The American Lady(131)

Despite their reservations, Ruth and Steven had given their permission for Wanda to go to Italy “for Marie’s sake.” They had also sent her a money order for a considerable sum.





25

“The doctor says that your backache could be early contractions,” Patrizia said, smoothing the covers down over Marie. Then she tucked them in at the sides of the bed so tightly that Marie could hardly move. Although Patrizia had pulled the curtains closed, it was still bright in the room and very warm.

Marie blinked in shock. Early contractions?

“What does that mean?” She looked over at her mother-in-law and then at the doctor, who was standing a discreet distance away from the bed. She was worried. The doctor had examined her by palpating her stomach and then her back through her nightgown—the whole thing hadn’t lasted more than two minutes. Then he had rattled away at Patrizia in Italian from under his mustache, speaking so fast that Marie couldn’t follow him. The only word she caught was complicazione.

“What kind of complications is he talking about?” Marie asked when Patrizia didn’t reply.

“He isn’t; you must have misunderstood,” Patrizia answered. She didn’t mention that the doctor was concerned because of Marie’s age. “But Dottore di Tempesta recommends strict bed rest from now on. Otherwise there’s a danger that the child may be born prematurely.”

“But I—”

“No buts!” Patrizia interrupted sternly and then nodded to the doctor that his consultation was over.

Marie watched helplessly as the man snapped his medical bag shut and turned to leave the room. She still had so many questions! The baby was due at the end of May. But what if it came earlier? Would there be problems? And wouldn’t it be best to have a doctor present for the birth? After all, he had mentioned complications.

Although Franco’s mother had become a little more approachable in the last few weeks, she still refused to accommodate any such request. “The women of the de Lucca family have given birth without help for centuries. If a birth was difficult we brought in a midwife, but that’s all.” Marie was tired of hearing this little speech every time she mentioned her concerns. Patrizia clearly thought that Marie was lily-livered. All the same she had finally given in to her pleas and called the doctor for a consultation, though not before Marie had sworn on her mother’s grave that she wouldn’t say anything “silly” while he was there. Marie was so grateful that at that moment she would have sworn anything at all. Now, however, she was so worried that something might be wrong that a promise meant nothing. She tore the sheets away and sat up in bed.

“Dottore, uno momento!” she cried out when the doctor was already halfway out the door.

Patrizia cast her a warning glance.

The doctor turned around. “Si . . . ?”

“Is my child well?” Marie asked softly.

He hesitated, just for a moment. Then he nodded energetically and vanished into the dark hallway outside.

Marie watched him go. Thank God!

That was all she had wanted to know. Only that.

“Was that really necessary?” Patrizia asked when she came back into the room. “Hadn’t we agreed that you would keep quiet?” She put a pitcher of milk and a glass on the bedside table.

The sight of it made Marie feel queasy. “You know that milk makes me feel sick these days. I would much rather have a cool glass of lemonade.” She sighed. “And I’d like to go for a walk. It’s so stuffy in here you could cut the air with a knife. If the heat’s this bad already, I hate to think how hot it gets in the summer.”

Patrizia pretended not to have heard that last remark. “Milk never did anybody any harm. It would do the bambino good for you to drink it. After all, you’ll have to make your own milk starting in a couple of weeks.” She held the half-full glass out to Marie, urging her to drink.

Marie forced herself to take a sip and tried to fight back the nausea. In the end she needed to stay on Patrizia’s good side if things were not to get any worse in this prison.

“Is there any news?” Marie asked. Patrizia raised her eyebrows and she realized she must have a milk mustache. She wiped her mouth hastily with the back of her hand.

Patrizia shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I spend every day waiting for the lawyer to call and tell us whether he’s managed to make any progress. But so far . . . nothing.” Her voice failed her. She took a starched handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at invisible drops of sweat on her brow. When she was able to speak again, there was a note of bitterness in her voice. “That man has been taking fat legal fees from us for decades now, but heaven forbid we should ask him to actually go to court!”