Saving Francesca by Melina Marchetta Read Free Book Online Page B

with his sister and he’s ten years old. No wonder Mia’s given up.
    I do the deals-with-God thing. Make her better . . . make us all better and I’ll change the world for you.
    But God doesn’t talk to me. It’s because every night I lie here with music in my ears and I say my prayers and fall asleep in the middle of them. He only talks to people like Mia. People he thinks are worth it. Because they have passion. They have something. I have nothing. I’m . . . Keep awake, Francesca. Keep awake and start to pray.
    I’m a waste of space.
    I am . . .
    I . . .
    My dad does the only thing he knows how to do this morning. He makes us eggs for breakfast.
    “We don’t like eggs, Papa,” I finally tell him, because I think deep down I’m a bit pissed-off with him. Why can’t he fix things up? “We never have.”
    He looks from Luca to me and then hurls the eggs against the stainless steel.
    I watch the design they make as they run down the splashboard, and then he’s crying. My dad is crying and Luca is hugging him from behind, saying, “I’ll eat the eggs, Daddy, I’ll eat the eggs,” and he’s crying too and I can’t bear watching them. All I want to do is scream out “What’s happening?” over and over again because ten days ago my mum didn’t get out of bed. No visible symptoms, no medicine, no doctors. My dad says she’s a bit down and my cousin says it’s a bit of a breakdown . I’ve looked up the word “breakdown” because I am desperate for any clue: “collapse, failure of health or power, analysis of cost.” None of the definitions make sense to me. A breakdown of what, I’m not sure. But she doesn’t eat, that I know.
    It has almost become an obsession. Every morning I study the fridge and pantry to see what’s there, and every afternoon I study them again to see if something’s missing. But nothing is. There are no plates in the sink, no food wrappers in the garbage. No evidence of papers being marked or of the phone being answered. Nothing. Nothing makes sense. My mother won’t get out of bed, and it’s not that I don’t know who she is anymore.
    It’s that I don’t know who I am.
    I stand in front of William Trombal for the fifth time this week. Luca tries to avoid his eyes. I don’t know what we look like to him, but he doesn’t ask our names. He just looks at us and for a moment I see sympathy, and I hate him for it.
    No sermons today.
    Even the prince of punishment doesn’t think we’re worth talking to.

chapter 7
    TODAY THE GRANDMOTHERS step in. Mia’s been in bed for two weeks, and decisions about us are made. Luca goes to Zia Teresa’s and I go to Nonna Anna’s, and Nonna Celia moves into our house. Before I leave, I hear Nonna Celia and my dad talking. Nonna Celia wants to take Mia to her own doctor, but my dad says no. He always goes on about how Nonna Celia’s doctor hands out prescription drugs to avoid dealing with the real issues. My dad tells her that everything’s going to be okay, and it comforts me to hear that reassurance.
    Luca sits on my bed as I pack away a few of my things. He looks just like a stereotypical little soccer freak, ball in his hand and the Inter Milan jersey dwarfing his skinny frame.
    “What’s happening?” he asks in a voice that doesn’t sound like his anymore.
    “Everything’s going to be fine. You always have fun at Zia Teresa’s.”
    What I hate about this most is that no one gets how we’re feeling. No one asks us if we want to be separated. They just presume that Luca will want to be with his cousins and I’ll want peace and quiet.
    He lies down next to me and we hold on to each other tight. I can’t tell horror brother-and-sister stories about Luca and me. We’re crazy about each other, and our arguments are limited to who gets control of the TV remote between 7:00 and 7:30 p.m.
    Life at my grandparents’ is a different story. Nonna Anna and Nonno Salvo are television fanatics, especially the game shows. If it’s not