Rosalia's Bittersweet Pastry Shop (37 page)

“It is just a bird, Mamma. Don't be afraid.”

Sorella Agata walked over to the chair where the bluethroat sat. It looked expectantly at her mother. When Sorella Agata reached the chair, it glanced at her for a moment before flying back out the window it had flown through. But instead of flying away completely, it stayed on the window ledge.

When Sorella Agata turned toward her mother, she was frightened to see how pale she looked.

“Mamma, are you feeling all right? You don't look well. Let me get you a glass of water.”

“No, Rosalia, I don't need water. It's that bird. The only time I've seen a bird like that—with those colorful stripes on its chest—was when your brother was ill. You see, when Luca was sick, we saw a bird that looked just like this one.”

“It is a bluethroat. The bird has that name because of the blue on its chest, although I never understood why they chose to call it a bluethroat since there are several colors. I remember seeing them in our yard when we lived in Terme Vigliatore. Don't you remember?”

Signora DiSanta shook her head. “No. I don't. I only remember seeing one when Luca was sick. You see, Rosalia, that bird visited him every day.”

A shiver ran down Sorella Agata's spine as she remembered how the bluethroat had visited her regularly once she learned her family was no longer living in Terme Vigliatore.

“The bird sat on the windowsill of the bedroom Luca shared with Cecilia at the vineyard in Marsala where we were staying. It was as if the bird were watching over him. At first, I found it endearing, almost as if Luca had a guardian angel. But then when I could see he was dying, I became angry and saw the bird as an omen of his impending death. But then one day . . .” Her voice trailed off as tears filled her eyes. “It was the day before Luca died. He opened his eyes and, though he was so weak, he managed to slightly lift his head and look around the room. Once he saw the bird, he whispered to me that it was you.”

“Me?”

“Luca said to me, ‘Mamma, look. You know who that is, don't you? It's our Rosalia. She's been visiting me every day. She is watching over me and letting me know I am not alone, and that I won't be alone once I am gone. Remember that, Mamma. And never lose hope that you will see Rosalia again.' ”

Mamma shook her head and placed her hands over her face as she cried.

It was now Sorella Agata's turn to hold her mother and console her. She closed her eyes tightly as she hugged her mother and whispered words of comfort. When she opened them again, she saw the bluethroat was still sitting on the window ledge. It lifted its head up, and as had always happened with the bluethroat who had visited her all those years ago, its gaze met hers. Instead of feeling a shiver as she always did when the bird looked at her, Sorella Agata instead felt her heart wince. It couldn't be. The thought she was entertaining was crazy. Could this bluethroat who had visited her regularly all those years ago be the spirit of her dead brother?

She then remembered it had been December when she had first seen the bird. It had been just a few weeks before Christmas, and she had fed the bird
Buccellati,
the popular fig cookies the pastry shop made for the holiday. Mamma had said Luca had died not that long after they had arrived in Marsala. She knew they had left Terme Vigliatore in November. She then remembered how seeing the bluethroat had motivated her to finally leave her bedroom and chase after it in the convent's courtyard. And Antonio. The bird had led her to Antonio, for it was that day when she first met him. Did her brother's spirit live on in the bluethroat? Had he been the one to spark a drive in her to live again when she had been devastated over discovering her family had left without her? Had he led her to Antonio—her dear friend who had encouraged her as they learned how to make pastries side by side and who had loved her so much and helped her learn to trust again? The bluethroat chirped a few times, looked at her for a moment, and then flew away.

Silently, she thanked her brother for looking after her all those years ago and giving her the courage to live again.

30

Taralli all'Uovo

SWEET PASTRY RINGS

 

 

 

 

S
iesta was almost over, but Claudia had not been able to sleep. All she could think about was how Sorella Agata had been faced with sadness once again after her initial joy of finding her mother. Sorella Agata had stopped narrating her story after revealing her brother Luca had died. It had been time to get lunch ready, but she had promised she would pick up where she had left off after siesta. Claudia glanced up at the cross that hung above her bed. The nun still had not said who had given her the cross. Just when Claudia had thought Sorella Agata's story finally had a happy ending after she'd found her mother, she learned the poor woman only had more heartache. Claudia reached for a tissue from the box that sat on her night table and wiped her eyes for what felt like the thousandth time since she'd arrived in Sicily.

“I'm sorry, Claudia. I didn't mean to make you cry.”

Claudia looked up to see Sorella Agata standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Though Sorella Agata also looked sad, she wasn't crying for once. Of course, she held a bowl filled with some sweet. Once again, Claudia marveled that the nuns and everyone else at the convent weren't enormous.

“It's all right, Sister. I've always cried easily. I just can't help reflecting on all that you've been through. I don't know if I would've survived everything you have gone through.”

“You would have. I can tell you're a strong woman.” Sorella Agata smiled.

