Chapter twelve
Antonia
Worms. That’s what Mikey always called them. It used to be the reason he’d eat his dinner. We’d kid on and play games, then he’d shovel a blue plastic forkful of spaghetti between tiny lips. His favorite meal. Sauce splattered over a three-year-old’s face. He never saw four.
“The usual, Ms. Antonia?” Fredrico says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Please.”
He’s been my server here every Friday for almost twenty years, since I started my weekly tradition of stopping after work. My defiance to not go home to the quiet. And it stuck.
Now, I arrive whenever I finish work on a Friday. Rico asks if I want my predictable meal, and I eat. Mikey loved it here. They’d bring him coloring books and crayons when we visited. Then he’d polish off with ice cream and chocolate sauce. It always amazed me how much food could fit in a tiny belly.
The spaghetti bolognese slides into view. Rico places my fork and spoon beside it.
“Enjoy, Ms. Antonia.”
His footsteps recede, and I’m left in peace to eat my meal. The restaurant is quiet; only myself and one other table. Over the past few years, I’ve seen demand drop season to season. In years gone by, it was almost impossible to get a seat. On more than one occasion, I ate at the bar. But life has moved on. And the restaurant hasn’t.
The lace curtains still hang limp, pearlescent wax continues to drip over green glass, but the food remains amazing. I’ve eaten here hundreds of times and cannot remember a poor meal. The familiarity is comforting, almost like stepping into my past.
I finish my meal, the empty plate cleared within moments. Then my espresso arrives on cue. Not a word from either of us, Rico knows what I need.
Once done, I stand and wave goodbye. They’ll put it on my tab, which Clara will settle at the end of the month, like always.
***
My apartment block looms ahead. All dark stone and happy families. I cross the road, weaving between the grid-locked cars. Their frustrated drivers are creating a tone-deaf tune with their horns. Lights flash. Voices raise. I ignore them, making a beeline for the front door.
Once in the safety of my apartment, I kick off my shoes. Usually, I’d throw myself in front of the TV, not watching anything, but at least it’s noise. It quiets my brain for an hour or so. But today, it’s different. My visit to the retreat location opened wounds I haven’t admitted to in years. Memories surfaced that I’ve buried deep. Locking them away safely because they hurt too much.
In the back of my wardrobe is the small box. It’s blue, decorated with white sheep, and the name, Michael, hand-painted on the lid. I keep it hidden behind the winter coats, somewhere I won’t see it without planning to. I haven’t opened it in years.
My reflection in the mirrored door takes me by surprise. I’m tired, and I look it. Between the constant protests outside the office and juggling the fallout, it’s taking its toll. Perhaps going here tonight isn’t the best idea.
But after today, after discussing all Ben’s ideas, I want to remind myself of why I started Opengate all those years ago. And what I’ve lost to make it real.
I push back the door, and it glides flawlessly on perfectly clean runners. Then I fish out the box. At first, I can’t find it, and the panic twists in my chest. The ocean of jackets and coats swarms around me, then my fingers meet plastic, and I breathe. It’s here. I pull it from the chaos.
My bed is precisely made. Perfect white sheets. Deep navy pillows. The bamboo silk cost a fortune.
I’m never in it for long. My nights are short, interrupted by work emails or never-ending firefighting. Some of my best brainstorming happens at three in the morning, when the world is quiet but I’m alert. Sometimes it’s easier to be working than to sleep; the memories stay hidden then.
The little blue box sits on the white silk, begging to be opened. I consider returning it to the sanctuary of the wardrobe untouched. Maybe if I don’t look, it won’t hurt. But it already does. I know what’s in there.
I lift the lid with a familiar click. Slowly, my fingertips brush over the white paint, tracing each letter of the little boy I lost all those years ago.
I was a young mother. Barely twenty-one when I gave birth. Mikey had been a welcome but challenging surprise for hisfather and me. Newly married, struggling to make ends meet, we hadn’t planned to start a family quite yet. But Mikey had other ideas, and I remember that twelve-week scan like it was yesterday.
“And there’s the heartbeat,” the nurse said.
Luke squeezed my hand. He’d been so excited to become a father. As soon as we knew, he’d been out buying onesies in his favorite soccer team’s colors—just in case it was a boy.
My ex-husband and I were high school sweethearts. Together since thirteen, best friends to lovers. It was a story for the romance books. We’d married young; our parents hadn’t been keen, but we did it anyway. And back then, we were happy.
Mikey’s hospital bracelet sits on top of the pile of paperwork below. A tiny blue teddy beside it, the one his father gave him the day he was born.
I lift the bracelet first; his name now faded on the label. That brittle plastic is fragile between my fingers. I turn it over. He was so tiny when he was born, barely seven pounds. No complications, just small. But oh so damn perfect, with his father’s eyes and my nose, then a tuft of jet-black hair that eventually turned red like my own.