By Lorenza Starace

Featured Art: Polar Chroma Butterfly by John Sabraw

She is born too early. The c-section was scheduled for July, but the last ultrasound shows that something isn’t quite right, the baby’s heartbeat is slightly off, and one morning in June a girl is forced into life in a hospital close to the sea. The black-haired baby who is given to the parents once the mother wakes up from the anesthesia has a high, large forehead that seems to compress the rest of her face down to the chin. The mother almost feels the need to stretch it out, to pull the girl’s neck as to give her face more room to accommodate all of that flesh. Laughing, and yet embarrassed, the mother tells the dad, She’s quite ugly, isn’t she? He chuckles, and nods. To be ashamed of what they are not meant to notice is a feeling that accompanies them for the rest of June, for most of the girl’s childhood.

At home, it’s hard for them to recognize in the baby’s wrinkly body the reason for which the nursery walls had to be painted yellow, the house furniture rearranged, the outlets covered with cloud-shaped plug protectors. For some days, both parents stay at home with the girl. This is the deal, the mother has decided, we either both stay at home, or we both go back to work, she has repeated to the father in a litany. The first seven nights, the mother only dreams of jellyfish, their pudding-like flesh crawling on the nursery’s wooden floor. She asks the father if he also dreams of jellyfish, and when he says no, she thinks he is lying. 

As they had previously agreed, the nanny begins working as soon as the parents decide it’s time. The nanny, whose name is Ada, is fresh out of high school, and all she wants to do before having babies of her own is to be surrounded by children. This is what she tells the mother the day of the interview. Ada’s thick accent is only intensified by her clunky attempts at closing all the vowelsshe is afraid might sound too open or loud. The apartment she is in, Ada knows it, is not used to hearing those sounds, and she is worried that her dialect might spill onto the couch, stain the cleanness of the room. Don’t be nervous, the mother says. You can speak to me the way you’re most comfortable with. The casualness with which her uneasiness is being exposed prompts Ada to talk faster, much too fast for the mother to grasp what she is trying to say. They part ways both eager to leave each other, Ada almost gasping for air, the mother exhausted by her effort at understanding. 

And yet, within a month of the girl’s birth, Ada is working for them. She’d been the first to reply to the ad, and the only one, the only caring-looking one, the mother added, who will work on weekends. When describing her to the father, the mother had said: She has that accommodating look, you know? The father only knew he wanted to be the accommodating one, so he nodded. By simply carrying her body around the apartment – the white clogs squeaking on the hardwood floors – Ada lessens the speed with which the parents are growing tired of their renewed roles: a couple, a married couple with children. Ada also releases them from the fear of feeling tied to the little girl, their life constrained by a newborn; with Ada in the house, they don’t have to cancel their membership to the Opera, or their Friday restaurant dinners. Since they have hired her, the parents can join the chorus of their closest friends: should they pay for her insurance or not? How much time off should she be given? Is it safe to entrust the nanny with a copy of their house keys? ––and yet they often feel puzzled, at times even sickened, at how shallow these conversations sound, and they ultimately feel lucky with Ada, fortunate that she does not elicit from them this superficiality, this snobbishness, they see in others: they are good employers, she is a good employee.

Ada’s neighborhood is a forty-minute drive from theirs, fifty if one drives along the coastline, and as soon as the girl is old enough for Pre-k, Ada buys a second-hand brick-red car from her brother-in-law’s garage. She does not spot it immediately, but once at home Ada realizes that the former car owner has forgotten to remove a baby on board sticker from the car’s rear window. She chooses not to scratch it off, because she knows that, sooner or later, and if she is lucky enough, she will be asked to drive the girl to school. Or perhaps it is because the sticker is cute, there is a drawing of a toddler with wide, watery eyes, wearing a diaper loosely tied with a giant safety pin. It’s the kind of drawing children might like. And Ada will prove to be right: once the parents ask her to drive the girl to school, right before getting into the backseat, the girl invariably begs Ada to take a look at the sticker. You like it, huh, Ada says, smiling. It’s you! You’re my little baby on board! she adds, tickling the girl’s armpits, as she bends over with laughter.

