Chapter 10 - LUCA TOOK OFF THE WATCH HIMSELF
Ten years after I tore Luca Romano’s watch from his wrist, we sat at a dinner table again.
Not the old Romano dining room.
We had sold that house three years earlier.
Good.
Too large.
Too much history pretending to be architecture.
There.
The sale followed ordinary legal process.
Staff received notice.
Severance where applicable.
References.
Placement assistance.
Good.
No one lost work overnight because Luca wanted a symbolic ending.
Then us.
We lived in a smaller house near the lake.
Still large by normal standards.
Smaller by Romano standards.
Good.
One cleaning service.
No live-in staff.
Security outside when risk assessments justified it.
Not always.
There.
Tonight, only family.
Elena.
Teresa.
Luca.
Me.
And one empty chair because Teresa had insisted on bringing too many side dishes.
Good.
Alessia was not there.
There.
She lived in Oregon now.
Worked restoring antique books.
At least according to the limited information she had chosen to share with Elena.
Good.
Elena and Alessia had met in person twice since release.
There.
Both meetings short.
Neutral.
No mother.
No Luca.
Good.
Their relationship belonged to them.
Then Teresa.
Eighty-four.
Smaller.
Still sharp.
Good.
She had not seen Alessia in person.
Alessia had not agreed.
There.
Teresa respected that.
Painfully.
Good.
Then Elena.
Sixty.
Still elegant.
Less polished.
Maybe by choice.
There.
She no longer smiled automatically when frightened.
I noticed.
Good.
Then dinner.
Pasta.
Roast chicken.
Too much food.
There.
No one needed a private nurse.
Good.
I had become chief nursing education officer for the hospital network.
A title I still sometimes thought belonged to someone older.
There.
Luca had fewer operational roles.
More board-level investments.
Good.
No one in our house called him boss except one old friend trying to annoy him.
Then the watch.
He was wearing it.
There.
Same black face.
Different strap.
The original leather evidence strap had been destroyed after legal retention ended, with documentation.
Good.
No fetishizing contaminated evidence.
Then Elena noticed.
“You still have that thing.”
Luca looked at wrist.
“Yes.”
There.
“Why?”
He thought.
Then:
“I like the watch.”
Good.
No father speech.
That answer pleased me.
Then Teresa said:
“Your father would be happy.”
Silence.
There.
Old trap.
Then Luca looked at her.
“Maybe.”
Good.
No dead-person certainty.
Teresa nodded.
Progress.
Then dessert.
I got up.
My knee hurt.
Age.
Normal.
There.
Elena laughed.
“You’re making the sound.”
“What sound?”
“The one people make after forty.”
There.
I glared.
Good.
Then Teresa asked:
“Rebecca, can you check my blood pressure?”
I stared.
There.
Old family habit.
Nurse in room means free clinic.
Then I said:
“Do you feel ill?”
“No.”
Good.
“Then tomorrow.”
There.
She frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I’m off duty.”
There.
Luca laughed.
Perfect.
Then he scratched beneath his watch.
Once.
My whole body noticed.
There.
Not panic.
Not exactly.
Memory.
Then I looked at him.
He saw.
No words.
Good.
Then he unfastened the watch himself.
There.
Slowly.
Set it on table.
Turned his wrist over.
Nothing underneath.
Just skin.
Good.
He held it toward me.
“See?”
I did not touch him.
Not yet.
Then:
“Do you want me to check?”
There.
He smiled.
“No.”
Good.
Then:
“I just wanted to take it off.”
There.
That was the payoff.
Not that the watch was safe.
Not that I had trained him.
Not that his father had finally lost.
Good.
He wanted it off.
So he took it off.
There.
Then Elena looked at bare wrist.
“I used to hate that watch.”
Luca looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Father used to tap it when he thought dinner was taking too long.”
There.
Teresa laughed despite herself.
“That drove me insane.”
Good.
Then:
“Why did none of you say that?”
Elena and Teresa answered together.
“Because he hated being questioned.”
There.
Silence.
Then everyone laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was finally ordinary enough to admit.
Good.
Then Teresa told a story.
Their father once stopped an entire vacation because a ferry was twelve minutes late.
There.
Elena told another.
He timed Christmas dinner.
Good.
Luca looked at the watch.
Then:
“I thought it meant discipline.”
There.
Elena said:
“It meant he was annoying.”
Good.
I laughed so hard I cried.
Then the table settled.
There.
No myth left intact.
Maybe that was healthy.
Then Alessia’s story came up.
Not because anyone wanted a dramatic ending.
Because Elena had received a letter that morning.
There.
Alessia wrote:
I do not forgive Mother.
Good.
Then:
I do not hate her every day anymore.
