Stella Mia (33 page)

“That's nice.” I don't know what else to say, especially since now I'm wondering if Daddy has a crush on this woman. I then anticipate his heart's being broken again and cringe at the thought.

“I'm sorry if I'm being forward, but I couldn't help noticing that you seem to have a lot on your mind. I know we've just met, but I've always been told I'm a great listener and, more important, that I'm good at keeping a secret.”

There's something gentle about Penelope's demeanor and a kindness in her eyes that immediately puts me at ease. For a moment, I'm tempted to tell this stranger everything. But we'd be here all night, and I'm sure she has better things to do than listen to my drama.

“Thank you, Penelope. That's very kind of you. But I'll be fine.”

“All right. If you are sure you're okay, I should probably head back and check on some things at the café. But you can find me at my café if you ever want to have a frappé and talk. It'll be on the house. And you'll give me an excuse to take a break. It was nice meeting you.” Penelope shakes my hand.

“Nice to meet you, too. And I love frappés, so I'll have to take you up on your offer.” I smile.

“Good! I look forward to seeing you again.” Penelope waves and walks toward a parked BMW. I guess Daddy was right that her business is booming.

She waves one last time before she pulls away from the curb.

“Julia!”

Kyle approaches me, breathing heavily.

“How did you know I was here?”

“It's no secret you love to come here when you're feeling stressed. Besides, even if I didn't find you here, I could use the serenity of the park to de-stress myself.”

Kyle sits down next to me on the bench, still trying to catch his breath.

“Did you run all the way here?”

“Yeah. I figured the exercise would lower my blood pressure.”

“I'm sorry, Kyle. I should have had that conversation with Daddy in private. I didn't mean to drag you into the middle of it.”

“In private? The way you lost it and were screaming, I would've shown up anyway to see what was going on. And you don't have anything to be sorry for. I'm sorry about all the stuff your father told you about your mother. He and I had more words after you left.”

“Don't be mad at him, Kyle.”

“Oh, so it's okay for you to be mad at him, but not me? You're my wife, Julia. I don't like seeing you upset.”

“Well, thank you for being my staunch protector, but Daddy wasn't completely in the wrong. I understand he was doing the best he could under difficult circumstances after my mom left. It's my fault, too.”

“What? Am I hearing you correctly? How is it your fault? None of this crazy mess is your fault.”

I shake my head. “It is to some degree. I should've asked him about my mother again when I got older. Of course he wasn't going to drop all this stuff on me when I used to ask him as a kid. But he would've probably told me if I had gone to him once I got older and could handle the truth—although the way I reacted today, I'm not so sure I handled it at all.”

Kyle puts his arm around my shoulder and bends his head so that he's peering into my face. “Hey! Go easy on yourself. Look. It's no one's fault. Not your father's or yours. I can't believe I'm saying it's not your father's fault, but I know he loves you very much, and he did a great job with you. You're an amazing woman. Though I still think he should have had this conversation with you a long time ago. But there's no use beating that point to death now. So let's move forward.”

“That's just it, Kyle. How do I move forward after learning what I did? If anything, I have even more questions now.” I release a deep breath. “I wish I could go back to forgetting about her—or doing my best to—as I have been trying to do my whole life, but I can't.”

“So finding her diary and hearing what your father said hasn't given you any closure?”

“No. I want to confront her and hear from her why she never returned. I want to know what's been going on in her life since she returned to Sicily, especially since she was so secretive about it with Daddy. This is going to sound crazy, Kyle, but I want to go to Sicily and find her.”

“It's not crazy. I want to come with you.”

I place my hand on Kyle's. “Thank you, but we both know you need to stay here and try to land a job.”

“Are you sure? That can wait.”

“I'm positive. Besides, I think I need to do this by myself. Also, I'm afraid if you don't find a job soon and we continue living with Daddy, you and he will come to blows.”

