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Alberto rolled over, rubbing his eyes.
Ah, waking up in a soft bed never gets old.
The squeaky springs and the soft sheets almost made him forget about all the cold nights on the island, when the sky would leak, or the clouds would shed, or the wind would get in through the holes in the crumbling stone. When he had told Luca about 'sleeping under the anchovies every night', he had definitely romanticized it. It was best left for warm summer evenings in the treehouse, not on cold stone floors, curled in a shivered ball.
Alberto stretched out his legs, yawning. He was in no hurry to get up. Another wonderful thing about living with Massimo aside from sleeping in a bed was not having to scavenge for his breakfast in the mornings. Some days, he would come downstairs and there would already be a plate for him on the table.
A warm cornetto with custard cream... biscotti... rich, dark coffee... biscuits and jam... rustico, filled with spinach and melty cheese... Alberto's mouth started to water. They would grab some breakfast on the go sometimes, from a vendor on their way to the docks. Breakfast was one of Alberto's favorite parts of the day.
He sat up, and pulled on a flannel over his tank top. Then a pair of warm socks, and long pants. It was rather chilly in the fall, so Mr. Marcovaldo had gotten him some warmer clothes. He convinced Alberto to part with his old clothes too. They were pretty worn out, from all the time he'd been sleeping and swimming and playing and building in them. It had taken some persuasion, but when they were gone, it gave Alberto a sense of relief. He had a new life now.
And what a wonderful life it was, Alberto thought, straightening out the pictures that hung on the wall. Luca sent him drawings of the new things he was seeing at school. The telescope, the stars, Giulia's school friends, the uniforms (which Luca looked adorable in), and the big buildings. He labeled what he drew, and talked about everything during their phone calls together. Alberto smoothed out a picture of Luca, Giulia, and Giulia's mother sitting around a table eating pasta. He felt a pang of heartsickness, but smiled. Luca would be coming back to Portorosso for winter break, and Alberto couldn't wait to see him.
Then his stomach growled, and reminded him it was time to go downstairs. He grabbed the hat Massimo had given him from by the door, and put it on. He was extremely proud of it. Humming, Alberto descended the stairs two at a time.
"Papa!" he called, as he reached the bottom, "Buongiorno!"
Silence.
That was odd. Alberto's shoulders slumped. He checked the whole kitchen. It didn't take him very long, there was nowhere that a man of Massimo's size could hide. Alberto checked the clock, tried to read the numbers on it the way Massimo had been teaching him to, then gave up. It was too hard. Maybe he was still asleep!
That's it! Alberto rushed to Massimo's room. The bed was neatly made. There was no sign of Massimo.
He knocked on the bathroom door. Then opened it. No.
He looked in Giulia's room. Then in Massimo's closet. Plenty of sweaters, no Massimo. The lump in Alberto's throat grew. He ran faster and faster around the house, calling out. "Massimo? Are you here?" He dove to the floor to check under the beds, his hat falling off, even though he knew the man wouldn't be there. It felt like someone had a fist clenched around his chest. He couldn't breathe properly.
He's not here- Silenzio Bruno. Silenzio Bruno. I will find him.
Alberto pried the window open, his hands shaking. Nobody in the tree house. "Mr. Marcovaldo?" he called out into the backyard. Nobody answered. Panic rising, he dashed back through the whole house again. He had to be here. He wouldn't just leave and not say goodbye, right?
Right?
Right?
Dad? Where are you going?
You're old enough to live on your own.
Alberto bit his bottom lip. I will not cry. No.
But when he finally slowed to a stop, back in the kitchen, a tear rolled off the end of his nose. "Papa?" he called once more to the empty house, voice cracking. "You're scaring me."
His breathing only got faster and shakier. He needed to sit down. With shaking legs, Alberto sunk to the kitchen floor. Was this a test? Dad would do tests sometimes. But Papa had never done them before. He had to figure this out. He wracked his brain for what he possibly could have made Mr. Marcovaldo angry about. He hadn't shown that he was angry with Alberto. Yesterday was a normal day. They had gone out on the boat, the weather was nice. They had a good catch, Alberto helped with the nets. They ate dinner, Alberto talked to Luca on the phone. And Massimo tucked him into bed at the end of the day.
He hadn't done anything wrong, had he? He did everything perfect. He was a good kid.
