Chapter 19 - The Girl at Il Cielo
Ten years after the poisoning, Il Cielo invited us back.
New ownership.
New chef.
Same forty-seventh floor.
I said no.
Alessandro said:
“Good.”
Emma said:
“We’re going.”
She was sixteen.
Apparently teenagers outranked trauma.
“Why?”
I asked.
“Because I want to see it.”
Lucia worried.
Noah volunteered to go.
Eventually, six of us returned.
Alessandro.
Me.
Emma.
Noah.
Lucia.
Marco.
Theresa refused because she said six traumatized Italians in one restaurant was enough.
The bronze chandelier remained.
Black marble.
City below.
Different pianist.
We stood near the service corridor.
Emma stared.
“So small.”
“What?”
“The room.”
She looked around.
“When I was six, it felt huge.”
“That’s because you were tiny.”
Noah said.
“I was not tiny.”
“You were six.”
“You were nine.”
“Ancient.”
They argued.
Lucia cried quietly.
I touched her hand.
The manager brought dinner.
No chocolate soufflé.
Alessandro had apparently called ahead.
Coward.
After the meal, Emma walked toward the table where Alessandro and I had been sitting that night.
She placed her hand on the chair.
“Do you remember what you said?”
I asked.
“Yes.”
Exactly?
She looked at Alessandro.
“She put something in your cake.”
He nodded.
“What did you think?”
“That you might be lying.”
Emma smiled.
“Rude.”
“I was correct about many things.”
“Not that.”
“No.”
“What made you listen?”
Alessandro considered.
“You weren’t asking for anything.”
Emma looked toward the service corridor.
“I was asking you not to die.”
“Fair.”
Then she became serious.
“Do you ever wish you didn’t switch them?”
The room went quiet.
Alessandro looked at me.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“Every day.”
I reached for his hand.
Emma asked:
“Then you would have eaten it.”
“Yes.”
“And died.”
“Probably.”
“And Elena would have lived.”
“Yes.”
She thought.
“But then Bianca might have won.”
“Maybe.”
“And you wouldn’t have changed.”
“Probably not.”
Emma frowned.
“So the worst mistake you made also made other things happen.”
Alessandro nodded.
“That does not make it a good mistake.”
“Right.”
“I hate when adults do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn bad things into destiny.”
I smiled.
“So do I.”
Emma looked at us.
“What happened was bad.”
“It didn’t happen for a reason.”
“We made reasons afterward.”
Nobody spoke.
Sixteen-year-old Emma Bellini had summarized ten years of therapy in three sentences.
The manager brought dessert.
Lemon tart.
Emma inspected it dramatically.
Then pushed Alessandro’s plate toward Marco.
“Taste it.”
Marco sighed.
“Why am I still employed?”
“You’re not.”
Alessandro reminded him.
“Then absolutely not.”
We laughed.
Outside, Manhattan glowed.
Rain touched the windows.
Exactly like that night.
May you like
But we were not the same people.
That mattered more.
