Stella Mia (6 page)

Soon, I fall asleep and dream of Tina. She has found her way home to me. I hug Tina, asking her to kiss me with her nose as I had trained her to do. I am ecstatic that she's back in my arms until I open my eyes and realize it was all just a dream and Tina is never coming back home again.

Vita da Sogno

 

 

DREAM LIFE

 

 

 

 

I
t is the morning of my seventeenth birthday. As soon as I wake up, I kneel in front of my bed. Making the sign of the cross, I pray to God to give me strength, for today, I will be running away from home.

The day after I abandoned Tina, I realized the time had come for me to finally leave home for good. Over the course of the weeks that followed, I began plotting the details of my escape. Every night, I sat at our kitchen table and carefully planned my
vita da sogno
—the dream life I had always fantasized about, but thought was not within reach.

I cannot wait any longer. I will never have the courage to run away unless I act now. Tears fall down my face. I haven't forgotten my promise to my mother that I would buy her another china set and take her and my siblings away from my father. But I am also not a fool. I know how difficult it will be, helping that many people to escape. I also know of the very real possibility that I will never see my mother alive again. And my siblings are so young that they will probably forget me even if we are reunited years from now when they're adults. Insecurity takes hold of me, but then I look once more at the snail we still have in the jar, and in that moment all doubt vanishes.

I chose to run away on my birthday, for I wanted my
vita da sogno
to start on a date that I would never forget. June 13 is also the feast day of St. Anthony of Padua—the patron saint of recovered items. People pray to him when they have lost a treasured possession, imploring the saint to help them find the missing object. St. Anthony is also the patron saint of travelers and for those who suddenly find their lives taking a new direction. I could not help but see the irony that I had chosen this particular saint's day to make my escape and turn over a new leaf. But this is not the only reason I decided to run away from home on this day. My family and I will be going this evening to Barcellona, where festivities are held in honor of St. Anthony of Padua. The celebrations kick off tonight and last for a week. It will be easier for me to slip away during the feast with its large crowds and many distractions. The fact that it is the feast day of St. Anthony of Padua makes me feel all the more assured that the saint will be protecting me.

Every week since I decided I would leave home, I have been stealing a few liras from my father's secret box, which holds his savings. As my mother once told me, he has never even imparted to her where he keeps his money. But when I was a little girl, I used to love crawling under my parents' bed whenever they weren't looking. I discovered a loose floorboard that had not been pushed back completely into place. Beneath the loose floorboard, I found a large boot box and my father's money. I had never before taken any of the liras in the box, for I was too afraid of my father's finding out. Now it was a risk I was willing to take in order to make my dreams of escaping become a reality. I only took a few liras every week, but last night I took much more. It was enough money for me to take a bus to the resort town of Taormina, where I planned on going door to door of the many hotels there and asking if they could use another maid. I placed a note in my father's money box telling him I would repay him someday. Though he does not deserve any kindness on my part after the way he has mistreated my mother and me, my belief in God compels me to do what is right.

I stayed up late at night, sewing by hand a large, voluminous skirt with plenty of ruffles to conceal the extra layers of clothes I'll be wearing when I run away. It's the only way to be able to take a few clothes with me without raising my father's suspicions, since it would look strange for me to bring a bag larger than a pocketbook to the feast. I also sewed a few pockets in the lining of my underwear to hide my money. Except for my clothes and money, the only other possessions I am taking are my ruby red rosary, which my mother gave to me for my first Holy Communion, a small Bible, my diary, and a photograph of my family that was taken a few years back. Fortunately, my father was the one to take the photograph, so he's missing from the portrait. My Bible is small enough to fit in my pocketbook, but I will have to place my diary in the waistband of the slip I'll be wearing. I sewed additional elastic around my slip's waistband to give it added reinforcement so that I won't lose my diary.