“Don't worry about us. I'll apologize to Paulie for losing my temper with him when we get back home. And I promise I'll make more of an effort not to get so easily riled by his comments and jokes. I know he's just having fun with me. Lord knows he's bored.”

“Have I ever told you, Kyle MacLean, how wonderful you are?”

“Yes, but I never tire of hearing it.” Kyle presses his forehead against mine and places a kiss on the tip of my nose.

“I'm going to ask Daddy if he can lend me the money for the trip to Sicily.”

“Really? What about your rule about never borrowing money from anyone, especially your father?”

“In light of everything that's happened, I think we can both agree he owes me, and I'm just borrowing it. I'll repay it once you've landed a job and we're back on our feet.”

“All right. But I want to do something to help. I'm going to hire a private eye to find your mother. If we can get an address for her before you land in Sicily, that would be better—or else you'll be searching for a needle in a haystack.”

“That sounds pricey.”

“We can swing it, but if you want to ask Paulie to lend you money for that, you can.” Kyle smirks.

“If you'd rather I do, I'll—”

Kyle holds up his hand. “I was just kidding. We can afford it, and like I said, I want to do my part to help you.”

“Thank you.” I lean into Kyle and kiss him.

Kyle breaks the kiss and stands up. “Let's head back. We have a lot to do before your trip. And your father was worried sick about you, so if we don't return soon, I'm afraid he'll have all of Astoria searching for you.”

“I'm sure.” I laugh.

We walk out of the park, our arms wrapped around each other's backs, and I can't help thinking how lucky I am to have Kyle. My spirits have lifted considerably. Though I'm nervous, I'm also excited about going to Sicily, especially after seeing it through Sarina's eyes in her diary. Finally, after all these years, I'll be reunited with her.

En Route to Sicily

 

 

 

I
'm standing on the top deck of the ferry that transports passengers from Reggio Calabria—or Calabria, as most people call it, situated at the toe of Italy's boot—to Messina, Sicily. It's a picture-perfect day. The sun shimmers on the crystalline blue waters of the Strait of Messina. And the mountains complete the beautiful landscape before me. The closer I get to Sicily, the more my stomach flutters. But it's not from the ferry's motions. My stomach has been acting up since I took the plane from Rome to Calabria. While I was nervous the past couple of weeks as I got ready for my trip, I was too busy to dwell on it. When I told Daddy that I wanted to go to Sicily, he understood but he also expressed concern. He's afraid I still might not find the closure I'm seeking, and he worries that there might be more pain waiting for me in Sicily once I confront my mother. Though he's never believed in lending money, he didn't blink an eye when I asked if I could borrow the funds to cover my airfare and hotel. In fact, he insisted I consider it a gift even though I tried to protest. He told me it was the least he could do after waiting so long to tell me more about my mother.

The private investigator that Kyle hired was able to locate my mother within a few days, which was a relief to me since I wanted to be able to go to Sicily while school is still out for the summer. It's the second week in July, which gives me enough time to make this trip and then return home and get settled before going back to work. I decided to purchase a one-way ticket. This way if things don't go well, I can leave at a moment's notice.

In addition to entering my mother's address into my smartphone, I've also written it down on several pieces of paper and placed them in different places—my wallet, purse, luggage. I guess you can say I'm paranoid. It only dawns on me now that my actions are crazy, since if I were to lose Sarina's address, I could just contact the PI and get the address from him again. I shake my head. Ever since I found my mother's diary, I haven't been acting like myself.

After Kyle told me the PI had found Sarina and had an address, I kept asking the PI to confirm it was really her. I think his finding my mother so quickly also made it hard for me to believe he had located the right Sarina Amato Parlatone. I received another shock when Kyle told me that the reason the PI was able to find Sarina so quickly is that she's a famous Sicilian folk singer. I didn't believe it at first, but then I remembered the songbook I had found in the trunk and how Sarina had sung at the Villa Carlotta. But part of me still doesn't want to believe it until I hear it from her. Of course the thought that she possibly chose her career over me has entered my mind. I began to get angry all over again, but Kyle told me not to jump to conclusions until I hear what Sarina has to say.