She came over to Claudia and patted her shoulder before sitting next to her on the bed. She held the bowl of sweets out to Claudia.
Taralli all'Uovo
—sweet pastry rings braided into a circle—filled the bowl. The convent always had
Taralli
on hand. They were often what the nuns and the other pastry workers ate for breakfast since they were perfect for dunking into coffee. Claudia bit into a
Taralli,
and for a moment she forgot about her sadness. The sweets at the Convento di Santa Lucia del Mela truly were a panacea for any sorrow.

“Did you ever see the bluethroat again after that day your mother told you Luca had died?”

Sorella Agata shook her head. “Whenever I am outside, I am always looking for my little friend.”

Claudia paused, wondering if she should say anything.

“What is it, Claudia?”

“I saw a bluethroat about a month after I arrived here.”

“You did?”

Claudia nodded.

“Are you sure it was a bluethroat?”

“I'm positive. My father is a birdwatcher and, when I was a little girl, he always pointed out pictures of birds in the books he collected on the subject. The bluethroat was one of my favorite birds. It's quite stunning with all the colors that are displayed on its breast. I've never seen one in person since they are mainly found in Europe and Asia, but I know without a doubt the bird I saw was a bluethroat. My father used to make color Xeroxes of the photographs of the birds I liked from his books, and he hung them in my room. The bluethroat was in one of those photos that hung in my room. The day I saw the bluethroat in the courtyard, I remember thinking it was odd that the bird seemed to be staring right at me. And then you mentioned feeling as if the bluethroat that visited you would also look right into your eyes.”

Sorella Agata thought for a moment before speaking. “Perhaps Luca decided to visit since I was telling the story of my family again. That is, if the bluethroat is really a sign from him.” She sounded sad, but there was also a slight glimmer in her eyes upon hearing that Claudia had seen the bird recently.

“Perhaps, Sorella. What about your father and Cecilia? Please, don't tell me they died as well?”

“No. Well, when I was reunited with my mother, as far as she knew they were still alive; however, I don't know if they are still living now. You remember my mother had told me the night I was driving her from the hospital to the convent that she had left my father?”

Claudia nodded.

“She and my father and Cecilia had moved to Palermo after they left Marsala. Mamma had fought bitterly with Papà as they traveled to Palermo. She wanted to return to Messina to look for me, but he wouldn't hear of it. Their relations had already been strained, since she had not agreed with him about leaving Terme Vigliatore.” Sorella Agata shook her head before continuing. “Mamma had not given up on me, and just as Madre Carmela had told me, the jars of blood orange marmalade I found in my childhood home were her way of letting me know she still believed in me. But she couldn't stay behind. She had Luca and, especially, little Cecilia to think of. And how would she support herself if she didn't leave with Papà? Though she stayed with Papà for twenty years, her resentment toward him grew with each day until she decided she would leave and return to Messina in hopes of finding me.”

“So it was true then that your father believed you had gone off with Marco and were going to bear his child?”

Pain flashed across Sorella Agata's face.

“Mamma said he didn't think I had run off willingly with Marco at first, but when he received that letter in my handwriting, he felt he couldn't deny any longer that I wanted to be with Marco.”

“But as you said, the handwriting was shaky since Marco had drugged you and forced you to write the letter. Didn't he notice that?”

“Mamma and Luca had noticed and pointed that out to Papà, but he thought they were holding on to false hope and didn't want to think the worst about me. I think he felt that, as the patriarch of the family, he needed to be the one with a sound head on his shoulders. He needed to be the one to get them through this crisis and ensure that he could continue supporting his family. I came to this realization years ago, and I shared it with Mamma. She agreed with me, but told me she had not seen it this way when she still lived with him. Her anger and dismay over not knowing what had happened to me clouded all else. I forgive my father. I know in my heart he never stopped loving me even if he believed the worst about me and felt I had let the family down.”

Sorella Agata spoke the last line very quietly. She placed the bowl of
Taralli
on the night table next to Claudia's bed and then clasped her hands in her lap. Her gaze rested on her hands.

“So when did your mother find the courage to leave your father?”

“It was only five years before she and I were reunited. She had some money to tide her over for what she thought would be quite some time, but it only lasted a year. She was renting a room in the house of an elderly lady who needed someone to cook and clean for her. Although my mother was working for her, the old lady still expected her to pay rent, but she didn't give her any earnings for cleaning and cooking. So when my mother could no longer pay her rent, she had no choice but to live on the streets. She was fifty-seven when she left my father, so she was fifty-eight when she found herself homeless. Can you imagine at that late stage in your life suddenly finding yourself without a roof over your head?”

Tears filled Sorella Agata's eyes.

“I can't imagine.” Claudia placed her hand over Sorella Agata's.

Sorella Agata sighed deeply before resuming her story.

“Mamma was fortunate to befriend a woman older than she who made and sold silk flowers. The woman showed Mamma how to make them and agreed to share the corner where they sold them. Mamma said that woman was a saint, for if it hadn't been for her, she would have starved and died.”

Sorella Agata looked up at the cross above Claudia's bed. Claudia followed her gaze.