Aside from the hours in school, the girl and Ada spend all day together, so much time that, the mother notices, they’ve begun resembling each other. Nonsense, the father says, it’s just the hair that makes you think that. Like Ada, the girl has dark, fuzzy hair, and Ada has taught her how to pull it up in a braided bun, the way she herself wears it. The mother is not thinking about the hair, even if she doesn’t like how the bun accentuates her daughter’s high forehead, but about the way the girl gesticulates, the way she now touches everything and everyone around her, without thinking twice. When, on Parents Day, the mother comes to the girl’s school, one of her classmates whispers to girl: You sure that’s your mom? She’s way prettier than you! The girl doesn’t reply, but, after a few days, she begins insisting that only Ada come to pick her up from school. Sure, the girl’s mother says, Ada is much better at small talk anyways, she adds. You could come on Fridays though, the girl says, as if to soothe an offence her mother doesn’t seem to have taken. Throughout elementary school, it’s Ada who waits for the girl in the school’s courtyard, behind the blue enameled gates, talking to the other nannies, the grandparents, the older siblings, the bus drivers, all of those other people only Ada knows how to talk to.

Encouraged by the mother, the nanny often brings with her one of her many nephews or nieces. The mother is worried that, as an only child, the girl will grow up spoiled and unsociable. There’s tons of children in your family, right? the mother asks Ada. Just bring them over, anytime. We don’t mind. We’re out most of the afternoon anyways. So the nieces and nephews begin coming, each of their visits an unannounced playdate, an exciting interruption of the girl’s routine with the nanny. One of them, Lia, comes more frequently than the others. Once it’s time to decide what game to play, Lia knows the drill: she will let the girl choose. The third of four children, Lia is used to negotiating roles, her daily life is made of compromises the girl won’t confront until much later.

One afternoon, the girl and Lia are playing on the floor, under the dining room’s round glass table. Ada is on the other side of the room, watching tarot readings on the local TV channel. The table’s glass top is the surface of the sea, and Lia and the girl are swimming deep down the bottom of the ocean, but they are mermaids and know how to breathe. Around dinner time, Ada says their names out loud. Lia, her body bent down towards the scattered toys, startles and hits her head against the glass table. Nothing shatters, but they all hear a loud thud, followed by the sound of Lia weeping.

Ada runs over to her, and a series of reproachful words rain down onto the girls. Ada is looking at the both of them, shifting her worried gaze from the girl to Lia, but the girl knows that the nanny’s concern is not meant for her. For a second, she wonders if she should start crying too. She tries, her face a stilted mask of pain, but no one is looking. Ada is turned around, towards Lia, whispering inaudible words into her niece’s ear. Lia’s head is still throbbing, but a thought urges her to stop: what if her aunt won’t let her come back here, in this house where the parquet is warm and shiny, fresh dahlias sit in colorful vases, and pretzel and macadamia cookies wait to be eaten in the cabinets? Lia dries her eyes with the palm of her hand, and hugs Ada tighter. It’s gone now, she says. When Ada grabs her niece and holds her like that, the girl feels an ache in her stomach, a sting that makes her want to vomit.

Later that night, the girl asks her mother if she has secrets. Everyone has secrets, that’s what makes us humans, the mother says. Her hair still damp from the shower, the mother is sitting on the bathroom toilet, rubbing moisturizer over her slender thighs. The lotion smells of gas, and the girl thinks of the day her dad let her smell the pump nozzle without her mom looking. Okay, the girl says, but does she have secrets? Yes, some, the mother says. And no one knows about them? the girl asks. Of course not, no one knows about them, this is what having a secret means, the mother explains. I have secrets too, the girl tells her, feeling a warmth coloring her cheeks. The mother looks alarmed, almost appalled, as if the girl has said something dirty, or impolite. Do they concern Ada? she asks. Yes, the girl says, flaunting a proud, responsible tone.

What the girl is thinking of, but does not say, is the day of the strike, when Ada and the girl stood waiting at the bus stop for hours. All the benches were occupied, and the sidewalk, Ada said, was too dirty for them to sit. The girl was tired and began to whine. Even if she was already quite heavy, Ada lifted the girl and held her in her arms. Since she’s known her, Ada has always had coarse skin. The girl loves rubbing her forehead against her cheeks. Just like kitties with furniture corners! Ada always says. There was another woman waiting for the bus, a woman neither Ada nor the girl had seen before. She approached them and spoke to Ada. What a cute little girl, the stranger woman said. She’s just turned five, Ada said, next year she’ll need two hands to show her age! She’s got your hair, the woman said, twisting one of the girl’s black curls around her index. Ada winked at girl and then said, Yes, yes she’s my youngest, isn’t she gorgeous? The girl giggled and felt like a grown up, and important, because Ada trusted her, and they now share a secret.  