There.
Both.
Then:
I am not coming to Chicago this year.
Good.
No one argued.
Then one line for Luca:
You did not deserve the patches.
There.
He went still.
Then:
I still do not want a relationship.
Good.
His eyes filled.
Then he nodded.
No reply yet.
Good.
He would ask through counsel or Elena whether a reply was wanted.
Old Luca would have written ten pages immediately.
Progress.
Then Teresa asked:
“Did she say anything to me?”
Elena looked at her.
“No.”
There.
Teresa closed her eyes.
Then:
“Okay.”
Good.
No collapse.
No demand.
Just pain.
Allowed.
Then my mother.
There was a photograph of her on a shelf in our living room.
Not shrine.
One photo.
Good.
Sometimes I still caught myself thinking I should call her.
Then remembered.
There.
No lesson.
Grief does not always teach.
Sometimes it just remains.
Good.
Then my late husband David.
Luca had never been jealous of a dead man.
That mattered.
There.
His photo remained too.
Good.
Love does not require cleaning the room of previous love.
Then dinner ended.
Elena carried plates.
Teresa tried to help.
I told her to sit because her balance had been bad lately.
There.
She looked at me.
“Are you being my nurse?”
“No.”
Good.
“I’m being the woman who does not want chicken on her floor.”
There.
She laughed.
Then sat.
Choice.
Then Luca picked up the watch.
I watched.
He did not put it on.
Good.
He carried it to kitchen.
Set it beside keys.
There.
Then forgot it.
Actually forgot.
Good.
An hour later, we were in bed.
I asked:
“Your watch?”
He looked at wrist.
Then:
“Oh.”
There.
No panic.
No getting up.
Good.
“Tomorrow.”
There.
That one word would have been impossible ten years earlier.
Then he looked at me.
“Do you remember the first night?”
“Yes.”
There.
“You tore it off.”
“Yes.”
“Three men almost tackled you.”
“Six moved.”
There.
He smiled.
“Frank says three.”
“Frank is protecting his staffing model.”
Good.
Then he laughed.
Then:
“Were you scared?”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
Good.
“Why did you do it?”
“Because you looked sick.”
There.
“And because I had seen a patch hidden before.”
Good.
No destiny.
Training.
Then:
“Did you think Elena did it?”
“For about thirty seconds.”
There.
“Then I remembered that evidence is not a family member looking guilty.”
Good.
He nodded.
Then:
“Did you think Alessia was evil?”
I thought.
“No.”
Good.
“Dangerous?”
“Yes.”
There.
“Wronged?”
“Yes.”
Good.
“Responsible?”
“Yes.”
There.
All at once.
Then:
“Do you think Mother is forgiven?”
“That is not one question.”
Good.
He smiled.
Then:
“Do you forgive her?”
He thought.
“Some days.”
There.
“Other days I understand her without forgiving her.”
Good.
Enough.
Then:
“And Elena?”
“Same.”
There.
“Alessia?”
Long pause.
“I don’t know her well enough to forgive her.”
There.
Interesting.
Then:
“I accept that she does not want me.”
Good.
That might have been the hardest lesson of all.
Then he asked:
“Do you think I’m better?”
There.
I groaned.
He laughed.
“Still hate that question?”
“Yes.”
Good.
Then:
“Ask whether your systems work when I’m not around.”
There.
He thought.
“Do they?”
“Mostly.”
Good.
“Ask whether employees can tell you no.”
“More than I enjoy.”
There.
“Good.”
Then:
“Ask whether your wife can take a night shift, visit a friend, refuse your car, keep her name, and choose who gets her medical information.”
There.
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
Good.
Then:
“That matters more.”
There.
No wife as compliance certificate.
No romance as redemption.
Good.
Then I reached toward his wrist.
Stopped.
Old habit.
There.
“May I?”
He looked down.
Then smiled.
“Yes.”
Good.
I checked his pulse with two fingers.
Strong.
Regular.
There.
“Fine.”
He rolled eyes.
“I know.”
Good.
Then I let go.
No cuff.
No chart.
No agency badge.
There.
Just touch.
Chosen.
Then the bedside clock changed from 11:59 to midnight.
Luca noticed.
I did too.
Neither of us moved.
There.
The man who once believed taking off a watch meant losing control of time had left it downstairs without thinking.
Time continued anyway.
And for once, nobody in the Romano family needed to control it.
Before bed, I went downstairs for water.
The watch was still beside the keys.
There.
I looked at it.
Did not touch it.
Good.
Ten years earlier, I had removed it without permission because a medical emergency justified touching my patient.
Tonight there was no emergency.
May you like
So the watch stayed exactly where Luca had left it.
That difference mattered too.
