Page 13 of Forbidden Pregnancy
She's just a girl without the slightest hint of what her father might be scheming for her -- or our sister. Unlike me, Cosima doesn't have the burden of knowing what's going on in this family.
"Cosima is smarter than you give her credit for," I assure my father. "If we give her time, she'll master French and have much more value that way."
"We would be better off sending her to a Cambodian brothel."
My father laughs at his own joke as I puff on the cigarette, maintaining an external cool that conceals the storm beneath the surface. Despite her trouble, I love my sister. I don't want her sent away. I refuse to let it happen to both of them.
"She'll learn French."
"She had better."
"She will."
"How's the tutor? Ruby told me she was colored."
He emphasizes the word 'colored' in a way that would make anyone uncomfortable.
"She's competent."
"Just competent?"
"Cosima likes her."
And so do I. The only thing I have to look forward to after this frustrating meeting with my father is watching Myra lean over the table to help my sister with her various homeschooling subjects.
"I'm sure she's no good with math," dad continues with disappointment. "I don't know a single Italian woman good with numbers."
I allow him to spew his bigotry until I finish my cigarette, finish my coffee and stare over his shoulder with customary blankness until my alarm sounds.
"The lesson?" Dad confirms.
"Yes."
"Go on, then. I want that girl ready for marriage whenever it's useful to me. Only thing daughters are good for."
I return home to find Cosima in a brattish and disobedient mood before the lesson. She witnessed her sister yanked from bed in the middle of the night and dragged from their bedroom kicking and screaming. She knows "something bad" happened to her twin, but they haven't seen each other in three months, long enough for some subconscious of her mind to suspect that Flora might be dead.
My reassurances do nothing to help her. It doesn't help that I can't be consistent in my approach. I want to help Cosima, but loyalty to the family comes first and obeying my father's commands comes second. Tradition keeps our families strong throughout the generations, giving us an unbroken link to the past connecting each one of our actions to a proud Italian legacy.
If we lose Myra, we lose each other. That's what Cosima doesn't understand when she lies in bed late with unbrushed hair right before her lesson. I suspend my brutality to coaxCosima with stern gruffness instead of a violent outburst into the shower and then into appropriate clothing for her lessons.
Dad insists she wears dresses, but I don't give a fuck what she wears and bribed her to sit still last week with a shopping trip at Urban Outfitters where she can wear those wide-legged jeans and acid wash hoodies she wants to wear. I try not to take offense to her calling clothes from my teenage years “vintage”.
I don't compromise on my standards for her having brushed hair. By the time we enter the library together, I don't have an ounce of patience left with Cosima, and she makes a last minute effort to get out of her lessons with vicious verbal attacks.
"Michael?"
"Yes?" I sigh, waiting for her next attempt at 'negotiation'.
"Has anyone ever told you that you're very ugly? I mean very very ugly."
"Thanks, Cosima."
"You're welcome."
Before I can tell her that she looks like a baboon's ass crack - lowering myself to the level of an eleven year old - Myra rings the doorbell.
"MYRA!" Cosima screams with excitement, entirely forgetting her mission to get out of her homeschooling lessons now that she remembers her obsession with Myra. I don't blame her.