At twenty-four, Ada marries Nino, her fiancé, in a modern concrete church. Ada asks the mother if the girl can be one of her flower girls along with Lia. I’d like her to be the ring-bearer, Ada tells the mother. Lia is seven, one year older than the girl, but she is a bit short for her age, and Ada thinks the two of them would look lovely next to each other. The parents dread the quickness with which the wedding is approaching, they feel forced to go because of common courtesy, but a week prior to the ceremony all they can talk about at dinner is how excruciating the wedding will be, the never-ending, sappy piano bar, the cheap wine and food with the smoked salmon canapés, the overcooked lobster ravioli, the three-layer custard cake, the watery espressos.

On the other hand, the little girl is so overjoyed that the night before the wedding she can barely fall asleep. True, Lia is in charge of the bouquet but, she, she is the one who will carry the wedding rings up to the altar! All the girl wanted was to be included in the ceremony, but when the day of the church rehearsal comes and the girl sees the jealousy in Lia’s eyes, she knows she’s won something, and she knows it’s Ada who’s given it to her. The girl had spent a week training herself for the role, even though the mother has assured her that wasn’t necessary, that she didn’t need to, she’d be just as graceful if she didn’t try. And yet, the girl has walked up and down the apartment’s hallway for days, holding a stuffed dolphin over the palms of her hands, a fluffy substitute for the wedding ring pillow. She has never dropped it once.

After the wedding, the girl begins to worry. Is Ada going to have children of her own, now? Will Ada stop loving her, then? Why would I stop, Ada says, think about it: I’ve known you for so long, and if I have a baby, I will still know you much better than I know her. The girl likes that explanation, up until she asks: You’ve known Lia longer than me. Does it mean you love her better? You silly!, Ada says, come here now, and the girl sits on Ada’s lap, which is now not as a wide and accommodating as it used to be when the girl was smaller and could curl up on Ada’s thighs. My scruffy kitty cat, Ada used to say, scratching the girl’s head, as the girl pretended to purr.

While everyone else in her family – her sisters, her brother’s wife, even her younger cousins – keep having babies, Ada doesn’t. A year into their marriage, no one, not even Ada, dwells on it. These things take time, people tell her, in a way that sounds more dismissive than reassuring, too general to be exact. Three years have passed when Ada and the girl are sitting in the kitchen: I don’t think Jesus wants me and Nino to have babies, Ada tells the girl as she stirs the minestrone soup on the gas stove. This is not an ordinary statement, the girl knows that. Jesus only appears in Ada’s sentences when something important is at stake. What do you mean? the girl asks, tilting her head to the side, the way she’s seen grown-ups doing when showing attention. Come, taste this, does it need more salt? Ada replies, handing the girl a spoon of soup.

When, later that night, the girl asks her parents why Jesus wouldn’t give Ada a baby, and how could they all help changing his mind, the parents explain that only certain people need to believe that Jesus wants or doesn’t want things. Ada couldn’t go to school, you see, they say, not to college, at least. This is why we always ask you to wait for us before finishing your homework, the mother says, her high cheekbones involuntarily emphasizing the gravity of her statement. The girl nods. Oh, baby, don’t cry, the mother says. It’s not Ada’s fault, it is not about something she’s done, we are just trying to say that once you’re a grown up, you won’t need to believe in Jesus. You’ll be a strong, brilliant woman by then. In the months to come, Ada talks about Jesus, and babies, much less. She talks less in general, she does not hum rhymes as she goes about her chores, and she stops bringing the girl to the city park on Thursdays afternoons, but the girl doesn’t notice it, as school is getting busier, and she doesn’t have as much time to play.

At nine, the girl begins getting an allowance. It is just a symbolic gesture, the parents tell themselves when they decide to give her five euros a week. The girl doesn’t like bills as much as she likes coins: coins clink if shaken together, they shine in the sunlight, and have pretty engravings. So, each week, the parents give the girl one two-euro coin, two coins of one-euro and two golden fifty-cent pieces. As soon as she collects them, the girl puts the coins in a yellow moneybox. A heart-shaped lock secures the top to the base, and, on the lid, an empty rectangle can be filled with a set of interchangeable word stickers. The girl has chosen the one that says: danger! it explodes when opened! and keeps the key in her nightstand drawer. Along with her allowance, the girl puts in the moneybox all the money she gets from her family at Christmas or Easter. Often it is bills, which she unfolds over the bed of clattering coins.

