Stella Mia (34 page)

I nod my head. “I found them. I also found this.” I take her diary from my suitcase and hold it out to her.

She stares at the diary for a moment before taking it. Opening the cover, she flips through the pages and then pauses to read a few of the entries. