Authors: Regina Calcaterra
“Okay, well just send it to me. It’s probably junk.”
“I don’t think it’s junk . . . in fact, I think you may want me to open it now. It’s from a Julia Accerbi—it looks like a Christmas card.”
“Well, open it!” I tell her. “What are we waiting for?” I hear the envelope rip open, then Addie begins laughing. “Regina, you won’t believe this: Her Christmas card is from the Eastern Paralyzed Veterans Association.”
“Are you kidding?” I laugh. The EPVA’s main source of revenue was through selling greeting cards. “She probably paid part of my salary while I was there!”
“Now that’s irony,” Addie says, giggling. “Okay, she writes—are you ready?”
“Yes!”
“ ‘To Regina,’ then the printed message reads, ‘With the old wish that is ever new—Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, too!’ ”
“Anything else?”
“Yes—my goodness. She signed ‘Love, Aunt Julia.’ ”
“Aunt Julia? Addie . . . are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. I’ll pop it in the mail to you today, you can look at it yourself.”
Both when I was sixteen and twenty-eight, I wrote to Paul at Julia and Frank’s house, and neither time did I get a response from them, only from Paul. So why now, after never having contact with me, is she suddenly showing interest? Maybe something happened to Paul that she wants me to know about. Or maybe she just wants me to know the truth. Aunt Julia. How do I suddenly have an aunt Julia?
“Regina,” Addie interrupts, “are you there? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Will you just send it to me? I’ll call you in a few weeks for Christmas.”
Everything about the card is both intriguing and odd, but there are two points that stand out in particular: First, it was sent to Addie’s home—my old foster home—where I haven’t resided for close to a decade. Anyone with a shred of knowledge about my life would know that. Second, how did she not mention her husband, my supposed uncle? I dial Camille, the only other person on earth who could know what this means to me.
“What do you think this is about?” I ask her.
“I have no idea,” she says thoughtfully. “Do you think Paul
died
? Or maybe this woman is sick and she wants to tell you something before she gets worse. Whatever it means . . . tread carefully, sweetie. I know you’re excited, but this could take you to a place that you’ve already moved past. You could end up really hurting.”
It’s too late: I’m totally sucked in. “It’s not like
I
went and opened the door, Camille. She did. There’s something going on that I need to know. How about this: I’ll write her back, rather than call her.”
“Don’t mention Paul until she does—let her bring him up. And don’t question why she signed the card ‘Aunt.’ ”
“But why?”
“Because you may scare her away. Just let her know how well you’re doing and give her your new address and phone number.”
“Oh, come on, Camille. Why don’t I just call her, instead?”
“Because, Gi, when you’re not getting truthful answers, you can be a little . . . abrasive.”
“Ha!” She knows me too well. “I like to think of it as assertive . . . but you’re right.”
“Just write her first. Take it slow.”
“Okay.”
By the time Julia’s card arrives several days later, matching Addie’s description to the dotting of her
i
’s, I’ve already worked on several drafts of a letter to her, which I’m planning to fold inside a Christmas card. Although there’s so much I want to know, I keep my message simple: My work’s going well, I’ve adapted to be happy, normal, and successful. I know better than to ask the big questions: why she signed it
Aunt
, why she sent it to my foster home, why her husband’s name wasn’t listed in the card, and why she’s writing me now.
A month later, I receive a letter back from Julia, this time sent to my Manhattan address:
January 1998
Dear Regina,
Received your card and was so glad to hear from you. I often think of you and your sisters. Regina, any time you want to come to visit me, you know you can. I knew that you had to get my card because it did not come back.
I’m so glad you made something of yourself. I’m so happy for you. I don’t know if I told you that your uncle Frank died. It’s been pretty hard for me since he’s gone. I do wish you and your sisters would come to see me. Let me know ahead of time and I would make a meal for you all.