Over the months, a new habit takes shape: every so often, Ada knocks on the girl’s door, walks into her bedroom, and asks: How’s your moneybox doing? The girl smiles, picks up the moneybox, and lifts it over her head. Sometimes she shakes it as if it were a maraca, wiggling her hips like the Caribbean ballerina who opens the dance show she and Ada watch together in the afternoon. Why don’t we count it and see how much you’ve got? Ada says. It’s an innocent game, a playful choreography whose recurrence intensifies only slowly. Look how many! Ada tends to say, after spilling the content of the moneybox on the flowery quilt. The girl enjoys dipping her fingers into the cold metal, spreading all the coins over the bed, pretending to be Scrooge McDuck swimming in his Money Bin. When the girl looks up, Ada is counting the bills. She counts them fast, leafing through the thin bunch of five, ten, twenty euros bills. Then Ada says a number, the sum of money the girl didn’t know she had, they both smile, and put the locked moneybox back on the shelf.

It’s a girl with a bob haircut named Federica who is the first to complain. She goes to the girl’s apartment after school, so that she and the girl can do their homework together. One afternoon, Federica says she came into the house with a five-euros bill in her school leather backpack and now cannot find it. Ada walks into the room as the two girls rummage in Federica’s backpack in search of a bill that, Federica says, has to be there. With Ada’s help, they check each pocket, each folder, even the notebooks ruled pages. In a soften-spoken voice,Ada suggests Federica might be wrong –– is she sure she had it this morning before leaving for school, didn’t she, maybe, buy something from the vending machines, a Mars bar, a bag of patatine? No, Federica is immovable, she keeps that money in the inner pocket of the backpack and never touches it, her parents have taught her the value of money, and she keeps the bill just for emergencies, in case she needs a bus ticket, or gets hungry during the break. The three of them look for the bill behind the couch, under the desk, underneath the algebra manuals on the desk. They cannot find it.

The following week, during recess, Federica approaches the girl and whispers in her ear: Wanna know something? My mom told me not to come to your house with money anymore! As she draws away from the girl, she has a smirk on her face, a clever look, as if she knows something the girl doesn’t.  

Most times it’s coins that were left around the house, other times it’s canned goods from the pantry, and only once it’s a spoon from the wedding registry silverware set. The week her car is at the mechanic, Nino, Ada’s husband, comes to the apartment to pick her up. The girl likes Nino, he has a long moustache that he twists upwards pretending to be Captain Hook. When she opens the door, Ada invites him to sit in the kitchen, Let me make you an espresso, she says, and the girl stares at Ada as she opens one of the kitchen cabinets. Look, Ada tells Nino, pointing at the array of floor detergents, laundry sanitizers, carpet and hardwood floors cleaners. Look how many they have. And I am the only one using them. There is some bitterness in Ada’s tone that the girl is still too young to recognize as such, and she simply wishes for Nino to leave and not to come back.

The day when Ada will be asked to leave is still far, but, for the girl, and for Ada, it begins with the castle. A comic book convention is being held in the castle’s former bed chambers. The girl is excited to go – there’s an egg, a local legend says, that’s buried in the dungeons. If the egg breaks, the city’s volcano will explode. It hasn’t broken in centuries. As she and Ada walk, hand in hand, the northern wind (It’s called tramontana, Ada says) curls the sea-waves in white commas. They both pause to look at the seawater, and Ada tells the girl that when she was young and the sea choppy, her parents would point at the white waves and say: Here they are, the sea-goats grazing in the sea! Ada says she still looks at the waves and think that they look like floating sea-goats.

In the left pocket of her puffer, Ada has a fifty euro note. In case she wants to buy comics or gadgets at the stand, the mother had said, handing the folded note to Ada. When they come back home in the late afternoon, the mother is still at work, and it’s the father who asks Ada for the change. He looks upset, the girl notices, when he hears that there is no money left, no change. The girl is looking at them through the kitchen’s semi-opened sliding doors. The stained glass feels cold under her clammy palm. How can this dumb Daisy Duck t-shirt cost twenty-five euros? the father says. And where is the receipt? Has Ada lost it again, like with last week’s groceries? His voice is loud and trembling. Ada says, Look, you told me to get her whatever she wanted. She looks stern and unbending. The girl feels sorry, she didn’t even like the mauve color of the tee. Daddy, she says, We can bring them back to the shop, and get our money back. They both turn towards her, and, for a moment, there’s little friendliness in their faces. We can go back to the castle, and return everything, the girl insists. Don’t worry, honey, the father eventually says, It doesn’t really matter. Ada smiles at the girl, and although she wants to feel relief, she senses none.