So why wasn't he here?
It had been too good to be true. The warmth, the happiness, the good food, the fishing and phone calls and gelato. The- love. No. He could never love me. I shouldn't have thought that he did, I jinxed it. Nobody loves me. I don't deserve it.
Alberto saw red, and the next thing he knew, he was standing up and a plate had shattered against the wall. His chest was heaving as he tried to hold back the sobs that were trying to escape. His face burned. He broke it.
Oh god, he broke it.
If he had been a good kid then, he wasn't anymore. He wasn't good anymore. What if Massimo came back now? What would he do if he saw this? Would he leave for good? Hot tears streamed down Alberto's face. He spun around, as if there was someone watching. He had to clean this up, he couldn't let anyone see what he'd done. I've gotta fix it. I messed up. I messed up, I broke it. He's going to be so mad if he comes back. He knelt down, and grabbed a shard of glass and threw it away. The next one he grabbed sliced into his palm and he dropped it with a small yelp.
Through his vision blurred by tears, he saw the blood dripping onto the floor.
That's when Massimo opened the door to find his son, in distress, clutching his bloody hand. His face was streaked with purple tear tracks. Their gazes met for moment, Massimo's small brown eyes and Alberto's wide, misty green ones.
To Alberto's utter embarrassment, he come undone. He couldn't hold back the huge, hiccupy sobs anymore. He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve, and accidentally smeared blood on his face, which only made him cry harder.
"It hurts," Alberto gasped between gulps of air. He tried to fill his lungs, but every time he tried something would make him breath out again too soon. His head felt weird. He couldn't breathe.
You baby, it's only a scratch.
It hurts, Dad, what do I do?
It's just a scratch, let it be.
It's- there's a lot of blood-
Put seaweed on it. And stop that, boys don't cry.
Massimo set the bag he'd been carrying on the table, and swiftly scooped up the shaking child. "Sh, shh, you'll be alright," he soothed, setting him down on the edge of the bathtub. He held a washcloth under cold water, wiped away the streak of blood from the boy's face, then handed it to Alberto. His son took the cloth and pressed it to his palm. The tall man got down on his knees, so he was closer to Alberto's level.
"Let me see," Massimo lifted the cloth for a moment. "It isn't too bad, just a scratch. It only looks scary. We'll wrap it up, it will be better in a few days."
Alberto nodded, still sniffling. Together, they bandaged Alberto's hand as he got his hyperventilating under control.
"All done," Massimo said, offering Alberto his hand for a handshake or a high five. The boy didn't take it. He hiccuped again, keeping his gaze on the floor. A few tears dripped to the tile floor. "Is something wrong?"
Alberto shook his head vehemently. Massimo waited a few more seconds. Alberto glanced up at him for a moment, then slowly nodded.
"Can you tell me what it is, Alberto? Are you upset about what you broke?"
Alberto flinched. "Are you upset?" he asked in a shaky voice.
"Of course not," Massimo shook his head. "It was an accident."
Alberto sniffled, his shoulders beginning to shake again. "It wasn't," he sobbed. "I just- you were gone, and I looked for you, and I couldn't find you." He tried to wipe his tears away with his uninjured hand but they were falling too fast. "I don't know what happened, but I got scared and then I got mad-"
Massimo patted his son's shoulder, nothing but concern in his eyes.
"I'm sorry. It just happened. I don't know why I did it. I tried to clean it up, I tried to clean it up. I won't be bad again, I promise, just please, please don't leave me."
The man thought he could feel his heart break in two. He reached out and gathered the little sea monster in his arm for a hug. "Oh, piccolo... why would I ever leave you
Alberto buried his face in Massimo's shoulder. He was crying too hard to even speak. He clung to handfuls of his father's sweater like it was a life preserver and he was drowning. As Massimo held him and let him cry, he softly explained:
"I went out to get some things for breakfast. I thought about waking you up, but you were still sleeping so peacefully. And you worked so hard yesterday, I thought I would let you sleep in." He ran his fingers through his adoptive son's curls. "Didn't you see the note on the table?"
"No," Alberto's voice was muffled. "Also I still can't read that good."
"Ah. You're right." Massimo mentally facepalmed. He was so used to leaving notes for Giulia. How could he not remember? "I'm sorry, I meant to be back sooner, I thought I could be there and back before you even woke up. I got a little sidetracked. But I was always going to come back, I would never just leave you here."
