Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop (13 page)

9

Biancomangiare

MILK PUDDING

 

 

 

 

A
s Rosalia followed Madre Carmela and L'ispettore Franco back to the car, she kept glancing up at her house, trying to sear its image in her head. She must not forget how it looked. With each step she took toward the car, her spirits sank further. Her resolve from a few moments earlier to find her family was faltering as insecurity and grief took hold of her heart.

As L'ispettore Franco's car made its way through the village of Terme Vigliatore, no one said a word. Madre Carmela and L'ispettore Franco knew what a crushing blow it had been for Rosalia to discover her family was gone and, worse yet, that the family possibly believed she had gone willingly with Marco. The trip that had started out with so much anticipation and elation had now become a somber one.

Rosalia kept her eyes focused outside her passenger window, which was lowered halfway. Though it was a cool, breezy day in November, she didn't care. For she was already shivering, but not from the cold. Never had she felt so alone—not even when she was Marco's prisoner in the cave.

As she'd done with the image of her house, Rosalia tried to freeze the landmarks of her town in her mind. Suddenly, memories came rushing back with each of the sites they passed: her school, where she and Luca had spent many days laughing and running in the playground; the bread shop where she had often stopped after working in the tailor shop to bring a loaf of bread home for the family's midday meal; the produce stall where she and her mother had shopped side by side, comparing the fruits and vegetables; the church where they had gathered every Sunday morning to pray as a family. She noticed as she stared at the church a bride getting out of a car. Her father helped her up the steps to the church. Once they reached the top, the father's and daughter's eyes met. He was beaming, pride evident across his features. He leaned over and kissed his daughter on the cheek before they linked their arms together and made their way into the church.

Rosalia would never have that moment with her father. Even if she did learn to trust another man again and agree to marry him, she couldn't help but feel as though her father—her entire family—was lost to her forever.

And with that thought, she let the tears flow freely from her eyes, not bothering to wipe them even though Madre Carmela pressed her handkerchief into Rosalia's hand. She felt numb, much like she had those weeks after the nuns had found her at the cave. Though her body had then been severely battered and malnourished, this felt much worse. Without her family, she felt cold. Marco might as well have killed her in that cave. For she wished she were dead now.

 

L'ispettore Franco's car drove into the courtyard of the Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela. Before leaving Rosalia's family's home, Madre Carmela had asked Signora Tucci if she could use her phone to call the convent and alert them that she and Rosalia would be returning. She didn't want Rosalia to be bombarded with questions as to why she had not stayed in her hometown. Madre Carmela grew sadder as she watched the life slip out of Rosalia. Guilt also weighed heavily on her mind when she remembered how secretly a part of her wished she would not be losing Rosalia when she returned to her family. She turned her head away lest Rosalia see the tears sliding down her face.

She'd never forget how pained Rosalia's voice had sounded when she had asked her, “Where will I go now? I have no home or other family to stay with.”

Rosalia's parents had both been only children, so there were no aunts, uncles, or cousins. And the grandparents had all died.

Madre Carmela had not hesitated and immediately replied, “You will come back to the convent with me, Rosalia.”

Rosalia had shaken her head. “It will only be temporary until I find my family. I don't want to take advantage of your hospitality, Madre.”

“You can stay as long as you want. We've all enjoyed having you with us. Do not think of yourself as a burden. You are a part of our family.”

Rosalia looked pensive. No doubt she was thinking she wanted to be with her biological family and not with a group of women she barely knew.

“
Grazie,
Madre.”

And those were the last words Rosalia had spoken since they had left her house. Signora Tucci had given them a small box so Rosalia could take the jars of blood orange marmalade her mother had left for her. As they walked back to the car, Rosalia had hugged the box tightly to her chest and had refused to let the inspector place it in the trunk. She kept it by her feet during the ride to the convent.

