The Good Left Undone(9)

“I’ve seen it. It’s scary. People photographed in sepia always look miserable.”

“Because they couldn’t move. They had to hold still in order for the photographer to get the picture. But that’s only part of the story. Netta Cabrelli was stern for other reasons.”

“What’s this?” Anina held up a vintage timepiece set in a carved rectangle of green aventurine stone.

“Where did you find that?”

“It was at the bottom of the case.”

The pale blue oyster-shell face of the watch dangled from an embossed gold bar pin. The 12, 3, 6, and 9 on the face were set with a jewel baguette.

“I thought I left it in the safety deposit box at the bank.”

“Is it valuable?”

“Only to me.”

“The filigree on the pin would make a great ankle tattoo.”

“You have a tattoo?” Matelda groaned.

“Mama told me not to tell you.”

“Where?”

“I have a heart on my hip.”

“You already have one in your chest.”

“But the one on my hip is cute.” Anina held up the aventurine watch fob. “Nonna, I want this. May I have it?”

“Pick something else.”

“You said I could have anything in the case.”

Matelda handed Anina a dainty ring, a cluster made of briolette rubies set in yellow gold. “It will look lovely with your diamond. Your grandfather made it for me for my fortieth birthday.”

Anina slipped the ring onto the middle finger of her right hand. “It’s stunning, but it’s too much, Nonna.” She returned the ring to the case and picked up the watch fob again. “Why is the face on the watch upside down?”

“So my mother could read the time.”

“Why would she have to read the time upside down?”

“Because she was often using both hands to do her work. She wore this on her uniform. She was a nurse.”

“Did I know this? I don’t believe I did. You don’t talk about your mother. Why?”

“I talk about her.” Matelda folded her hands in her lap. “You don’t listen when I tell stories. You kids are too busy on your phones.”

“Are you all right? You look pale. Do you want to reschedule? We could do this another day.”

“It’s too late.”

“For what?” Anina looked around. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

Matelda wished she did. Her heart was racing. Frustration, the jet fuel of anxiety, welled within her. She could see the future. She would die; the children would gather around this table. Her daughter, Nicolina, would sort through the contents. Her son, Matteo, would sit back; when his sister was done, he would rummage through the case. Her children would have, at best, a sketchy knowledge of the history behind the pieces. Without facts, there was no meaning behind them; without meaning, there would be no value. They would have no recourse except to sell the collection to the highest bidder. The stones would be plucked from their settings; the gold would be weighed, parceled, and melted down to be repurposed. The pieces that remained intact would be salvaged to sell as vintage collectibles on one of those websites that wealthy people peruse because they have nothing better to do than acquire more stuff. Matelda’s stomach churned.

“Nonna, are you all right? Seriously. You look terrible.” Anina went into the kitchen.

Matelda took a moment to collect herself. When a housewife grew old, her final task was to imagine what would endure of her life’s work after she was gone. The mother shaped the mission of the family, and if she failed, the family failed with her. Matelda had a hunch she wouldn’t like what her children would do once she was gone, but she had no one to blame but herself. She had given up too easily. She had not shared the truth and made her family history a priority. Matelda had not taken her children to the place she was born and shared the story of her father. A vacation in Montenegro was more important than a trip to Scotland. But Matelda had her reasons. There were limits to what she knew about her father, but that was no excuse. Her children and grandchildren needed to know certain facts before Matelda forgot them entirely or died suddenly. A bird didn’t have to drop out of the sky to deliver that message.

Anina returned with a glass of water. “Nonna. Drink this.”

Matelda slowly sipped the water. “Grazie.”

Anina picked up her great grandmother Domenica Cabrelli’s watch and held it to her ear.

“It hasn’t been wound in years,” Matelda admitted.

Anina studied the watch. The aventurine was different from the other gems in the case; it was not warm like the magenta rubies from India set in the birthday band. It was not soft, like the swirls of gold in the Capri coral. It did not catch light like a diamond. It was not Italian. The stone was dark green and brooding, mined in a country far from Italy, in a place where the dense roots of tall trees absorbed a steady season of monsoons followed by months of hot sun. The filigree and embossing were not Italianate in design either. The watch was the awkward beauty of the collection, the foreigner.

“I think it was an antique long before Bisnonna owned it,” Anina said. “It’s nineteenth-century for sure.”

“How do you know?”

“Nonno taught me how to read the markings.” Anina turned it over in her hand and showed Matelda. “The gold is stamped. There are other clues. The timepiece is not Swiss, not its face or its gears, typically used in Italian construction. It’s not German or French either. Where did it come from?”