How are your sisters doing? Did any of them get married? Regina, I’m so happy for you. I know life was not easy for any of you girls. There’s so much we could talk about. Lots of luck in your job. I hear from Pauly every so often. He’s still in Florida.
Please come see me. I’ve been having a little trouble with my heart. When you reach a certain age everything falls apart. Good luck again and please get in touch with me. Take care.
Love,
Aunt Julia
I reread the letter several times, too experienced in disappointment to hope I’m seeing it all correctly. She referred so casually to Paul; she explained why Frank’s name wasn’t on the card . . . but how does she know my sisters? Why is she so plainly signing the card
Aunt Julia
and referring to her husband as
Uncle Frank
? The letter’s postmarked from Long Island . . . why is she
just now
getting in touch with me when, minus my three years at college upstate, the farthest I’ve ever lived from her is ninety minutes away in Manhattan?
I call Camille and read the letter out loud. “So, come on! What do you think?”
She pauses, then cautiously puts this forth: “Maybe we stayed with her when we were kids.”
“Camille, I have zero recollection of staying with this woman.
Julia
: Does that sound even vaguely familiar to you?”
“Gi, maybe this is the place I remember that had the willow tree and all the kids.”
“When?”
“When you were
really
little.”
“Maybe Cookie and Paul were just deadbeats, and so Julia and Frank took us in—”
“Gi, it’s possible that this Accerbi is no relation to Paul.”
“But she mentioned Paul . . . and why is she calling herself my aunt?”
“We probably just called them aunt and uncle, and that’s how she’s signing her letters. Plenty of our foster parents did that. That is the only logical explanation—Gi, please don’t get your hopes up.”
I pause. “She wrote her number in the card. I’m going to call her and go out there.”
“How will you get there?” Camille asked.
“I’ll rent a car in Manhattan and drive.” Ninety minutes is nothing after waiting thirty-one years for answers. “Then I’ll come to see you afterward and fill you in on what happened. Unless, of course,” I prod gently, “you want to join me?”
Camille sighs, considering what to do for my sake, but already I know her decision. She has no desire to revisit our past and has worked hard to create a new existence with Frank and their kids. Once in awhile I can get her to join me on my melancholy drives to Saint James Elementary School, Cordwood Beach, or the Saint James General Store. I try to remember how we frolicked at these places, how they provided our only space to be carefree kids, but Camille remembers what an older sister would: the turbulence, the abuse, the starving, and the heartache. We were a hapless group of savvy street-smart kids trying to build a home out of nothing; and just because I may get some answers about my past doesn’t make Camille excited to go there, too. “You go,” she finally says. “With three kids, I have enough going on. She wrote to you—go see her. Then come here afterward.”
“Okay. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you, too, bug.” She pauses. “Regina?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember what I said: Please be careful.”
Winter 1998 to 2003
S
ITTING IN THE
parked rental car, I turn up the heat and rest back to absorb the details of the panorama in front of me. The weeping willow in the front yard is the first thing that catches me; its huge, sad branches swaying in the early February chill. My eyes wander to the chain-linked fence encasing the property when a memory comes rushing at me: I’m tiny, standing on the inside of the fence, giggling madly as a boy much bigger stretches his fingers through the metal triangles and tries to tickle my belly.
Shifting my gaze to the garden, I fix on a statue of the Virgin Mary sheltered by a ceramic clamshell. Vibrant flowers bursting in pink, orange, and yellow surround her—a contrast to the brown lawn and bushes that are dry and barren from the winter. I take in the breadth of the house; how ordinary it is: yellow shingles and weathered wooden shutters with nailed-in plastic cutout images of horses and buggies. I notice the cracked cement of the driveway; the neglected trees and bushes that are years overdue for trimming.
