Sunrise By the Sea by Jenny Colgan

Chapter Sixty-five

One of the things that had most tormented her about her grandfather’s death had been how sudden it was.

So she didn’t even pretend she didn’t want to cling on to her mother’s and brother’s arms, tight, as they marched towards the hospital. She clung to them both, nodding to the staff as they marched up to the old faded yellow facade of the little Ospedale Imperia, sitting above the industrial port, asking the nurses for directions. Marisa felt incredibly nervous as they made their way up in the lift to the fifth floor.

They were directed to an end room with two beds, one occupied by a large woman snoring loudly, and there in the corner, eyes half open, staring at nothing, her mouth twisted deeply down on the left-hand side, was the tiny swaddled figure of her nonna.

All three paused before they went to her; she was so fragile and small in the bed. And those beady eyes, so quick to miss nothing at all; to see them focusing on nothing was sinister.

Lucia was straight to her side, grasping her hand, practically kneeling, putting Nonna’s hand to her face. Gino stood to one side, looking rather awkward. Marisa slowly stepped forwards, and sat at the foot of the bed, staring into her nonna’s eyes.

There was something; a little flicker of recognition.

‘Nonna.’

Her grandmother tried to lift her left hand, but it was useless and could do nothing but twitch. Her other hand was in Lucia’s. Her voice made an indeterminate, slightly wet noise. Marisa instinctively looked around for a tissue, and gently moved up and wiped the dribble from her face. The old lady leant her face into Marisa’s palm, Marisa’s hand, and Marisa stroked her, quite naturally.

She’d expected to be terrified, repulsed. But she wasn’t at all. She felt nothing but love, suddenly, for her grandmother and, wider, for her family.

She thought back to Alexei’s refusal to accompany her and knew that he had been right; these were not moments that could be shared.

‘Mamma?’ Lucia said, and once again there was a twitch of the head, some recognition.

Marisa asked if she wanted some water and the old lady nodded so indistinctly you could hardly notice it, unless you were looking very closely, but Marisa’s heart leapt to see it; there was still someone in there, who understood what was going on.

She sat on the bed while her mother bustled off to talk to the doctors, gently helping her grandmother sip, then wiping the excess off. Gino frowned and looked at his phone after distractedly patting his grandmother on the arm. That was okay, thought Marisa. He was there. They were there.

The next hour was spent awkwardly as they sat and stroked her, asking her questions she couldn’t answer, making silly conversation about nothing at all; looking at the doctor to read her face. At one point Marisa patted her nonna’s arm, only to find, suddenly, that her sleeve was being gripped, hard, by her grandmother’s good hand. She looked at the others, then leaned in.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s okay. Tell me. Take your time.’

There was obviously something she desperately wanted to say; her mouth was moving incoherently. Marisa didn’t rush her, didn’t try and guess what she was saying or smooth things over. She simply leant her ear in closely.

‘La . . . la . . . la’

Marisa stayed stock-still.

‘La . . . la mi . . . la . . . la mia casa’

Home. Her nonna wanted to go home.

The doctor had the slightly harried air of doctors everywhere in every language and she adjusted her glasses as she pointed out that their family member was extremely sick and shouldn’t be moved anywhere. Lucia pushed her for a prognosis, and the doctor shot a look at nonna on the bed and took her out of the room. When Lucia came back in alone, her face was pale. Nonna, meanwhile, had fallen asleep. Marisa smoothed the dyed black hair. The white roots were coming in. She would absolutely have hated that.

‘At any rate, enough now,’ said the doctor, as Nonna was quite clearly sleeping.

Lucia’s jaw was stiff and she was just about to talk to them when suddenly there was a chattering of noise from outside, and, into the room, numbers swollen by the knowledge that the British end of the family was here, Rossis started pouring into the room in a great wave.

Half-remembered distant cousins and aunties descended upon her, demanding hugs and cheek pinches, and before she knew it, they were being borne off to a nearby restaurant, where, somehow, a table for fourteen was commandeered and without ordering or preamble, olives and sparkling water and bread appeared, followed by a rich pot of ragu and a small glass of rough red wine to wash it down with, and many questions about England, and insistence that the awkward teenagers in the ensemble – her cousins once removed, Patrizio and Niccolo – were made to speak English and ask her halting questions about her work while blushing furiously.

It could have been – would have been – daunting, being the focus of so much attention, being surrounded by so many people.

But somehow, today, it wasn’t; it was only family, catching her up in a warm, familiar embrace, with all the foibles and daftness and scandal of any normal family, of course, but even so: it was hers, and as the bread was passed around and she grated pepper onto the heavenly ragu with its thick coiled pappardelle, she found, despite the sad circumstances, that she was . . . she was okay. She really was.

Afterwards, family members dispersed to have a nap or go back to school, with arrangements to meet up again in the evening, and Marisa finally found a chance to walk with Lucia and find out what was really happening.

It was boiling hot; Marisa hadn’t packed anything suitable in Cornwall, so they found a tourist shop that opened over lunchtime, and bought her a huge broad-brimmed hat to protect herself, and a fine white cotton shift that she would never have worn in the UK, but here she could happily float around in.

Then they wandered down to the beach near the port where the huge yachts anchored, and walked past the blue and white striped umbrellas and happy families playing, throwing balls, standing in the water, nattering in bikinis.

The prognosis, as her mother’s face had indicated, was not good. Yes, the stroke was awful, but once they’d started doing tests – she had everything, her mother said. She obviously hadn’t been to a doctor in years. She was tough as old boots, but basically . . .

Lucia started to sob. It was the strangest thing to be here, in paradise, children eating huge ice creams, couples lingering over the finest seafood and a cool glass of Soave in the shade of the restaurants lining the beaches, teenagers kissing in the water, music playing, and shouts and yells of glee, that there could be so much sadness. Marisa put her arms around her mother.

‘Oh, she’s old, I know,’ said Lucia. ‘And she’s had a good life. And this happens to everyone, everyone in the world. Everyone, if they are lucky, loses parents that they love, in the end.’

She swallowed hard.

‘It doesn’t make it any less horrific when it happens to you.’

‘It doesn’t,’ said Marisa.

Lucia smiled suddenly through her tears.

‘It’s like when you and Gino were born.’

‘What do you mean?’

Her mother took her hand as they walked further up the beach, away from the crowds, splashing through the blissfully cool water, their shoes dangling from their free hands.

‘Well, when you were born, I just felt so joyous and happy. Even though, you know, loads and loads of people get to have a baby and feel just exactly the same.

‘But it felt such a special private thing to me. And I suppose this is the same thing in reverse. Just because everyone’s been through it doesn’t make it any less awful for you; just like knowing billions of people have had babies before you doesn’t make yours any less special.’

Marisa squeezed her mum’s hand.

‘But is there no comfort in knowing that you are connected to everyone in the world who’s been through this? That so many people have shared this sadness?’

‘You sound older and wiser than me,’ said Lucia, smiling wryly. She turned to look at her only daughter. ‘You’ve really been through the wringer, haven’t you?’

Marisa couldn’t speak, and Lucia held her tight.

‘Ah, you were always like that dad of yours,’ she said, her voice a little thick. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought . . . I thought I’d get a little girl just like me and we could dress up and have fun together and go to parties and sometimes when you pulled away from me . . . it just hurt so much.’

‘But I don’t need fun,’ said Marisa very quietly. ‘I just need you.’