After the day at the castle, the parents tell the girl they need to leave the city for a few days. The girl is too young to stay on her own. Her aunt and cousin are coming to the apartment – they live just outside the city, and they can visit around while she is in school. Why can’t I stay with Ada?, the girl asks. She doesn’t like her mother’s sister, nor her daughter. They look alike, fine features, green eyes, and each time they see they girl, they tell her: You really didn’t take after your mom, did you? Each time, their surprise sounds genuine, their words harsher.

Ada will come every day anyways, the mom says. But why can’t Ada just stay and sleep over? the girl begs. She is afraid of her parents leaving, she knows it isn’t for a vacation, the father needs to get surgery in the north, it’s nothing serious, but she is an only child, and her world is too small not to be easily shaken. The mother hugs her and tells her not to worry.

Those days the parents are away, Ada and the girl spend little time alone. One afternoon, as both the cousin and aunt are out sightseeing, the girl walks past the bathroom door. Since she’s turned eleven, Ada has begun taking care of more household chores than before. You don’t need to look over her as much as before, do you? the parents asked her one night as Ada was getting ready to leave. It didn’t sound like a question, not to the girl, nor to Ada. Now, Ada is cleaning the tile grout – the air smells of vinegar and bleach – and she’s wearing the latex gloves that protect her skin from cracking. Come here for a second, would you? she asks the girl. Sure, the girl says, taking two steps back. What is it? she asks leaning against the door frame.

Ada sits back on her heels. I just want you to know that I’ve noticed it. I’ve noticed what your cousin and aunt do, and I’m not stupid. I don’t know why they do it, I don’t know who they think I am, but I love you, and I want you to know that I’m not stupid, and I see it, and it hurts my feelings. It’s insulting, that’s what it is. The anger in her voice turns her words into trembling, raucous sounds. She is standing up, slipping one of the latex gloves off her hand. The girl stares at her skin, the pinkness emerging from the latex.

Your hands are doing better, the girl says, they look healthier.

Your aunt and your cousin, you’ve seen them, Ada says back, the way they walk around the house with their purses hanging off their necks, the coins clinking like cowbells. Like this house’s a freaking pasture. And it’s me, it’s me who cleans their rooms after they wake up, and don’t they think I see it? The padlocks around their suitcases? Come on. 

I’m so sorry, the girl whispers. You are right. I really don’t know why they do that. The girl knows what Ada is talking about, but she does not dare say it.

Their last spring together, the girl and Ada sit on the edge of the girl’s bed. They are counting, once more, all the coins and bills in the moneybox. This time the girl turns over the moneybox too quickly, and some of the coins fall on the floor scattering across the bedroom. Oh shoot!, the girl says. It’s okay, honey, Ada says, as they both crawl on the floor to pick up all the coins. Some have rolled all the way under the bed, and Ada needs to push the bedframe away from the wall in order to reach the coins. Let me help you, the girl says. Here, push to the right, on the corner, here, Ada says. She’s always been strong, and even now that the girl is almost as tall as her, Ada still lifts her up, holding her from her thighs, and they both start spinning, until all the objects in the room have melted in a single streak of color. The copper, silver and golden coins are all there, spread out on the parquet tiles. Ada begins collecting them. I’ve got them all! she says.

No, the girl insists. One of the two-euro coins is missing, she is sure about that because it is the Irish one, and the girl is obsessed with the tiny harp engraved on one side of the golden coin.

Well, I don’t think so, Ada says, sharply. Look, there’s nothing else on the floor, we’ve gotten them all.

But the Irish one’s missing!, she exclaims.

Perhaps Ada didn’t expect the girl was going to raise her voice, so she says, Let’s look again, okay? Both of them are back on the floor, touching and patting the wooden tiles as if coins could be invisible to the sight but perhaps be felt under their fingertips. Oh, you were right!, Ada abruptly says, as she turns towards the girl. Here it is! It was hidden behind the chair’s legs! In the middle of Ada’s right palm stands the golden coin, its harp turned upside down. She hands it over to girl; the girl smiles and clenches her fist around the Irish golden coin. Its edges are irregular and rough, as they should be, and yet the metal is extremely warm, and a bit sticky too. That day the girl understands, but she simply smiles to Ada, one more time, as she turns the key in the heart-shaped lock.

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Lorenza Starace was born and raised in Southern Italy. She moved to the US in 2017, and she is currently a PhD Candidate in the Romance Studies department at Duke University. This is her first publication.