A soft moan slipped from Mamma’s lips as I lifted her slight body in my arms, and I pretended to ignore the sweat-soaked and soiled sheets that she’d been lying on for Christ knows how long.

Carrying her into the shower, I placed her on the toilet seat and began removing her dirty nightdress. A splash of water hit my hand, and when I looked up, tears were pouring down my mamma’s cheeks. She couldn’t meet my eyes.

Pain sliced through my chest.

Coughing to erase the emotion stuck in my throat, I checked the temperature of the water and, silently, lifted Mamma in my arms and placed us under the stream. My clothes were drenched, but I didn’t give a shit.

The water did a good job of masking her embarrassment as she clung to my shoulders like a scared and timid child.

After washing Mamma’s body and hair, I wrapped her in the last of the fresh towels, changed her into her robe, and sat her on the worn sofa.

“I gotta change the linen on your bed, Mamma, so you’ll sleep real good tonight. I’ll be right back, okay?” I said. She closed her eyes, nodding her head slightly. Even something as simple as a shower had exhausted her.

Curse this motherfuckin’ disease.

Finding the last of the clean, though faded, bed linen, I put them on the bed, adding an incontinence bed pad below to save the mattress from any accidents. I tried to disguise it as much as possible; Mamma would hate to know I’d done it. She hadn’t lost the use of her bladder; it was getting to the bathroom unaided she couldn’t do.

Walking to the living room, I leaned against the doorframe and tried to stop the utter f**kin’ devastation at seeing my mamma, the best person I knew, so broken, her petite frame slumped over, her muscles weakening by the day. She’d been like this for seven years. With ALS, you’re lucky if you get past ten years. My stomach felt like a pit. The way things were looking, I wasn’t sure she’d even last twelve months.

A pained moan ripped from her lips, and her eyebrows pulled down in pain. Almost sprinting to her side, I scooped her up in my arms and took her back to bed. A happy sigh escaped her lips as she lay in the fresh, clean linen, and I once again sat beside her.

“Can I get you anything else, Mamma?” I asked and lost a breath as she reached for my hand once more.

“No, grazie, mio caro,” she said softly, and her eyes began to fill with tears again.

“Damn, Mamma, please don’t cry. I can’t stand it,” I said, and even to my ears, my voice sounded strained.

“They… have… him, Austin,” Mamma managed to say, and I frowned.

“Who, Mamma? Who has who?”

Her bottom lip began tremble and she tried to squeeze my hand with hers but failed. “Levi… they… got to… him. Need… to save… him.” Mamma’s voice cracked on the last word, and cold shivers ran down my spine.

My head dipped. “I know, Mamma. I just found out tonight.” She looked up at me like I was Superman, like I was the answer, like I could get him out. Her big brown eyes were begging me, pleading for me to save him.

“Axel… he is too far… in. Levi… you… you both need to… get out.” Mamma suddenly cried out and her back stiffened as pain racked her body. Swallowing hard, I held her hand tightly in mine as we waited for the excruciating ache to subside.

Mamma panted heavily and eventually calmed enough to say, “Austin… I’m so… proud… of you. Prom… promise me… you’ll save… Levi…”

Brushing her hand over my lips, I pressed a kiss to her fingers and nodded. “Te lo guiro, Mamma. I swear it to you. I’ll find a way to save him.”

Her eyelids fell as she fought the pull of sleep, and, standing, I kissed her forehead, whispering, “Buona notte, e dormi bene, mia cara.”

Goodnight and sleep well, my darling. The words my mamma whispered to me every night at bedtime since I was born. The words that took away my fears, blocked out all the badness in the world.

After the diagnosis of Lou Gehrig’s disease, when her fears became too much bear, I began whispering them to her too. It made her smile, and like Mamma always said, the sandman should always find you smiling.

Walking to her nonna’s old 1930’s record player she brought with her from Italia, I pulled out the worn down vinyl record of her favorite song from the bookshelf at the far end of the room. Putting the pin in place, the sound of the vinyl beginning to turn crackled through the speaker, and seconds later, “Ave Maria” performed by Andrea Bocelli filled the room.

For a moment, I just paused. This song was my childhood. It was bullets being drowned out as we lay in bed, trying desperately to sleep. It was Mamma taking our hands and spinning us ’round, making us laugh on Christmas day, trying to make us forget we got no presents, no turkey and stuffing to eat. And it was a painful reminder of what Mamma could’ve been. She was an opera singer, a soprano. Mamma was from Florence. My daddy’s folks had been Sicilian but moved to the States—Alabama—in the fifties. My daddy went to his grandparents for a visit, Mamma was on tour with her opera society, and they ended up in Verona at the Teatro di Verona. That night, while traveling around Italy, my daddy saw her sing. Luca Carillo was gone for Chiara Stradi at one look: dark-brown eyes, long dark hair… She was beautiful. Within weeks, he’d made her fall for him too. She left her singing and family behind, and Daddy returned to the US with an exotic wife in tow. Mamma’d disgraced her family; they never spoke to her again.