The car came to a stop in the courtyard, which was empty, unlike when they had set out on their trip earlier and all the nuns and lay workers had bid farewell to Rosalia. L'ispettore Franco helped Madre Carmela carry the boxes of pastries that the nuns and lay workers had given as gifts to Rosalia into the convent. Rosalia followed them, holding her box of marmalade. She walked very slowly, staring straight in front of her.

Madre Carmela hurriedly walked ahead, entering the kitchen before Rosalia did. All the workers stopped what they were doing. Their heads turned as they looked for Rosalia.

“Please. Give her time,” she said in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder to ensure that Rosalia wasn't within earshot. “She's received a terrible shock. I will answer your questions later. And no one is to ask Rosalia anything about her family. Is that understood?” Madre Carmela said in her most stern voice.

“
Si,
Madre,” the workers answered, lowering their gazes and returning to their work.

She saw a few of them shaking their heads in disbelief. Naturally, they sensed Rosalia's family reunion had not been a success.

Sorella Giovanna could not help muttering, “It is such a shame, Madre. The poor girl.”

Madre Carmela went out into the corridor, but Rosalia was nowhere to be found. She rushed to Rosalia's room, where Rosalia was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at one of the marmalade jars.

Madre Carmela went over and tried to gently pry the jar from her hands, but Rosalia held on to it with an iron grip.

“It is all I have left of my family, Madre. I don't even have a photograph of them.”

“I am just going to place the jar on your dresser, Rosalia. Please, get some rest now. You've had a long day. We will talk more tomorrow when you're refreshed. All is not lost. Try to remember that, my dear child.”

“All is not lost,” Rosalia whispered.

She let Madre Carmela help her out of her clothes and into a nightgown. Since Rosalia had only left a few hours ago, the sisters had not had time to clean out her room. The nightgown she'd been wearing and a few other items Madre Carmela had lent her were still in her dresser.

Rosalia got into bed. Madre Carmela drew the blinds shut. It was only six o'clock, and the sun was still burning brightly.

“I will come back up a little later and bring you something to eat. But if you are sleeping, I won't disturb you.”

Madre Carmela waited for Rosalia to say something, but she merely stared up at the ceiling. The young woman she'd brought back from death a couple of months ago was now slipping back into her shell.

Madre Carmela had to be patient. She knew from her own experience that Rosalia needed time to grieve the loss of her family and to fully feel the pain. She could not pressure the girl. But she feared it would be a long time before Rosalia could be reached.

Sighing, she made her way back down to the kitchen and busied herself with work, which always seemed to lift her spirits. But today no matter how much she tried to lose herself in her passion for baking, her sadness refused to budge.

A thought then came to Madre Carmela. She rushed over to one of the glass cabinets and took out a set of custard cups. She then took a plump lemon from one of the bowls that held citrus fruit and pulled out her box grater from a shelf beneath one of the worktables. She quickly ran the lemon against the box grater, inhaling the intense citrus aroma from the zest.

 

An hour later, Madre Carmela checked in on Rosalia and was glad to see she was sleeping. She let her sleep for another hour before she returned with a tray holding a pair of custard cups.

“Rosalia. Rosalia. Wake up.” Madre Carmela gently shook her shoulder.

Rosalia woke up with a start.

“It's all right, my child. It is only me. I'm sorry if I startled you, but I brought something that I thought would make you feel better.” She gestured to the custard.

Rosalia looked at the custard, but then turned her head away. Madre Carmela frowned. Even when Rosalia had still been recovering from her ordeal in the cave, she'd taken an interest in the daily sweets Madre Carmela had brought to her.

Taking one of the custard cups, Madre Carmela sat on the edge of Rosalia's bed. She scooped up some of the white custard, which was garnished with chopped pistachios, candied citrus peel, and chocolate shavings. She held the spoon out to Rosalia, but Rosalia shook her head and whispered, “I'm not hungry.”

“Just taste it, Rosalia. For me?” Madre Carmela lowered her face so that her gaze met Rosalia's.

