Chapter 10 - THE WATCH
Luca bought a watch five years after I removed the old one.
Cheap by his standards.
Two hundred dollars.
Stainless steel.
No leather band.
He showed it to me before wearing.
I laughed.
“What is this?”
“Exposure therapy.”
“No.”
Good.
He smiled.
“Maybe.”
He turned it over.
Nothing underneath.
Of course.
“Do you want me to inspect it every morning?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He wore it for three hours.
Then took it off.
Good.
Next day six.
A week later all day.
No dramatic cure.
Trauma gets bored before it disappears.
Sometimes.
Good.
The old watch his father gave him remained in evidence storage through trials, then was released to him.
He did not wear it.
He did not destroy it either.
He donated it—without the contaminated straps—to a legal archive connected to the Romano trust litigation? That seems weird. Better he kept it in a sealed family records box with court documents. Good.
History.
Not shrine.
The contaminated straps were destroyed according to evidence protocol after cases ended.
Good.
No dangerous artifact kept.
My career changed too.
I became director of clinical education for the hospital network.
Not because of Luca.
Good.
I built a medication-safety module about transdermal drugs.
Again, no Romano story.
We used anonymized composite cases approved by education committee.
Good.
The lesson:
Patches are medications.
Count them.
Date them.
Remove old ones.
Inspect skin.
Simple.
One new nurse asked:
“Has anyone really been poisoned by a hidden patch?”
I said:
“Yes.”
No story.
Enough.
My mother had been dead several years.
Grief changed shape.
I sold the house I had shared with David.
Not because Luca wanted.
Because the roof needed replacing and I no longer wanted suburb commute.
Proceeds went into my account.
Good.
Luca and I bought a condo together.
Both names.
Independent closing attorney.
No family holding company.
Good.
One bedroom became guest room.
One my office.
One his.
We learned from townhouse.
Good.
No locked rooms.
Except medicine cabinet.
Because medications should be locked from visiting children.
Practical exception.
Good.
Luca laughed when installing.
“Hypocrite.”
“Safety.”
“Control.”
“Labelled control.”
Good.
Systems.
Then a new problem.
A young man named Marco Bellman contacted Luca.
Harold Bellman’s son.
He wanted meeting.
Luca almost said yes immediately.
Then stopped.
“Why?”
I asked.
“He says he wants to understand what happened.”
“Then meet if you want.”
Good.
Not everything needs refusal.
They met with mediator.
Marco was twenty-six.
He remembered men photographing their house.
He was a child then.
He asked Luca:
“Did you know about me?”
Luca answered:
“No.”
Then:
“But I knew family pressure happened in my organization.”
Good.
No technical escape.
Marco said:
“My father hates you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t.”
Luca stared.
“You don’t have to.”
Good.
Marco laughed bitterly.
“I’m not asking permission.”
Fair.
He wanted records because he was writing family history.
Luca’s lawyers provided documents available through restitution case, subject to privacy.
No secret access.
Good.
After meeting, Luca came home wrecked.
“He looks like Bellman.”
“Probably because he’s his son.”
Good.
He glared.
Then cried.
I held him.
No speech.
Good.
The past kept returning in people, not ghosts.
Then Elena retired from family business entirely.
She moved to Santa Fe.
Painted badly.
Apparently.
Good.
Adriana settled in Milwaukee permanently.
She worked bookkeeping for a community arts nonprofit.
Ordinary.
Good.
She and Elena exchanged holiday cards.
They met once every two years.
Voluntary.
Short.
Good.
No sisters reunited forever.
Luca visited Adriana once.
I did not go.
Their relationship was theirs.
He returned with a photograph.
Two girls at church.
Original.
Adriana had given him a copy.
On back she wrote:
We were both here.
There.
Good.
Luca put it in family archive.
Not living room.
Good.
Then our first major marital fight.
Not mafia.
Retirement.
Luca wanted to buy a lake house.
I did not.
He kept sending listings.
I said no.
He sent another.
I exploded.
“How many times do I have to say no before you stop turning it into negotiation?”
Silence.
There.
Old pattern.
He saw it.
“I’m sorry.”
Good.
He deleted saved listings.
No lake house.
A year later, I changed my mind about spending summers somewhere quieter.
Important.
Not because he wore me down.
He had stopped asking.
I brought it up.
“Rental.”
He smiled.
“Rental.”
Good.
No purchase.
We rented six weeks.
I hated mosquitoes.
Never again.
Good.
A no can change later without proving the first no was fake.
Important.
Then Luca’s watch stopped running.
He brought it to a jeweler.
Not family jeweler.