I woke up much earlier today so that I could complete all of my chores about an hour before we leave for the feast. But it's as if my father suspects I have ulterior motives. Just when I think I'm done, he throws more work my way. I forgot that I not only need to iron his suit, but also my siblings' dress clothes. Working at a frantic pace, I try to hurry so that I have enough time to get ready. The heat of the iron coupled with my anxiety makes me sweat profusely. Finally, with just twenty minutes to spare, I'm done ironing. I grab the bundle with my extra clothes and the few possessions I'm taking with me and am about to walk out of the room I share with the children when Carlotta calls me.

“Sarina, I need help with my stockings.”

I halt in my tracks. Without turning around, I say, “Carlotta, I have shown you more than once how to put on your stockings. You will never learn if I am always dressing you.”

“Please, Sarina! I promise this will be the last time.”

Shutting my eyes tightly, I force back the tears, for I know with certainty that Carlotta will be able to keep her promise after tonight.

I walk over to my younger sister and do my best to keep a stern face lest my true emotions betray me and I break down.

“
Grazie,
Sarina! Now I'm all ready for the feast! Do you think Papá will buy me
zeppole?
” Carlotta looks into my face expectantly. The fried doughnuts are one of her favorite sweets sold at the feast.

“Most certainly and, if he's in one of his grumpy moods, then I'll buy you
zeppole.
That is, if you're a good girl. But that's our secret, Carlotta. You must not tell Papá or Mama that I have some money. Okay?” I place my hands on either side of Carlotta's face, forcing her to look me in the eye. She nods her head.

“I always want you to remember that I will carry you in my heart forever.
Ti voglio bene
.” I hug Carlotta tightly.

“I love you, too, Sarina.”

“Now run out. I need to get ready.”

I watch Carlotta run to the front of the house and join my other siblings. How can I leave her? How can I leave my mother and the rest of them? But my sanity depends on it. Walking to the bathroom, I'm relieved no one is in there. I step in and quickly wash my face. I then put on the layers of clothes I'm taking with me. Why did I even bother taking a bath today since I will no doubt be sweating in all these clothes, not to mention it is a warm June day? As I finish getting dressed, I hear my father yell, “Sarina, where are you? It's time to leave.”

My heart races. I take one last look at myself in the mirror above the tiny sink in our bathroom. The face that greets me in the mirror is full of fear. Shrugging the feeling off, I walk out of the bathroom purposefully.

I notice my mother is staring at my skirt, and I pray she does not ask me in front of Papá if it's a new skirt. No doubt Mama is wondering when I could have had the time to sew myself a skirt with all my chores. I glance nervously at her. She lightly nods her head and walks away. Breathing a sigh of relief, I wait until all of my family has stepped out before I join them. Looking over my shoulder, I take a mental snapshot of our small house before shutting the door.

 

The sounds of trombones, trumpets, and a thumping bass drum fill the air as a long parade winds its way through the narrow streets of Barcellona. A few men, both young and old, carry the towering statue of St. Anthony of Padua. I stare at the benevolent saint's face and then transfer my gaze to that of the infant Jesus that he carries in his arms. St. Anthony's devotion to the baby Jesus is evident in his tender expression.

Cries of delight from Enzo and Carlotta reach my ears. They are standing at a
zeppole
stand, waiting for my father to buy them the powdered sugar sweets they love so much. Carlotta and Enzo reach their hands high, bouncing on their little feet in anticipation of the
zeppole
. My father is in a good mood tonight, for he is buying the children almost any treat they desire. I silently thank God. This way, I will not have to hold my promise to Carlotta to buy her
zeppole.
I need all of the money I have.

Savory aromas vie with sweet ones. The smoke from sizzling sausages and bracciole stings my eyes. Men shout out their goods as if the sight and smells aren't enough to lure customers to their stands. Normally, I cannot wait to have many of the delicacies found at the feast. But tonight my thoughts are racing. All I can think about is my escape. Agata bought a bag of
zeppole,
which she is sharing with me. I nibble on one as we stroll through the crowded streets. Our parents walk behind us. While our fathers are engaged in conversation and are enjoying the feast, they still keep their eyes on Agata and me to ensure no boys approach us.