Rosalia sat up and took the spoon from Madre Carmela. Her eyes flickered for a moment upon tasting the custard. She then reached for the cup in Madre Carmela's hand.

Madre Carmela smiled. She could tell the sweet was already soothing Rosalia's broken spirits.

“What is it?” Rosalia asked.

“
Biancomangiare.
It's a milk pudding my mamma used to make for me when I was a very small girl and was not feeling well. It always managed to make me feel better, no matter my ailment.”

“What was your mamma like?”

“She was beautiful, but her hard life rarely made her smile. Her hair was the color of rich chestnuts, and she always wore it in a high bun. One night, I couldn't sleep and went to my mother's room. Her door was ajar, and I could see her brushing her hair. It was the only time I had ever seen her hair down. She used to wear it in a braid when she went to bed. Her hair was gorgeous and hung down to her waist. I watched in awe as she brushed her hair. My mother finally noticed me watching and beckoned to me with her hand to enter her room. My father was already fast asleep, snoring deeply as he always did. Mamma took me in her lap and let me brush her hair for her. It's one of the few memories I have of my mamma.” Madre Carmela's voice seemed to catch a little, and Rosalia could see by the distant look in her eyes that she was still in her mother's room, brushing her hair.

“Did she die when you were young? Is that why you have few memories of her?”

“No. My father was a cobbler and was always struggling to make ends meet. There were six of us, four boys and two girls. I was the youngest. My sister was the oldest. It came to a point at which my parents couldn't feed all of us. I remember there were holes in the walls throughout our little shack of a house. As a child, I didn't think much of it until one day I saw Mamma making dough to make bread. She didn't know I had entered the kitchen. I saw her tearing some plaster from one of the holes in the wall and adding it to her flour mixture. She was trying to stretch her flour to make it last longer. Can you imagine that?” Madre Carmela wiped away her tears with the back of her hand before continuing. “My parents had to give me and two of my brothers away. I came here. My brother Gaetano went to a monastery and Bruno, my other brother, went to a farmer who had no children and needed someone to help him.”

“That's terrible, Madre. I'm so sorry.”

“Many families were forced to do this back then.”

“How old were you?”

“I was only six years old.” Madre Carmela gave a soft laugh. “I didn't know it, however. I thought I was as old as my elder siblings. When I realized my parents were giving me away, I pounded my mother's chest with my fists. I told her I could help her like Angela, my older sister. Angela and my brothers Michele and Giuseppe were staying with my parents since they were the oldest. My parents didn't want their youngest children to continue to go hungry. I remember my stomach often hurt, but I was too young to realize it was because I wasn't eating enough. For as long as I could remember, my stomach had ached, so it seemed normal to me. That is why Mamma often made
Biancomangiare
for me. Of course, she could not afford to top it off with nuts, chocolate, and candied citrus peel as I did with yours.”

“Were you mad at them for giving you away, Madre?”

“Terribly. I cried myself to sleep every night. I thought they would come back for me when things got better for them, but I guess things never did since I remained at the convent.”

“Did they visit you?”

“At first, Mamma did. But I think it became too hard for her—and for me. Each time, I hoped she would be taking me back home with her, and when she didn't, I went into a rage. The nuns couldn't console me. I don't know this for certain, but I suspect the nuns might've told my mother to stop visiting. It was just too difficult for both of us.”

“So where is your family now?”

Madre shrugged her shoulders. “I don't know. When I was a teenager, I asked the nuns if I could go visit them. But my mother superior found out my mother had moved with my other siblings after my father died. He had a heart attack about five years after they gave me away. Since my mother had stopped visiting me, I didn't know this until I was fourteen and was looking to reconnect with them again.”

“Did you try to find them?”

“No. I chose to accept that this was the fate God had intended for me. I knew by then that I wanted to become a nun, and I decided to put all of my energies into that.”