Laid out like the ER downstairs, the ICU consisted of beds lined up in tidy partitioned rows, but that’s where the similarity ended. There was a hypersterile scent to the ICU; no sharp, astringent sting of ER alcohol or bright, clean bleach. There were no grounding smells at all, which only increased the surreal feeling of disconnection, and where the ER was filled with bustle and noise, this unit exhibited the chilling reverence of a funeral home’s viewing room.
Male and female nurses in scrubs went about their duties like polite androids, fully aware yet completely detached from ongoing human dramas around them: a young Filipino woman sobbing at the bedside of a comatose grandfather; a Hispanic man mumbling Hail Marys next to a youth swathed in bandages...
An RN escorted me through it all, to the bedside of Madame’s friend. Enzo’s skin appeared fragile as rice paper, his cheeks sunken, his surfaces painted paler than a winter moon. This robust older gentleman, so full of burning energy, now had all the life of one of Mike’s postmortems.
I took a breath and closed my eyes, willing myself to toughen up. It wasn’t easy. Feelings were washing over me, images from half a lifetime ago: that phone call in the dark morning hours; my frightened little girl crying in her bed; the summons to an ICU like this one to find my dynamic, young husband laid out like a corpse, clinging to life, his strong body brought down by a little white powder.
I thought I’d frozen those memories, left them far away, like ancient snow on a mountain top, but the smells and sounds flash-melted it all, raining it down in a sudden, unavoidable flood.
“Mr. Testa?” The nurse’s voice. “Your daughter is here to see you.”
“Daughter?” he repeated, voice weak. “Lucia?”
For a few seconds, the steadfast beeping of Enzo’s cardiac monitor was the only sound on the planet. Then I silently wished myself luck and stepped up to the bedrail.
“How are you, Papa?” I said in clear English, then quickly switched to quiet Italian: “I said you were my father so they would let me in here. Is that all right with you, sir?”
The corners of Enzo’s mouth lifted. “Hello, daughter,” he croaked in English, strong enough for the nurse to hear. Like me (and more than a few Italians) the man obviously believed that rules were made to be broken.
With relief I leaned over the rail and kissed his colorless cheek. Despite the oxygen tube taped under his nose and the IV snaking into the bulging blue vein in his hand, Enzo’s eyes appeared clear, a miracle considering everything he’d been through.
He patted me on the cheek, and the nurse walked away. She’d already explained that his lungs were strained from the toxic fumes he’d inhaled, and his heartbeat had become erratic. Further tests were needed to pinpoint the problem.
I knew how important this interview was. None of the fire marshals had come around yet to question Enzo. If he died before they spoke with him, they might just pin the arson on him, which meant the real perpetrator would get away with murder.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Clare,” Enzo rasped. “When everything went boom, Blanche was worried only about you and your friend. How are they doing?”
“The ER is getting ready to release Madame. How are you feeling?”
“Me? I’m about ready to run the New York City Marathon.” Enzo laughed, but it quickly degenerated into a weak cough. “How is your artist friend?”
“Dante was hit on the head, so they’re holding him overnight for observation.” I summoned a tight smile, still worried about my artista barista. “You know, before the fire, he was admiring your mural...”
Enzo nodded, eyes glistening as my voice trailed off. “I’m afraid he was the last to admire it...” He coughed again. “I still want to meet your friend, see his work maybe?”
“You will, I promise.” I touched the man’s hand. His graciousness, despite his condition, was moving — and made me all the more determined to nail the monster who’d put him here, destroying his art in the process.
“Has anyone called your daughter yet?”
Enzo shook his head. “No. I don’t want that. What happened at the shop is enough of a shock without this, too...” He touched the IV tube in his arm. “I feel like a slab of veal.”
“Let me call Lucia,” I replied, reaching for my cell. “I can do it right now — ”
“No,” Enzo said. “She looked forward to this weekend for a month. I might be out of here by tomorrow; then nobody has to call.”
I wasn’t comfortable with Enzo’s choice, but when I checked my cell phone’s screen, I saw there was no reception in the ICU.
“I hate being in this place,” Enzo said, eyes spearing the IV bag above. “I want to retire, go back to Italy to be with my two sisters... visit my Angela’s grave every Sunday...”
Retire to Italy? Back at the caffè, Enzo hadn’t once mentioned retirement. But then I considered the timing of his call to Madame, unearthing that photo album and wanting to give the Blend back its old roaster. Was that the reason he’d been cleaning out his basement? Had he been planning on moving back to the old country? If Enzo innocently revealed his plans to the fire marshals, what were they going to think?
I leaned closer. “What about the caffè, signore? Who is going to run your business?”
“Lucia,” Enzo replied. “When I leave this country, I’m signing it all over to my daughter. That was always the plan. Now my daughter’s going to have to rebuild... if she wants to.”
“You sound doubtful. Why is that? Don’t you think she’ll have the funds to give it a go?”
“It’s not the money. There’s plenty of insurance coverage on the building — ”
(Exactly what I suspected.) “So what’s the problem, then?”
Enzo sighed, stared off into space. “My Angela... she was such a beauty...”
“Your wife, Angela?”
“We met in the park, in the spring...”
Enzo smiled weakly, turned his gaze back to me. “You are like her, Clare... like Blanche, too... such fire in your spirits yet still so good-natured...” He reached out to touch my cheek. “My Angelina came to my loft many times... I painted her... We made love... many times... so sweet... My best work, those portraits... I could not bear to sell them...”
Uh-oh, I’m losing him. I tried switching to Italian. “About the caffè, signore...”
“Angela indulged her, you understand?” he said in English. “Treated her like a baby doll, dressed her up, took her shopping, wherever she wanted to go...”
“Lucia? Your daughter? Is that who you mean?”
“If she wanted to stay home from school, she stayed — no questions. Never had to work. Just lessons — dancing, singing, whatever she desired. And then the boys started coming around.” He shook his head. “When she was young, Lucia had my Angela’s beauty, but not her heart. Her mother could not see it... back then, neither could I...”
“But now you can?”
“I looked at my daughter through my wife’s eyes. Now that Angela is gone, I see with my own eyes: Lucia is not like her mother...”
“You don’t think Lucia will rebuild the caffè?”
“She talks about marrying Glenn.”
The tone was disdainful. “What’s the matter with Glenn? You don’t approve?”
“What’s to approve? Lucia is a grown woman. She can make up her own mind about her life, about this... this boy...”
“A boy? Not a man?”
“You saw how she treats him?”
I nodded.
“Why do you think he puts up with it? He is still a boy. Lucia says they’re engaged. Eh. She won’t go through with it.”
“Because?”