Free The Secret Book of Grazia dei Rossi by Jacqueline Park

Maestro Raffaello Santi gives the Christ children he places in the arms of his beautiful sad Madonnas. Pretty as those children seem at first glance, if you look at them carefully you cannot help but note the presentiment of death in their black-rimmed eyes. That is the aura I saw circling my mother’s eyes. But she acted out the charade of hope until the end for our sake.
    That morning she allowed the women to prop her up at the side of the bed in the traditional position for birthing. And she endured patiently the poking and prodding which accompanied Zaira’s and Monna Matilda’s efforts to discern the state of the child within her. From time to time, Zaira took advantage of the space between the pangs to put her ear to Mama’s belly and report to the assembly that the child’s heart was beating strongly. Each time she did it, Papa grasped Mama’s hand tightly and gazed fervently into her eyes.
    The pains were coming regularly now but not any closer together than three Paternosters and an Ave Maria. I took this as a good sign for I saw that the long pauses allowed Mama to recoup her strength betweentimes. In truth her sighs of relief presaged difficulties to come. These birth pains had now been going on for almost two revolutions of the sun with very little progress toward the actual moment of birth. And with each hour that passed, Mama’s strength ebbed away.
    But that secret was artfully hidden from us children and Papa by the women present. With exquisite tact, they lent themselves to Mama’s masque of high hopes and optimism.
    In this improved climate, the manager and his wife went out foraging again, this time in search of gifts for the infant about to be born. But they returned empty-handed, having failed to coax so much as a rag of clean cloth out of the townspeople.
    Mama bore the news with composure and Papa did manage to contain himself — for her sake, no doubt — for several minutes. Then some barrier within him gave way. Raising his fist to heaven, he began an impassioned oration to the Almighty such as none of us had ever heard from him.
    “Why, why, O Lord?” he groaned. “Why punish her for my sins? Surely she has done no evil. Punish me.” He began to tear at his garments with wild, violent gestures. “I am the sinner. Send me naked into the world. But not an innocent babe . . .”
    To everyone’s astonishment, this outburst brought Mama to her feet. For a moment, she simply stood — a column in the room. Then she spoke. “We must accept the will of God,” she said. “God is just and everything He does is for the best.”
    So saying, she placed a restraining hand on Papa’s forearm, and with her touch a calmness descended upon him. He ceased his ranting and lowered his fist. “It is your suffering that I cannot endure . . .” he explained meekly.
    “But I can,” she answered. “And you must, for my sake. There will be an end to this suffering,” she comforted him, as if he and not she were the sufferer. “Like Job, I know that my Redeemer liveth and that after my skin is destroyed, I shall stand without my flesh and see Him. Yes, Daniele, I will see God for myself . . .”
    At which point her sudden burst of strength failed and she placed her hand on Papa’s shoulder to be lowered down onto the bed. And from that position, in a voice barely audible to the rest of us, she continued, her eyes caressing my father lovingly as she spoke.
    “My dear, you yourself must go into the countryside and find what is necessary for our child. Swaddling bands and sweet oil and salt to rub on him and honey and a wet nurse for him. He will be tired after his long travail . . .” She patted her belly as if to comfort the little one. “He will need richer sustenance than my poor breasts can give him in my wretched state.”
    I saw Papa open his mouth as if to protest leaving her. Then, most amazing, I saw my mother place her hand over his mouth to silence him. “Do this for me, Daniele,” she