Page 71 of Coerced Wife

Shit.

I only saw his handwriting a couple of times when he sent me silly notes with groceries and a tomato bouquet. And suddenly, I have an overwhelming desire to see that distinct scrawl on paper. Handwriting is personal. Studyingsomeone’s handwriting is like getting a glimpse of his soul. I remember vividly how I felt when I read those notes. At the time, I didn’t realize why warmth had spread through my chest. Now, I recognize the sentiment for what it was. It was as if he’d given me a piece of himself. It made me feel close to him.

I flip through a few pages of the writing pad, but they’re clean. I bend down and pull the trashcan closer. There are a few balled-up pieces of paper inside. I fish one out and iron it flat on the desk. Just a few lines are scribbled over the page in Saverio’s handwriting. It’s a to-do list, each task marked off with a tick.

High chair with double safety system (and best support for the baby’s back)

Car seat—x2

Car—Volvo? Safety in accidents stats? (she likes blue)

Stroller (does Tersia still want to gift one??)

Breast pump

Bottles, electric warmer & sterilizer

There’s some doodling in the corner and three questions marks under whichcolorsis written in capital letters.

Emotions clog up my throat. I trace the familiar curve of his letters with my forefinger, imagining his huge, tanned hand with the manly veins as he drags the pen over the paper to make sweet and considerate lists.

A fat teardrop rolls over my cheek and plops on the page, smudging the ink. As soon as the dam wall bursts, I cry in all earnest, sobbing until Saverio’s hoodie is soaked down the front.

Why? Why must you always hide things from me, Sav?

Why can’t you just do all these incredibly kind things without ulterior motives?

I cry for Saverio and the children he’ll never have, and then I cry simply for him, willing him to come home.

Don’t you dare die, Saverio De Luca.

You’ll come home, do you hear me? You’ll come home so that I can confront you. You’re not leaving me with unanswered questions or without explaining yourself.

Where the fuck is he?

It takes a while before I calm myself and dry my eyes, not caring that I’m using the sleeve of his hoodie.

Shall I call Dante? Maybe he’ll know where Saverio is.

I look around for the time. The grandfather clock in the corner says it’s three-thirty. What if Dante is sleeping? If he’s not with Saverio, he’ll definitely be in bed.

I stretch out in the chair and lean my head on the backrest. When I can breathe without hiccupping, I fold the piece of paper neatly and slip it in the pocket of my pajama bottoms.

My gaze lands on the drawer. I reach for the knob.

No, I shouldn’t.

I want to pull back my hand, but it’s as if it has a life of its own. As in an outer body experience, I watch myself open the drawer until it’s balancing on the edge. Colored markers and pencils are neatly organized inside. An ink pad is pushed into the corner. An adjustable date stamp lies next to a piece of paper on which the stamp was tested. The dates are from a few years ago, five to be exact, the red ink bleeding into the white and fraying around the edges. Right at the back, a gold pen sticks out from under an envelope.

My breathing spikes. My hand trembles as I brush the envelope away and pick up the pen. It’s a luxury brand. Saverio’s name and a date are engraved in the gold. The date is also from five years ago, the tenth of July—his wedding date, I presume.

I put the pen aside and extract the envelope. My pulse picks up even more as I take out a couple of folded sheets and open them. Medical exam results. One word jumps out at me.

Azoospermia.

Beneath it is printedzero sperm count.

I lower the papers in my lap, my chest constricting as if a giant has wrapped his fist around my ribcage and is squeezing without letting up.