In addition to Sarina's address, the PI also gave Kyle a phone number. I thought long and hard about whether I, or my father, should call her first and let her know I was going to see her. I decided not to. I want to make sure what she tells me is the truth and not some rehearsed version of it.

“Messina!”

The announcement that we've arrived at our port of call snaps me out of my thoughts. My palms feel sweaty as I grab my luggage and make my way down to the main level of the ferry. It's just a matter of time now until I see my mother again.

Reunion

 

 

 

M
y taxi arrives at a large but modest house that sits about a hundred feet away from the beach. There are no other neighboring houses for miles. An enormous wooden fence wraps around the property. I pay the taxi driver and slowly make my way to the front entrance. My heart is beating so loudly that it's competing with the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. The surf is quite strong today. I look out at the beach, but it's quiet. No swimmers are in sight. It's early evening, so I guess it would be a bit late to go swimming. But I know how much Italians love taking their
passeggiate,
so I'd imagine I would at least see people walking along the beach. Then I notice the private property signs.

I think about what the PI said about Sarina's being a famous Sicilian folk singer. If it weren't for the fence and the fact that her house sits on a private beach with no houses nearby, I would begin to doubt his claims that my mother is famous. I was expecting a much more lavish house. When I reach the door, I see there is a surveillance camera perched near the roof of the house and angled right where I'm standing. An intercom is also present—all likely signs that someone famous does live here and is safeguarding his or her privacy. Then again, many people have cameras and intercoms now, and they're not all famous.

Ringing the bell, I wait. But no one's voice comes through the intercom. I wait longer until I press the bell again. Great. I didn't anticipate that no one would be home. Now I'm stranded here on a remote beach, and my cell phone isn't activated for international use. Turning around, I begin walking away when I hear the door open. I freeze.

Could this be my mother?

I turn around. The woman who greets me is very tall and has graying brown hair. Nothing about her looks anything like the photos of my mother from when she was young or even the more current photo Kyle's PI had sent him. But even that photo was taken about ten years ago. A person can change a lot in a decade.

“Buona giornata. Sto cercando la Signora Sarina Amato Parlatone.
” I offer a shy smile to show the woman she has no reason to mistrust me. She still looks at me with a frown.

“Parlatone?”

“Wait a moment, please.” She turns to leave, but then turns back around. “I'm sorry, but what is your name?”

I'm taken aback that she knows English and that she knows I speak English.

“How did you know I speak English?”

“Your suitcase has tags for JFK. That's in New York.”

I glance down at my luggage. “Oh. Yes, that's correct.”

“Your name, please?”

“I'm sorry. My name is—”

“Julia? Non può essere.
It can't be.
”

A woman is standing in the doorway. She's staring at me, her eyes are wide open, and her hand covers her mouth. While she looks familiar, again it's not quite my mother's image. Also, her hair is a rich chocolate brown, and she looks too young to be my mother, who would now be sixty-one. This woman looks like she's in her late forties, maybe early fifties. But how does she know my name?

“Yes. My name is Julia.”

The woman rushes over to me and takes me in her arms. I just stand there. This has to be my mother, but it doesn't feel right. I always imagined that if we were reunited someday I would instinctively know it was her, even if her looks had changed dramatically.

After hugging me, she kisses me on both cheeks and takes my face in both of her hands.

“It's a miracle. God has answered my prayers.”

I scrutinize her face and see she has the same upturned, bow-shaped lips that my mother and I have. She is also petite like my mother, but looks even shorter at 4'11”. Still, this is not the face of the mother whom I remember holding me up to the grapevine or the face in the other fleeting images I have kept in my memory. But it must be her. The woman must see my look of confusion.

“I'm sorry. It's just I am shocked. I am Carlotta—your mother's—”

“Sister. Of course.” Now it all makes sense. “You know of me?”

“Why, naturally. You are my niece. I recognized you from your wedding photo that Sarina has in her bedroom.”

