner. And my dad was standing between us, holding me off that floor, making her look.
Vittorio didn't say anything either. He just kept his gaze down on her, steady and cold, letting the silence do whatever it was supposed to do. I buried my face deeper into his shirt and kept holding on, listening to his heart until it started to slow.