"So I wasn't bad?"
"No, you weren't. And even if you had been bad, that wouldn't matter. I would come back anyways."
Alberto wiped his nose and looked up. "Why?"
"I'm your father now, piccolo, it's my job. It's my job to take care of you."
"What if you get tired of your job?" Alberto's bottom lip was trembling as he fought to hold back his tears. "What if I'm old enough to live on my own? What if I don't need taking care of anymore, or you get tired of me, then what happens?"
"Do you think I will kick Giulia out of the house when she becomes more independent?"
Alberto shook his head.
"No matter how independent my children become, both of you will always have a place here. And you don't need to worry about moving out for a long time. Who told you you're old enough to live on your own?"
"Dad," the answer was muffled in Massimo's sweater. The man tried not to show his anger. Every time Alberto mentioned his dad, Massimo disliked him even more. The things he had done to his son were unforgivable.
"I see."
"But what if it's too much work?" Alberto whispered, getting choked up again. "Teaching me the clock, teaching me words, teaching me cooking. Tucking me in. And all I do is make messes. I mess everything up. I should just go away."
"That's not true, that's not true at all. You are a great help on the boat, you are wonderful company at home. I love to teach you things. You don't mess anything up."
"What about the plate? I messed that up, I broke it."
"That can be replaced," Massimo said, his tone a little more stern, "but you cannot. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."
Father and son sat in silence, Alberto still clinging desperately. Eventually, Alberto's breathing slowed down to its normal pace, but he didn't pull away. He felt tired again. His eyes still stung, but he had no more tears.
Massimo hugged his son a little tighter. He felt guilty that his 'disappearance' caused Alberto to spiral so badly.
"Papa?"
"Hm?"
"Are you sure you aren't mad?"
"I'm sure. Would you like to eat breakfast now?"
Alberto nodded, wiping his face one last time to dry the very last tears. "Yeah."
"I got ingredients for your favorite..." Massimo smiled.
Alberto brightened. If he had been in his sea monster form his tail would be swishing back and forth. "Hot chocolate?"
Massimo nodded.
"Thank you Papa!"
A few weeks later, Alberto came home after a long day of deliveries. He kicked off his shoes and rushed to go tell Massimo, when he spotted a piece of paper that had been taped to the door. His name was printed on the front. That was one word he knew how to read, and write. He unfolded the paper.
It was covered in words and pictures. Above the first letter, I, there was a doodle of his Papa's face. Above the next three was a picture of the house. Alberto assumed that the words meant he was coming home. Then there was a clock, the short hand pointing to the seven, and the long hand pointing to the two. What did that mean again? He couldn't read the words underneath. Alberto held the paper up next to the clock. The hour hand was at the seven, like in the picture. But the minute hand was two ticks past the twelve.
That meant... eight tick marks until he was home! Alberto grinned. He'd read the note all by himself. Now, he just had to wait.
Turns out, the reading part was easy. Waiting sucked. He kept checking the clock to see how many tick marks he had left. Then he started worrying that the clock was running slow. And if the clock was running slow, then that meant Massimo was late. Where was he? The note didn't explain that.
What if something happened to him? It was starting to get dark. The minute hand hit the two. Alberto looked out the window. He wasn't there.
What if he meant that time tomorrow? What if he's leaving me here for days?
Don't panic. Silenzio Bruno.
The door opened and his worried evaporated. "Papa!"
Massimo smiled. It looked like the note had worked. Alberto was grinning, the gap where one of his teeth had fallen out showing. Massimo scooped him up in a hug.
"I read your note, I figured it out!"
Good job, tesoro. I'm sorry I had to run an errand on such short notice."
"That's alright, I knew you'd come back. Where'd you go anyways?"
Massimo hung up his coat. He would take Alberto's birthday present out of the pocket later, when his son had gone to sleep. "Out to help the Branzinos with something," he lied, trying his best to look as un-suspicious as possible.
"Okay. So, what do you think we'll make for dinner? I think Luca is going to call tonight. I can't wait to tell him I read the clock! How do you think he did on his math quiz?" Alberto filled the house with chatter, picking up Machiavelli and swinging him around like they were dancing.
All was right with the world.