“She keeps my photo in her bedroom?” I don't know why this comes as a surprise to me since my father told me he sent her my wedding photo. But hearing that my mother keeps my photo displayed in her room brings to the surface a bunch of emotions. I swallow hard.

“
Si.
And photos of you from when you were a baby and little girl. It's quite a shrine.” Carlotta smiles. She looks like she is about to cry, but manages to hold her tears off.

“Is she home?”

“Yes. But before we step inside, I have to ask you. Did your mother write to your father? Is that why you're here? I've begged her to write or call. But of course, she has so much pride and would never admit to me if she had.”

I shake my head. “No. My father has not communicated with her since a few years ago. She did not know I was coming.”

Carlotta frowns. “I see. Then how did you know where we live if she did not contact you?”

“My husband hired a private investigator. I guess I should have called and let her know I was coming, but I preferred not to.”

Carlotta's face looks pensive, then she says, “It doesn't matter. What is important is that you are here.”

She takes me by the arm and leads me inside. I almost forget my luggage, but the woman who answered the door takes it. She is now staring at me, curiosity written all over her expression. Of course she listened to the whole exchange between Carlotta and me and now knows I am Sarina's long-lost daughter.

“Where are my manners? I'm sorry, Julia. This is Adriana, one of our maids.”

One of their maids. So it is true that my mother is rich and famous. I bow my head slightly toward Adriana. She bows her head back and mumbles,
“Piacere.”

The interior of the house has a wide-open design with views of the beach. While the house is quite spacious and comfortable, it is not as lavish or over the top as I would expect the home of a celebrity to be. My eyes scan all around, searching for my mother, but she is nowhere in sight.

“Sit down, Julia. You must be thirsty. Let me get you a drink. I just made some fresh
limonata
. How do you Americans call it?”

“Lemonade. Thank you. That would be nice.”

“By the way, Julia, your Italian is quite good. Your mother will be so pleased to see you learned it. I take it your father taught you?”

“No. He hardly speaks it anymore. I took it in school.”

“I'll be right back. I'll go find Sarina. She won't believe that you are here.” Before Carlotta goes to get my mother she comes over and kisses me on the forehead. She then strokes my hair as if to prove to herself that I'm not a ghost and am really sitting in front of her.

I take out of my purse a tissue and wipe the sweat from my face. My shirt is completely wet and sticking to me. Though I had heard how hot Sicily gets in July, I'm still not prepared. There are just ceiling fans in the house. One of the doors that opens up onto the beach is halfway ajar, allowing the ocean breeze to blow through, but it's a warm wind that offers little relief. Why don't they have the air-conditioning turned on? Lord knows my mother can afford it.

Standing up, I walk around the space, which looks like a casual living room, almost like a family room. There's a photo of a woman dressed in a Sicilian folk costume. I peer closer and see it's Sarina. She doesn't look much different from the photos I have of her, so the picture must've been taken not long after she returned to Sicily. The folk costume looks different from the one I found in the trunk. She looks back at the camera with a sad smile. Her eyes are also devoid of happiness.

I'm startled by the sound of a door creaking open.

“Meow!” A gray cat runs toward me, its tail high up in the air. It looks like it came out of one of the doors of a china cabinet that sits in the adjacent room, which must be the dining room.

I bend down and pet the cat, who is now rubbing up against my legs. I'm startled by a ball of orange fur that's plopped underneath the coffee table. Another cat. This one is sleeping.

“Ah! You've met Bruno.” Carlotta comes back with my
limonata
. A black cat is following her and meowing. How many cats do they have?

“
Grazie.”
I down most of the lemonade. I see Carlotta is staring at me. Our eyes meet, and she realizes she's gawking and smiles before glancing away.

“Do you also live here?” I ask.

“I do.”

I'm not surprised. From what I read in Sarina's diary, she absolutely adored Carlotta.

“There are so many cats.”