I exit the car and cross the street slowly, ignoring my nervousness in order to open the chain-linked gate and walk the broken path to the front door. This close to the flower beds, I see that the clusters of silky color are artificial bouquets stuck upright in the frosted soil. I step toward the front door—protected by an exterior storm door framed with Police Youth League and Jesus and Mary decals. Jesus’ face is plastered on stickers representing every phase of his life, and as I move to open the storm door, the inner door suddenly opens. A woman shrunken by age appears. She’s wearing a flowered knee-length day dress, slippers, and a tightly sprayed white bouffant. “Regina?” she asks.
“Yes. Hello, Julia.”
She opens the door and moves to me on the porch. I stay still while, with wide eyes, she examines me—first my hair, then my face and my clothes . . . then finally my hand as she takes it in hers. Suddenly, her small frame opens, her arms stretching in an invitation for me to walk into them for a hug. I freeze: it’s almost too much to take in. By the look on her face, it’ll be devastating for her if I refuse, so I fix my arms around her in a political hug—a guarded non-embrace. For a moment we remain this way—Julia, breathing me in; and me, telling myself it’s safe to soften to her affection. Finally, she moves away but keeps a gentle hold on the sleeve of my coat. “Go on, dear,” she says. “Please, make yourself at home.”
Passing through the front door to the living room, I look in at the worn carpeted steps leading to the second floor. It’s as if I’m outside of myself, watching a movie of this moment: I recognize all of this place. I know what lies up those stairs—three bedrooms and a yellow bathroom. My eyes move toward the dining area with its oval table and the plastic-covered chair they used to sit me in, propped up on phone books and pillows so I could reach the table. If I walk through the dining room, I’ll find the kitchen, with a yellow and brown linoleum floor, a small stove tucked in the corner, and the large window above the sink where I used to bathe. I’ll also find the door to the fenced backyard whose knob was always too high for me to reach, and the interior stairs that lead down to a carpeted basement with two small couches that I remember well: That’s where my sisters and I used to sleep at night.
Julia escorts me into the kitchen: still yellow and brown. “I baked you crumb cake,” she says. “Would you like a slice? Some baked ziti?”
“I’d love some crumb cake, please,” I tell her. This moment is surreal; awkward, yet so familiar.
“You look like him, you know.”
I pause for a beat. Would she refer to my father so plainly?
“You look like Pauly. When your grandmother held you, she told Pauly that you looked just like him when he was a baby. I think you still do! Those Accerbi features. He’s your father, you know. You said the crumb cake, right?”
Is this really happening? “When did Paul’s mother hold me?”
“When you were here—you and your sisters lived here when you were little.”
I knew it. This is the Happy House, and it was our home. I think of asking Julia whether I can use the phone to call Camille, but I don’t even want to take a breath that could risk derailing our conversation.
“I’ve been thinking about where to begin, so I guess I’ll start at the beginning: with them dating.” She sets the cake in front of me and I edge it to the side, more enticed by the revelations that are lingering than the cakey cinnamon scent rising from the plate. “Cookie and Pauly dated,” Julia says. “God, I remember my first impression of Cookie: her striking dark eyes, white skin like milk, and those two adorable little girls. Pauly dated a lot of girls after he and Carol divorced, but he wouldn’t bring them all around here,” she says. “But sure enough, he brought your mom a few times. Pauly has another daughter, you know, from his marriage to Carol. So you have another sister, and two nieces—I think they still live in Alaska.”
“How did we end up here?”
She stays silent a moment, then reaches out for my hand. “Frank—that was my husband, Paul’s older brother. He died ten years ago. See, Frank already had three kids from his first marriage but his wife died giving birth to the third, God rest her soul. Then we had three more, and Frank worked full-time to support us all. But, you know, for a family of eight, we needed more income. So I watched other people’s kids while they worked. Parents brought their children to me either by references or they’d find me in the Pennysaver ads.”
