Whispering Bones. Rita Vetere
his fits of coughing. “Isabella! Do as your mother says. Your mother and I will take care of each other, and when we are well, we will return for you. But you must go... Now.” He sank back down in the bed, as if speaking the few words had utterly exhausted him.
Isabella ran from the room, found the aromatic herbs her mother had used when Roberto had become ill and placed them in a bowl, lighting them. She stacked logs on the fireplace grate, using kindling to get the fire going. Isabella had watched Mamma make broth many times and knew what to do. Broth would help, maybe. Hurrying to the kitchen, her mind racing as she set about her task, Isabella was sick with fear at the prospect of leaving her parents when they were ill. Having already lost Roberto, the thought of losing her parents terrified her. She prayed in earnest as she worked to prepare the broth. Surely God would hear her, if only she prayed hard enough.
While the soup simmered, she returned to her parents, carrying a washbasin of water and rags to place on their heads, as she had seen her mother do with Roberto. Her mother moaned and opened her eyes when Isabella placed the cloth on her fevered forehead.
“You…must not come near us, Isabella. Do you hear me? You must leave.”
“Shhh... I will go, Mamma, but not yet.” The heat emanating from her mother’s body alarmed her, but she continued sponging her face and fever-chapped lips. Then she moved to the other side of the bed to minister to her father. Papa did not open his eyes, even when she placed the wet cloth on his head. His skin, she noticed with growing alarm, was covered in a blistery rash, and a purplish bruise had begun to blossom on his arm.
Three hours later, Isabella carried two bowls of broth into the sweltering bedroom. She did her best to wake first her mother, and then her father, but neither of them responded.
“Mamma, wake up.” When Isabella tried to prop her mother up in bed to feed her the broth, her mother moaned and began to cough. Isabella could see Mamma was burning up with fever, and the same rash she had seen on her father earlier had begun to blister her mother’s skin. The boil on Mamma’s neck had gotten bigger as well, and another lump had already begun to form under her arm. The air in the room was saturated with the same foul odor as when Roberto had become sick.
“Papa?” She moved to the other side of the bed to try rousing her father. He cried out loudly in his sleep, words that made no sense to Isabella. The tips of his fingers, she noticed, had turned black in the past few hours. She did not detect any boils on his neck, but when she gently lifted his arm, she could not help but see the huge lump that had formed there. Pus oozed freely from it, giving off an overpowering stench of infection.
Isabella knew she had to get help—she would not be able to do what needed to be done alone. She had to get to her aunt’s house, and plead with her to return here to help. Papa was her only brother. Surely Zia would come once Isabella explained how things were.
She dressed quickly, made sure the fire had enough wood to keep going for the next little while, and left the broth where her parents could reach it if they awakened. Then she hurried from the house and, for the second time in as many days, raced through the treacherous streets to her aunt’s home on the other side of the city.
* * * *
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Zia, Isabella. Please. Open the door.” Isabella panted, exhausted from having run non-stop halfway across the city.
She heard the bolt being unlatched. The large wooden door swung open.
“Isabella, what are you doing here? Why—”
“Zia, you must help me, you must return home with me.”
“What’s happened?”
“Mamma and Papa... They’re sick, they don’t answer when I try to wake them. I need you to come. I don’t know what to do.”
Her aunt took a step back at the words. “Sick?”
“Yes, Zia, please. You must return home with me. I cannot take care of them alone.”
Her aunt’s eyes took on a frightened look. “What of Roberto? Can he not help you?”
Tears spilled onto Isabella’s cheeks. “Roberto is not with us. He became sick two days ago—”
“Two days ago! You did not tell me this when you came yesterday.”
“No.” Isabella averted her eyes, not wanting to meet her aunt’s gaze. “Papa said not to mention it until we were sure... Then yesterday, when Roberto worsened, Papa took him to the Lazaretto. This morning, Mamma and Papa took ill. Please Zia, will you come?”
Her aunt looked at her in horror for a moment. Then, without speaking another word, she slammed the heavy door shut.
Isabella stared at the closed door in disbelief. From the other side, she heard her aunt’s voice. “You must leave. I cannot permit you to enter. Nor can I return home with you. You must go, Isabella. Now. There is nothing I can do for you.”
“No. Please.” Isabella pounded frantically on the door. “I need help. Zia. Please.”
She stopped and listened, but no sound came from beyond the door.
“At least...at least ask Zio to take them to the Lazaretto,” she pleaded. “Just that much, no more.”
Only silence answered.
Isabella begged her aunt through the closed door to be merciful. She pounded and pounded on the heavy wooden door until her fists began to bleed and her cries became hysterical. All her entreaties were met with the same maddening silence.
When she no longer had enough strength to yell, she collapsed on the stoop, tears streaming down her face. She had been so certain her aunt would come to their aid. How could she not? But the heartless woman had turned her back on them. She would have to return home. Alone.
She got up from the doorstep and wiped her tear-streaked face with her sleeve. As she ran back the way she had come, she did not bother to pray. Why God had chosen to abandon her, she did not know, but abandon her he had.
* * * *
The minute Isabella reached home she locked the door behind her and rushed to her parents’ room. It was hot in there and the stench that hit her made her stomach lurch. The bulbous lump on her mother’s neck had broken, emitting more of the foul odor she had detected earlier. The broth she had prepared remained untouched on the night table.
The sickness was progressing rapidly. Seized with fresh panic, she raced to her mother and tried to shake her awake, being careful not to come into contact with the pus running down her neck from the broken boil. Isabella could feel the heat of fever rolling off Mamma through the thin cotton nightgown she wore. Her mother moaned, muttering something as Isabella attempted to sit her up. Then Mamma opened her eyes and looked directly at her, but Isabella could see her mother did not recognize her.
“It’s me, Mamma, Isabella.” Desperate, she grabbed the bowl of soup and tried to spoon feed it to her mother. Mamma just choked on it, and began to cough violently. Isabella quickly recoiled from the thick strands of phlegm that spewed from her mother’s mouth.
She ran to the other side of the bed, but had no better luck with her father, whose skin was now covered in purplish-black bruises. Unable to lift him, she did her best to spoon some broth into his open mouth as well, but it only dribbled back out. Not knowing what else to do, she got fresh water and rags, and tried once again to cool their fevered bodies.
After some time had passed, she left her parents and rekindled the fire in the next room, which had almost burned out. Exhausted, she lay on the floor next to the hearth to rest for a while. Every few minutes, she got up to check on her parents, rinsed out the cloths and replaced them on their fevered brows. Each time she failed to rouse them, her fear deepened.
When night fell, hunger gnawed at her. She broke some bread into the broth she’d made earlier and devoured it. All that night, she remained awake, terrible thoughts rolling around in her