WATTYS 2023 SHORTLIST
Cara, a troubled college dropout, finds herself slowly falling for a handsome stranger - who turns out to be Death incarnate. But the arrival of a mysterious being puts Death's home for lost souls and his very existence at risk...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
By the time I find myself amongst the familiar streets of the Bronx and then reach my father's restaurant, my fingers are about to fall off from white-knuckling the handlebars of my scooter for four and a half hours.
New rule: I'm never driving this thing in New York traffic unless absolutely necessary.
Even though the city bustles around me and the buildings soar tall as trees, blotting out the setting sun, I still feel as though half of myself is standing in a tiny town in Massachusetts. Even though I recognize every square inch of this street – the potholes in the road, the never-ending drone of traffic, the slippery voices of street vendors hawking their wares – it doesn't feel comforting like it used to. The call of ordinary life feels foreign.
And when I face the faded Davide e figlio sign, my stomach sinks lower than ever. It seems like I've arrived at the beginning of a busy dinner shift; customers are lined up outside of the doors, waiting for their tables to become available, and even the tables in the patio are packed with extra chairs and smiling families. The sight soothes me a little; while so much has changed in my life, this place has stayed exactly the same.
"You can do this, Cara," I tell myself, and push through the crowd to enter the restaurant. Suddenly, I'm right back where I was all those weeks ago, except instead of being greeted by my father and his mistress, I'm met with a wave of delicious-smelling Italian food and raucous laughter. The dinner shift is as busy as I'd predicted, and it doesn't take long for me to pick out my father from the rush of employees. He stands at the kitchen window, calling out orders and expediting meals.
I feel frozen in place in the middle of the restaurant, unsure what to do or say, and it takes one of the waiters recognizing me and calling out my name in greeting for my father to turn around. His eyes grow wide as saucers when he sees me, and I offer a small grin.
"Hi, Dad."
He drops a plate of steaming spaghetti on his shoes, and the entire wait staff jumps at the sound of the plate breaking.
He curses in Italian, quickly tasking his head waiter with cleaning up the mess and taking over his position. And then he's walking up to me with his marinara-covered shoes and, before I know it, holding me so tightly that I can barely breathe. After I get over my initial shock, I fold my own arms over his back and squeeze my eyes shut so the tears don't fall. Right now, I don't think of his betrayal, or his silence after my mother's passing; I simply allow myself the pleasure of being held. Some befuddled customers half-heartedly clap as they behold the reunion, which stokes the flames of my anxiety as I realize that we're being watched by nearly a hundred people.
"My girl," my dad says into my hair. He pulls back, and I'm relieved not to find anger in his gaze. "Let us go upstairs. I must change my shoes."
"Okay." I laugh through my tears, and together we climb the sturdy stairs to our family's little apartment. Dull noise from the restaurant vibrates through the floor, and after I drop my duffel bag I migrate over to the kitchen table and take my old seat as if nothing has changed. And, quite literally, nothing has. The peeling wallpaper still remains in the kitchen and living room, as well as all of the aging furniture and decor that my mother once had plans to replace. Even my old finger art from elementary school still hangs upon the refrigerator; if I try hard enough, I can remember the day I brought it home. Foolishly, my mind wanders to the portrait that Death had drawn for me. I imagine him staring at it, alone in that quiet attic, a reaper surrounded by his victims.
