Page 1 of Worth the Risk

Chapter 1

HOW LONG CAN THE HUMANbody go without sleep?

This question rattled around Isabella’s brain while staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds she only heard at night—the ticking of her clock, the creaks and pops of the old house as it settled, an occasional passing car on the street below her window. It was a valid concern since it was 3 a.m. and she’d seen this hour every night for the past three weeks. As well as 12 a.m. and 6 a.m. and all the minutes and seconds in between.

Although exhausted both physically and emotionally, she couldn’t shut off her mind. Even more of a deterrent to falling asleep, every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother. Frail and so incredibly pale, her features melded with the stark white pillow beneath her head. Isabella was at her side, gripping her hand as she’d taken her last breath. She’d listened to the rattle in her chest, watched it fall but never rise again as Maria Lucia Conti, her beautiful mother, her rock, strength, best friend, and confidante, drifted away.

Despite knowing the awful moment was looming, a flood of emotion overcame Isabella. First, stunned disbelief that she was actually gone. Then sadness as she realized she’d never hear her mama’s soft voice calling herbellaagain. Not a shortened version of her name—to her she was always Isabella—but beautiful, the adjective in her native Italian. Most often, she said it with a smile lighting her face while she stroked her hair or gently touched her cheek. Heaven help her, how she missed that. Next came relief that she no longer suffered.

The cascade of emotions quickly gave way to guilt. How could she be relieved that her mother was dead? What kind of daughter was she?

After that came the tears and gut-wrenching sorrow.

Her rational side knew her mother’s death was inevitable. Stage 4 breast cancer almost always was. After the chemo stopped, it was just a matter of when, according to her doctor. That time came, two months to the day after they switched from curative treatment to comfort care. Then, despite battling it with all her strength, the relentless invader won.

The day before she passed, she had a few lucid moments, which were less and less frequent by then. During this period of clarity, she squeezed Isabella’s hand and told her it was time to let go, that she didn’t want to live in pain anymore. Of course, this only intensified her guilt, worrying that her mother had held on for her, prolonging her suffering.

As a tear rolled down her cheek, a sob escaped her chest. Isabella rolled onto her side, trying to break the cycle of memories, a constant companion since that night three weeks earlier. It didn’t work. On her nightstand, staring back at her was a picture of them from two years ago when her mother was still vital and healthy, and the tumult of images and memories started again.

With a burst of frustrated energy, she kicked off the covers and sat up. Lying there trying to sleep when she knew it was impossible was pointless. She switched on her bedside lamp and picked up the framed photo. As she stared down at it, tracing her mother’s outline with her fingertip, she frowned. It was the only picture she had.

Unlike other millennials who had their phone permanently attached to their hand, Isabella wasn’t interested in documenting her life on social media or constantly searching for the perfect pic to post on Instagram. Now she wished she had.

It was her mama who would remember to capture a special moment, or she’d call “selfie time” when they were somewhere new. There must be hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, on her phone. She’d looked for it, intending to transfer them, but it wasn’t where she kept it. Where it had been for weeks and weeks through the end of her illness.

She’d asked her father about it just yesterday, but he was on his way to the airport for an out-of-town meeting and brushed her off. “Not now, Isabella. I have a flight to catch.”

Nice to see he rebounded so quickly and was back to his usual routine after burying his wife of nearly thirty years.

Sitting there brooding, feeling utterly alone, she watched as a teardrop fell, as if in slow motion, and splashed on her mama’s face.

“Might as well get used to the feeling,” she muttered as she wiped it away, angry at her father for being so cool and aloof, at God for taking away the one constant in her life, and at her mother—as if she had any say in it—for leaving her so soon.

Isabella sat staring at the picture for a long time. If she couldn’t find her mother’s phone and retrieve the pictures, she risked losing all her happy memories.

Setting the frame back on her nightstand, she grabbed her jeans from the foot of the bed and pulled them on. If she couldn’t find recent pictures, there were hundreds up in the attic from her mother’s childhood through college. She kept them in her grandfather’s old steamer trunk with a bunch of other keepsakes. It would need to be moved to make sure they didn’t disappear like the phone.

Isabella slept in an oversized T-shirt, so all she needed was something on her feet. After stepping into her fuzzy pink slippers, she headed for the door. She grabbed her iPhone on the way. She’d need the flashlight. The attic was creepy in the daytime. At night, it would be worse, especially alone. But the only way she was ever going to sleep again was if she worked through her grief. Going through the trunk, like she did with Mama anytime they went upstairs, would make her feel closer to her, and just might help.

“If not,” she told herself as she hurried out her door and down the second-floor hallway. “I’m heading to the even creepier cellar for a case of wine.”

At the far end, she stretched on tiptoe to reach the loop at the end of the chain to lower the telescoping ladder that accessed the attic. Dust rained down, and a musty smell assailed her nostrils. It grew stronger as she climbed through the hole in the ceiling. She hadn’t considered the inches of dust she would have to deal with, or the stacks of boxes and haphazardly piled junk that awaited her. All she could think about was locating photos, trinkets, and mementos, anything she could find of her mother’s that would help her feel closer to her and get her through this horrible time.

When she flipped the light switch and the single bulb in the dangling fixture came on, she entered the dim space. Floorboards groaned beneath her feet, and dust particles floated through the air. Isabella sneezed not once but three times in succession.

“Damn,” she muttered, after sniffling and sneezing a fourth time. “I should have brought a mask.”

Rather than fetching one, she pulled the collar of her T-shirt over her nose and pressed forward, determined to come up to the filthy, dust-mite mired room, once and once only.

She searched through the stacks upon stacks of boxes and peeked under sheets, trying to do it quickly, but with all the clutter and haphazardly piled furniture, it wasn’t possible. What really slowed her down was, anytime she moved anything, a gray cloud billowed up, usually right in her face.

When she lifted a tower of shoeboxes to get them out of her way, the one on top slid sideways. Despite some desperate juggling, it fell to the floor, dispersing more dirt, pollen, hair, dead skin cells, and dust mites, including their excrement—she’d been curious and looked it up once, revolting stuff—into the air. She held her breath until this new batch settled, but then the urge to sneeze came upon her once more.

With her mouth half open, she waited.

And waited...

Until finally, she sneezed again—this time a double.

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