A mall repair counter.
He waited.
Watched.
Then laughed at himself.
“What?”
“He took it into back room.”
“And?”
“I almost followed.”
Good.
He did not.
The watch came back.
Nothing under band.
Life.
Good.
That night he placed it on dresser.
I asked:
“Still afraid?”
“Sometimes.”
“Me too.”
Of what?
Many things.
Good.
We slept.
No alarms.
The new watch eventually became ordinary enough that I stopped noticing it.
That was the real milestone.
Not the first day he wore it.
The first day I forgot.
We were grocery shopping.
He reached for cereal.
I saw steel at his wrist and realized I had not thought about patches in weeks.
Good.
Trauma becoming background.
Not gone.
Smaller.
Then Luca took the old family archive out of storage.
Not alone.
He hired a professional archivist.
Of course I approved.
He rolled his eyes.
The archive included:
Vittorio’s business papers.
Teresa’s letters.
Trust records.
The false death affidavit.
Photographs.
Court corrections.
Adriana’s thirty-two-page history.
Elena’s church photograph.
Good.
The archivist asked:
“Do you want restricted access to sensitive material?”
Luca said:
“Yes.”
Then stopped.
“Define restricted.”
Good.
Not one man with a key.
A written policy.
Named custodians.
Legal access rules.
Privacy periods.
Good.
Adriana received copies of records about her own life.
Elena received hers.
No sibling had to ask Luca for permission.
Important.
Vittorio’s criminal-business papers went to attorneys where required and otherwise remained sealed according to legal advice.
No family glorification.
Good.
Then Luca found a letter from his father.
To Teresa.
Written after Adriana was sent away.
It said:
One difficult daughter is enough. Do not let Elena become sentimental.
Luca went silent.
I read only because he handed it to me.
“That’s him.”
He nodded.
Then:
“I hear him in myself sometimes.”
Hard.
“When?”
“When I think someone’s disagreement is emotional instead of relevant.”
There.
Good.
“What do you do?”
“Try to notice before I say it.”
Good.
No exorcism.
Practice.
He gave the letter to archivist.
Not burned.
Evidence.
Good.
My own archive was smaller.
David’s photographs.
Mom’s advance directive.
Susan’s childhood drawings.
I had kept them in random boxes.
Watching Luca professionalize his family records made me realize mine deserved care too.
Not because famous.
Because mine.
Good.
I scanned photographs.
Labeled dates.
Asked cousin Anne what she knew.
No museum.
No legal battle.
Just memory.
Good.
One Saturday I found a photo of my mother before dementia.
She was dancing at my wedding to David.
I cried.
Luca came in.
Stopped at doorway.
“Can I come in?”
Good.
“Yes.”
He sat.
I showed him.
He did not say she looked happy because that would have flattened her.
He asked:
“What song?”
I told him.
We played it.
No speech.
Good.
Then he noticed David.
“Was he a good dancer?”
“Terrible.”
“Excellent.”
Good.
My past stayed intact.
His too.
Neither needed to disappear for marriage to work.
Then another practical test.
Luca’s legitimate company considered acquiring a small shipping firm.
The target owner had once paid Romano security assessments years ago.
Conflict.
Luca disclosed and recused.
Good.
The independent board handled.
Deal was rejected for business reasons.
No one asked him to “make it happen.”
He came home almost amused.
“They said no.”
“Terrible.”
“To me.”
“Historic.”
Good.
He kissed me.
Then:
“I’m learning.”
Slowly.
Good.
At seventy, Luca finally stopped wearing the watch every day.
Not fear.
Preference.
He used his phone for time like everyone else.
I laughed.
“So twenty years of symbolism ends because smartphones exist?”
“Yes.”
Perfect.
Objects do not need permanent metaphors.
Good.
The watch went into a drawer.
Sometimes he wore it to dinner.
Sometimes not.
Nothing happened.
That was the ending the object deserved.
Ordinary.
The archive policy later survived a practical test.
A documentary producer requested access to Vittorio’s papers and offered a large licensing fee.
Luca wanted to say no immediately.
The archivist applied the written rules instead.
Some records remained sealed for privacy.
Some were available through court archives.
Some could be reviewed by qualified researchers under restrictions.
Good.
No family veto based only on discomfort.
Luca hated that too.
Then accepted it.
History had finally stopped belonging to whoever held the key.
That mattered because secrecy had once been the Romano family’s favorite form of authority. Now access rules existed outside any one person’s mood, fear, or reputation.
Boring.
May you like
Exactly right.
No hidden drawer. No private gatekeeper. No inherited silence masquerading as protection.