I look at her hand, still on mine. With carefully chosen words, Julia explains she hadn’t seen Cookie for over a year and a half after she and Paul stopped dating. “So I was . . . surprised, we’ll say, when she responded to one of my ads asking for day care for her three girls. The first morning, she shows up with little Cherie and Camille by her side, and she hands me this sweet baby girl—you had just turned a year old. And she says to me, ‘I’ll be back after work.’ So after about ten days of bringing you girls, Cookie appears on my stoop . . . and I’m just staring at this suitcase she’s carrying. ‘It just has some of the girls’ toys,’ she says. ‘It’ll keep them occupied during the day.’ That Cookie, I’ll never forget it: She smiled and told me, ‘Have a great day!’ Then as she’s waltzing toward her car, she calls over her shoulder, ‘Oh, by the way, Regina is Pauly’s baby!’
“With you in my arms, I’m standing on the porch calling out to her: ‘Cookie, wait!’ But she ignores me and just pulls out of the driveway. I remember wondering how she could be so detached from these kids, you know? These three beautiful little girls. After she left, I went inside and opened the suitcase, and what did I find? Not toys. Oh, no. I found clothes . . . and cockroaches.”
I look away. “She’s disgusting.”
“I slammed the case closed and put it out at the curb. Then for the next eight hours I fumed, ready to lay into her when she returned that evening. But even by the time Frank got home, you girls were still here. She never returned. I told Frank, ‘You call Pauly and your mother,’ and immediately they both came over. As soon as Paul walked in, he saw your two sisters and said, ‘What the hell are these girls doing here?’ Then he looked to his mother, who was holding you in her arms. She said, ‘Paul, this child is your baby.’ Pauly turns to me and says, ‘Get rid of these kids!’ Then he turned around and left the house.”
So all the years as a child, when I wondered whether my father existed, he knew I existed. “But you didn’t get rid of us?”
“No. We ignored Paul—the whole family did. There was a right thing to do, to take responsibility for you . . . and he refused to do it. And, so, soon the weeks turned into months and the months turned into a year, and nobody knew where Cookie went. We finally turned to Suffolk County social services and asked them to just give us food stamps to cover the costs of our food. And instead of helping us, what does social services do? They demand we turn you girls over to the county for placement in an orphanage or foster home.” She rubs her temples, then places one hand, resting on her wrist, on the table. “Frank resisted. He told them he was not going to turn over his niece and her two sisters to complete strangers so you all could end up in an orphanage. All we needed was food stamps, no money. The county refused.” She leans back in her chair, resigned. “That’s when it all became a big mess.”
Julia explains that she and Frank hurried out of the social services’ office, and the social workers asked when they were bringing us back. “Frank hollered over his shoulder, ‘Never!’ I thought he’d have a heart attack. A couple of days later, three social workers and the police showed up on our doorstep and demanded we turn you over. Frank clutched you so tight that it took two social workers to tear one arm at a time off of you, while the third took you from him.
“Your Uncle Frank never saw you again after that,” Julia says. “He was devastated. He always wondered what happened to you and your sisters, and finally he came to accept that he was never going to see you again. Then—out of the blue—you wrote him in 1983. When we got your letter, he opened it, thinking it was for him, then he realized you wanted him to hand it off to Pauly. He called Pauly and read it to him. ‘You son of a bitch,’ Frank says, ‘you get over here and talk about this. I am your brother. Let me help you do the right thing.’ When Pauly arrived, Frank told him that he knew full well that you were his daughter, that he had to take responsibility for you and get you out of that foster home.”
“So what did Paul do?”
“Pauly? Not a thing, honey. Such a shame. My Frank . . . a decade he’s been gone and I just could not bring myself to go through his papers. Finally, before last Christmas, I knew it was time to go through them. That’s when I found the envelope. Pauly took that letter”—my stomach flips in excitement to hear Paul had cared to keep that much—“but your uncle Frank held on to the envelope all this time. He refused to throw it out. So when I found it, I knew he held on to it so that one day he could contact you . . . let you know the truth. I guess you could say it was for him that I reached out to you. Frank always wanted to right this somehow.” She looks at me softly, almost apologetically. “I was worried. It’s been sixteen years since you wrote that letter. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to find you, but when the letter didn’t come back, I knew you must have gotten it.”