“Your mother gave you that cross, then?”

“
Si.
”

Sorella Agata took off her lace-up black shoes and then stood on the bed.

“Be careful, Sorella.”

“It's all right. I'll be fine.”

She removed the cross from the nail it hung on and lowered herself back down to the bed.

“See how beautiful the work on these silk roses is? Mamma made these roses and then wrapped them around this cross for me. She gave this to me about a year after she came to stay with me.”

Claudia took a closer look, marveling at the stunning silk flowers that were entwined around the simple wooden cross. She glanced at Sorella Agata, whose thoughts seemed to be elsewhere—no doubt remembering when her mother had given her the cross. Claudia was afraid to ask her next question.

“Your mother is no longer alive, is she?”

“No. She died nine years ago. At least God let me have her for fifteen years after we were reunited. Oh, it was a wonderful time, Claudia. We baked side by side, and she even came with me to the women's shelter and helped me with whatever work I did there. She felt it was her way to thank God for reuniting us. She even brought whatever food we could spare at the convent to the homeless people on the streets. Then, when she was seventy-seven years old she died. She wasn't ill. I found her sitting in the courtyard. Her hands were wrapped around silk she was cutting to make her flowers. At first, I thought she had merely nodded off and was sleeping. But when she didn't wake up . . . Well, then I knew Mamma had left me for good this time.”

Claudia swallowed hard, fighting back the well of tears that were threatening to surface again. “As you said, at least you did find each other and had that time with her. She died happy.”

“
Si.
But she always felt guilty. When she left Papà, it was 1975, so Cecilia was twenty-seven years old then. Mamma didn't feel too bad about leaving her behind in Palermo, for Cecilia had married a few years before and had even had a son. Mamma had kept Cecilia's phone number and did talk to her a few times the first year after she left Papà, when she was living with and working for that old lady. But then when she was living on the streets, she lost Cecilia's number. My father's number was in the same little notebook that contained my sister's number, so she had no way of communicating with them. When she found herself on the streets, she thought several times she would return to Palermo, but she never had enough money for the train ride. But she did remember their addresses. I tried writing to Cecilia and Papà a few times, letting them know Mamma was with me and we were both safe, but I never received a response. So two months after Mamma came to stay with me at the convent, when she had fully regained her strength after her bout with pneumonia, we traveled to Palermo. We went to the house Cecilia had been living in with her family. The new occupants told us that she and her family, along with my father who had apparently moved in with Cecilia two years prior, had moved because her husband had found work in Trapani. So they had headed back west. They'd left an address with the new occupants, who had been a bit confused as to why they were doing so since the post office would forward their mail. But, of course, Mamma and I knew that was their way of letting us know where they had gone. I suppose Cecilia and Papà never gave up hope that Mamma would return to them someday . . . after she'd found me.

“But it wasn't to be. When I wrote to my sister, the letter was returned to me with a stamp stating that no one by Cecilia's name lived at the address. I tried sending the letter again, but addressed it to Papà and even another time to Cecilia's husband, but each time the letter was returned with the same stamp. All I can think is that either the address was not written down correctly, or perhaps something happened and they were not living at that address any longer. The latter reason seemed more plausible. After all, at this point, Mamma had been away from them for five years, going on six. And the last time she had corresponded with my sister had been four years prior. The owners had told us they had bought the house from Cecilia and her husband in 1978. So who knows what happened in the two years before my mother and I were reunited and tried to find them. Perhaps they decided to leave Trapani. There's no way of knowing. So Mamma felt guilty that she had left them and that she would most likely never see her other daughter and grandchild again before she died. She told me she didn't regret leaving to find me, but she couldn't help feeling bad that she had had to leave another daughter behind in order to do so, even though Cecilia was no longer a child and had her own family.”

“Did she also feel guilty about leaving your father?”

“I don't think so. She never said, and, while she admitted to me eventually that she understood my father's motives for leaving Terme Vigliatore, I think whatever love she had once had for him had vanished.”

Sorella Agata took a deep breath.

“Marco's kidnapping me changed so many people's lives. Never in a million years would I have thought my mother would fall out of love with my father or that she would leave him. When I think about how happy they were, how happy we all were as a family together. . .” Sorella Agata's voice trailed off as she bit her lip.

“Life can be very cruel,” Claudia softly said.

“Ah! We all have our crosses to bear, some more so than others, and I learned a long time ago, I cannot question God's ways. And when I think about all I have done and still have to do to help others and continue God's work, that is what matters.”

Claudia was amazed by Sorella Agata's outlook, but she also sensed this had been her way all along of coping with the injustices that life had dealt out to her and her loved ones. This was how Sorella Agata had survived—through her faith and her work in helping others.

“So I take it you have not given up on finding your father and Cecilia someday?”

“I have not. I continue to pray to God to let us be reunited or at least to let me know what happened to them. But I have run up against a wall. Again, as with my mother, I must await a miracle.”