Page 37 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
I turn around and walk back out of the lounge but I don’t go to Papa’s office. I stand at the other side of the door and press an ear to it.
Andreas’s fury is unmistakable.
“What has happened to her?” he says, a razor edge to his tone.
Papa doesn’t answer straight away, but when he does, my heart aches.
“We’ve tried everything, Andreas. We simply can’t get her to eat, go outside, or even watch a movie. Allegra is a good cook and she has prepared all the meals Sera is usually very fond of, but she hardly eats a bite.”
“Have you asked hernicely?” Though I can’t see him, I can sense Andreas’ irritation. It’s in the thinning of his voice and the lilt of his tone. “Have youtoldher it is non-negotiable?”
“Um, I…” Papa stammers.
Then Andreas’ voice cuts back in. “That is not the woman I met in the Hamptons.”
I almost snort with derision. He is not the man I met in the Hamptons either.
“She’s a shadow of that person. She looksill. Her skin is dull, her hair dry, her eyes are devoid of light. Why and how have you let this happen?”
“I’ll make her eat, Andreas, I promise. I hadn’t realized the difference in her appearance had become so marked.”
I can hear Andreas’ tight breaths moving in and out of his nostrils but my mind is snagged on my father. Andreas is right. Papa either hasn’t noticed the extent of my decline or he’s turned a blind eye. Whereas Andreas has noticed it and demanded change.
“Get her back to the way she was in the Hamptons,” he demands. “She needs to look like herself. Who wants to look back over wedding photos and not like what they see?”
I want to laugh out loud. Where does that man derive his optimism? Because I’d like to place an order please. I can’t imagine a day I will ever look back at my wedding day photos andlikethem.
“The wedding is just two weeks away and as you’ve already let it go this far, I don’t trust that you’ll get her back to the way she was. I’ll be sending a chef. You will ensure she sits at the table and eats three full meals a day plus snacks. She doesn’t leave the table until she’s finished. I will send vitamin supplements, books, walking shoes—anything you need to encourage her to get outside, get some fresh air, getwellagain.”
Anger vibrates through me. He’s giving my father orders to treat me like a child.
Then, if that isn’t humiliating enough, he punctuates his orders with a threat.
“If you don’t do as I ask, I’ll take her to a safe houseand you and everyone else in your family will kept away from her for a year. Do you understand?”
My hand curls into my chest. Andreas has just given my father an ultimatum. Feed me up or sever all contact between me and my family for a full year.
The room falls quiet and my throat hurts when I swallow. I tiptoe backward, anxious they might suddenly open the door and see that I’ve been standing here all along.
As I back away to Papa’s office, there’s only one thought filling my mind. I can’tnotsee my family—my sisters—for a whole year. I would die. And it’s not Papa’s fault that my health has deteriorated. I’ve basically been on a hunger strike. Having no appetite to speak of has certainly helped, but the weight has dropped off at an alarming rate, probably boosted by stress levels like I’ve never known.
By not taking care of myself, I’ve held onto the only ounce of autonomy I have over my life. It’s the only thing I’m able to control. Everything else has slipped from my grip. Every choice I thought I had has been squashed beneath a size 14 calf-leather shoe. Every opportunity I’ve been raised to think is available to me suddenly isn’t. Not to me. Not anymore.
I feel the familiar urges deep inside my gut. Every weighty emotion I feel is added to the tornado swirling around my tissues, my blood, my bones. It is ballooning, faster than it ever did before.
It makes me feel light-headed and desperate for release. I need an outlet for all these horrible, dark,swirling emotions, otherwise they will just sit inside me, festering away, getting darker and more sinister.
There’s only one thing I know to do when I feel like this. The alternative is to sit through a debilitating panic attack, which doesn’t rid me of the feelings, it simply packs them away for later.
No. I need to get themoutof my body.
I ignore Papa’s order to wait in his office and instead take the stairs two at a time up to my room. The sense of relief intensifies when I lock myself inside then fling open the doors to my closet.
My heart is hammering inside my chest as I reach up high for the box I’d banished there when I first came home.
Andreas’ words play on repeat in my head. How can he not see that my decline is caused byunhappiness, not obstinance. That my refusal to look after myself is because ofhim, not because of my family’s inability to coax me.
The helplessness of my situation makes my vision swell until I can barely see. Andreas Corioni is not even my husband, yet he’s already controlling my life. He’s already begun taking away my independence, bit by bit. He’s already forcing his influence on my physical being.