Julia goes on to tell me that she’ll answer any questions I have under one condition: No one in the Accerbi family can know who I really am. “I’ll tell them you and your sisters were some of the kids I used to watch back in the sixties.” She leans forward. “Regina, please understand: If the Accerbis ever find out what I’ve done by getting in touch with you, they’ll disown me. We’re a close family, you know? Just promise me you’ll keep all this to yourself.”
I nod and scoot my plate of crumb cake toward me. “I promise.”
Julia rises from the table and walks out of the kitchen, holding on to the same banister that I used to hold when I was a toddler. When the bathroom door shuts behind her, I wander around the kitchen, then drift into the dining room, over to the head of the table where I remember perching myself to look out at the backyard, where I remember Julia throwing birthday parties for her kids with streamers, balloons, and piñatas. On the dining room table is a personal phone book with each entry carefully handwritten. I look closer at the open page,
A
:
Accerbi
. Then scroll down the page until I see it:
Paul & Joan.
From the side pocket of my handbag I pull out my address book and pen and write quickly, checking their phone number closely. When the floor creaks behind me, I turn to see Julia standing there. “I see you found what you came for.”
“I did.” I smile. “Thank you.”
“I’m not feeling well,” Julia says. “For years I haven’t been well. My body gets bloated and it gets difficult to sit or even to breathe. I need to rest,” she says. “But I want you to come back and see me soon, please—bring your sisters with you, Regina. I’d love to see them again.”
I meet her at the foot of the stairs and kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Julia.” Just as I push out of the front door, two middle-aged women open the gate and head toward the house. I shoot Julia a look and she steps in to introduce me. “Regina, these are my daughters: Yvonne and Darlene. Girls, you might remember Regina. She was one of the girls I used to watch. You remember her sisters, Cherie and Camille?”
“Me Too!” Yvonne says. “We called Camille ‘Me Too’ because every time Cherie asked for something, Camille would say, ‘Me too’!”
I smile, remembering the old moniker my sisters used to use. “Yes,” I tell them. “Camille was Me Too. It’s nice to see you both.”
I put the keys in the ignition and let out a deep exhale, giving myself a minute to take it all in. This was the Happy House. It really exists, more than one of the last pieces of a broken, puzzled childhood: also the home of my family. I have relatives. It crosses my mind to drive around once more and stare at the house, but instead I head straight to Camille’s.
“Camille, I remembered everything,” I tell her. “The linoleum in the kitchen, the Mary statue outside.” As I relay the details to Camille, together we reach our conclusion: It was after being taken from the Happy House that we ended up at the home of the Giannis’—the Bubble House. That’s when we were finally taken to the Glue Factory and I encountered Cookie for the first time.
Christmas Mama.
“So what are you going to do with Paul’s information? Anything?” Camille says.
I’m busy collecting my thoughts. This man—now, almost certainly, my father—rejected me twice, and I refuse to let him do it again. I need time to develop a rational strategy: Either I will inform him that I know that he is my father, or compel him to take a DNA test. Either route requires extremely thoughtful processing. “I’m at peace, surprisingly. For now, this is enough.”
“Well, good, sweetie.”
Besides, for Julia’s sake, I need to tread cautiously.
On my drive back to Manhattan, something else clicks: the screen door with the Jesus stickers and the Mary statue on the front lawn; the ceramic Jesus heads hanging on the wall not too far from the ceramic plate of Jesus and the bronze cross of Jesus. Something about all of the Jesus images weighs on me as I try to recall why they seem so familiar. Instead of taking my car back to the rental agency, I drive straight to my apartment, find a parking spot, and run up the five flights to my apartment. “Camille,” I huff into the phone in excitement, “Julia had images of Jesus all over her house, from before you even open the front door. When did I begin to carry the Baby Jesus figurines everywhere?”