“Sarina can't bear to see any strays. We start feeding them when we see them on the beach, and before we know it, they're a part of our family. We have six.”

I then remember Tina, the family's beloved pet that Sarina and Enzo were forced to abandon. No wonder she takes all the strays in.

Placing my glass of lemonade down on the coffee table, I cross my arms in front of my chest and pace around the room, going over to the doors that lead to the beach. I stare at the ocean, and for a few moments I'm able to still my thoughts. I don't hear footsteps behind me until I feel a hand on my shoulder.

Turning around, I am face-to-face with my mother. She looks much older than the mother I remember from my childhood photos. Her beautiful auburn hair, which I've inherited, has darkened considerably, and gray hairs are quickly overtaking it. Her hair is pulled up into an elaborate, braided bun. Large gold hoop earrings dangle from her earlobes, which look quite stretched. She wears a loose, copper-orange tunic and a long skirt with an intricate pattern that resembles mosaic tiles. Three rings adorn the fingers of each of her hands and gold bangle bracelets circle her wrists. She looks like a well-dressed gypsy. Except for the lines beneath her eyes and on her forehead, she has few wrinkles. But her face holds a worn, tired expression, which makes her appear much older than sixty-one. But I guess that's no surprise when I remember the difficult childhood she had and her severe depression. Still. I would have thought becoming a famous singer and having a more comfortable life financially would have helped her to maintain more of her youthfulness. She obviously isn't vain since she has chosen not to dye her hair. She wears no makeup. Though she has aged considerably, there is still a regal beauty about her. It's the way she holds herself, though there is a slight stoop to her back. She looks shorter than I remember her. But again, I was just a child when I last saw her. When I was a toddler, she seemed to tower above me. Now, her arms look painfully thin as do her legs, and there is a fragileness to her.

She pulls her hand away from my shoulder as if she's been burned and holds it in the air, unsure if she wants to touch me again. But thinking better of it, she slowly lowers her hand. Tears trickle down her face.

I remain frozen in place. I've imagined this moment countless times from when I was a little girl right up until I rode here in the taxi. When I was a child, I imagined running into her arms, screaming “Mama!” as I wrapped my arms around her neck and never let go. But in the past couple of weeks, when I knew I would be making this trip, I imagined a very different scenario. I pictured us standing here, just as we are now, not knowing what to do or say. I thought I would cry, but I'm not even close to tears. Numbness is all I feel.

“Mia figlia.”
My mother whispers “my daughter.”

Hearing those words uttered from her lips hurts so much, but I refuse to let her see my pain.

“I'm sorry I didn't let you know I was coming.” I walk past her and go sit down on the couch, keeping my eyes averted from her gaze.

“No need for you to apologize. I'm just shocked. Do you mind if I sit with you?”

“Of course not. It's your home.”

I hadn't even noticed Carlotta was no longer in the room until she reappears with a glass of white wine for Sarina.

“I'll be upstairs if you need me.” Carlotta places her hand on Sarina's shoulder and gives it a light squeeze before walking away.

An awkward silence follows. I take my glass of lemonade from the coffee table and slowly sip what's left of it. I sneak a sideways glance at my mother. She's still staring at me. Just like Carlotta, she must be wondering if I'm real.

Of course I'm dying to get right to it and ask her why she left me. I'm dying to know what she's been up to since she left America. But now that I see the years have not been too kind to her, I'm afraid of giving her a heart attack, especially since I know I won't be able to contain my anger.

“I have a few of your things that I wanted to return to you.” I get up and walk over to my luggage, which Adriana left in the foyer. After wheeling it into the living room, I unzip my suitcase and take out her Sicilian folk costume, the notebook with her songs, and the pack of tarot cards. I hand them to her.

“I found these in Daddy's basement. I thought you might like to have them back.” I place them on her lap. She begins examining them, and her lips turn upward into a small smile.

“Thank you, Julia, but I had told your father whatever I left behind was yours. I remember leaving mostly winter clothes since I'd have little use for them here.”