“Sarina, are you not feeling well?” Agata asks me as she pops what must be her fourth
zeppola
into her mouth.

“I'm fine.”

“You are hardly eating. I've never known you not to sample most of the food at the feast. And I can't believe you turned down the fried zucchini blossoms—your favorite! You seem preoccupied. What's the matter?” Agata looks at me with concern written all over her features. Whenever she is worried, she unconsciously tightens the muscles in her forehead, creating a deep crease between her brows.

“I'm fine, Agata. The last feast we went to, I actually had a bad upset stomach when I got home. I don't want that to happen again.” Guilt washes over me that I've lied.

“I know what's worrying you, Sarina. You're afraid that my plan of secretly meeting Giuseppe tonight will not work, and you will get in trouble for covering for me.”

“Yes, I am a little nervous about it, Agata.” I muster a small smile, which my sweet cousin returns.

Agata had managed to talk to Giuseppe when she last visited me, and they agreed to meet briefly tonight during the fireworks display, which we would be watching from the roof of the house that belongs to my father's friend Luigi Milazzo. Luigi's house is one of the best from which to view the fireworks. It will be too dark for our families to notice Agata slip away, and they will be distracted by the fireworks. I am to cover for her in case anyone takes notice and just say she went to the bathroom. Agata is supposed to meet Giuseppe in the alleyway behind Luigi's house. She has promised me she will be back before the fireworks are over.

“Don't worry. If I'm caught I'll tell our fathers that you tried to talk me out of meeting Giuseppe. I'll make you look like a saint!” Agata pats my shoulder.

“You would do that for me? Take all the blame?” I cannot look Agata in the eyes. She is noble, a trait I am lacking in as I envision what I must do later.

“Of course. You're the closest thing I'll ever have to a sister since my parents detest each other and can't bear to couple again to give me any siblings. I would do anything for you, Sarina.”

A feeble laugh escapes my lips. Agata's words touch me, and I must resort to humor before I lose all control and break down crying. “Have you ever thought that perhaps your mother could not get pregnant again after she had you rather than assume your parents have no interest in being intimate?”

“No one knows this, Sarina, and please do not breathe a word of it to your mother or father, but my parents have not slept in the same bed for years. Papá sleeps on a cot in a storage closet he cleared out so he could turn it into a makeshift bedroom.”

“I'm sorry, Agata. I had no idea.”

“If there was ever any love between those two, it's long vanished.” Agata's eyes look sad as she says this.

I, on the other hand, know there was never any love between my parents. My mother was just doing her duty as an obedient daughter by agreeing to her father's request that she marry Papá. Of course, I have no doubt that Papá found Mama beautiful and was attracted to her. But in terms of loving her, he is incapable of it. I don't believe he even loves his children. My mother, siblings, and I are merely present to help him with his work and keep his house in order.

“It's time!” Agata startles me out of my thoughts. I glance at my watch. It's 9:50. The fireworks are scheduled to go off at ten p.m. We wait for our families to catch up to us before we head over to Luigi's house. My heart races. The evening has dragged on insufferably. And I still have a very long night ahead of me.

Luigi, his wife, and three sons are standing in front of their house. They greet us warmly. We follow them inside and make our way to their roof. It is pitch-black, and we are all moving slowly, trying to see in the darkness, until Luigi turns on a few flashlights.

“We will keep them on until the fireworks start.” Luigi is smiling as much as his sons. I guess this is the highlight of the year for him. I can tell he takes pride in the fact that he can give his friends the best view of the fireworks. There is something depressing about the fact that all this man has to look forward to is the annual feast in the village where he was born and that he will most likely never leave. Yet I get the sense that Luigi is content with his simple life and has no regrets. Many of the people in our villages are this way. I cannot understand them and how they would not want to leave the confines of their small towns and explore what is waiting outside of these peripheries.