Page 132 of The Unraveling of Julia

Julia’s heart broke for her. “Do you know why she did all that?”

“Yes,” Fiamma shot back. “She wanted me to herself. She conceivedme to fill her own needs, to be her constant companion, her confidante, her best friend. She lived alone so she manufactured company. Me.”

Arg.“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“Sit down, would you?”

Julia sat opposite Fiamma at the kitchen table, and between them lay the three photographs of Rossi’s deterioration, the two passports, the strands of hair, and the Polaroids of Rossi’s abuse. Julia told Fiamma about her visions, about how she was drugged and maybe Rossi had been, too, about how Caterina showed her the underground cell and how she found the watercolors, the well, and the strongbox. She held back the Polaroid of the broken baby arm. She didn’t know if Fiamma could handle it, since the other photos had shaken her.

Fiamma blinked tears away, holding the Polaroid of Rossi’s bruised neck. “You say you found this photo in the well?”

“Yes, in a go-bag. I think your mother was protecting herself from her abuser. I think that’s why she used a false name and put you in that cell, too.”

“My God,” Fiamma said, anguished, her eyes filmed and her expression drawn. Her topknot had fallen to the side. “So she was beaten?”

“Yes, almost strangled.”

“She was protecting me?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“I used to say to her, what did I do, what did I do?” Fiamma rubbed her forehead, leaving pinkish streaks. “It wasn’t because I did something wrong? Like a punishment?”

Julia felt a stab of pain for her. “No, not at all,” she answered, comforting her mother as if she were her child.

“Do you think it was my father who abused her?”

“I don’t know. What do you know about your father?”

“Nothing, only that she hated him. She never wanted to talk about him, so I never asked again.”

Julia understood, only too well. Her parents never wanted to talk about her birth mother or father, so she’d never asked, either. She wondered if every family should start talking about the things they were afraid to discuss, to start saying the unsayable. Keeping secrets hurt people, but so did keeping silence.

Fiamma picked up her passport and opened it to her picture. “And this is me? This is my real name? Patrizia Ritorno?”

“Yes, I believe so. What did she tell you your name was?”

“Felicia Rossi. I started calling myself Fiamma Settimi after I ran away. I wanted to hide from her, and reinvent myself.” Fiamma set the passport down, shaking her head. “You know what is so awful about it all? The most awful?”

“No, what?”

“That my mother suffered such physical abuse, but then she inflicted it on me.”

Julia blinked. “What?”

“It’s true. I didn’t want to tell you, but she broke my elbow, when I was just a baby.” Fiamma gestured to her right arm. “I’ve had four operations. It still aches sometimes. I think of it every time I paint, with every stroke. I hate her for it, I always will. Of all the things she did to me, it was the worst.” Fiamma shook her head, her eyes glistening anew. “To break the arm of ababy? She wassick.”

Oh no.Julia braced herself to reveal the truth. “What ifshewasn’t the one who broke your arm? What if it washim? Look.” She set down the Polaroid of the baby with the broken elbow. “I got this photo from the strongbox, too. I think this is you.”

Fiamma gasped, looking down at the photo. Her hand flew to her arm. “That’s where my break is.”

“What if she didn’t do it?”

Fiamma shook her head, stunned. “The doctors told me it happened when I was a baby, and she was the only parent I had.”

“But she wasn’t the only adult around. Her abuser was there, too, at some point.”