This book plunges deeply into the mind of Valora Bianchi, a quiet and beautiful 27 year old apprentice temporarily studying abroad in the United States from Italy.
She collides with 29 year old Elena Rose, a troubled woman from surburban Seatt...
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II.
I briefly regained consciousness under the luminousness of fluorescent lighting. The unknown man still clutched me in his arms as he jogged through two automatic doors, escaping the humidity of the night into the cool medicinal smell of the local hospital. A few patients sprinkled about the waiting room with magazines curtained over their faces. My head had shifted from his collarbone and hung loosely over his forearm allowing my hair freedom to trickle towards the floor.
Sensations of pavement brawled against my skull, enriching me with a reminder of my fall. Dazed from the accident, I hadn't noticed one of my heels were missing from my left foot, my stockings striped from being torn. The scented concoctions of nature mixed with pheromonal sweat seeped from his pores and flooded back into my nostrils. While being pressed into his chest, it created a warm dampness between us through his shirt fabric. I could feel the frantic beating of his heart against my upper arm as I remained still. Never had I imagined myself being in a man's arms. Not in this way, in any way.
My demons knew there were days I had tried. Days I tried to embed myself into someone else's dreams and infringe on other women's fantasies - and I never could. I never dreamed of things too extraordinary. Never of men, never of marriage, of being held in a medical center. Any thoughts that crossed my mind were exercised with other mundane exertions; if not improving my dialects so densely drowned out by my Sicilian accent. But if I could choose, choose between being held bridal style after a marital ceremony or being lugged off to the hospital, floating by in a man's arms, evidently the latter would be picked. It seemed to be the lesser of two evils; the blessing of both. Just envision my father now, his eyes smiling with false hope.
The man hastily approached the front desk and began to exchange words with the receptionist. I grasped only pieces of the conversation.
"Is this your wife, sir?" she asked, shifting her eyes upward to meet his gaze then back again towards the computer screen to begin a new patient log.
"She isn't," the voice I heard again, "I need a doctor, she's been hit," he spat urgently, spinning my head towards the desk so she could have a better look at my swelling cheek.
A grunt escaped her throat, "I see that, we'll get you the assistance you need as soon as possible. In the meantime, try to keep her awake in case of head injury. Do you have a name?" she inquired, fingers frozen over the keyboard.
"Lance, Lance Stewart," he responded.
Such an American name. She fell silent, her manicured nails clacked away on the keys. My thoughts strayed, wondering if he had walked all this way or taken a taxi. Inhaling, fixating on the underside of his jawline, I tried to piece together what I wanted to ask. For one reason or another, the question felt important. Necessary even. He heard my attempt to speak because he met my eyes only long enough to silence me.
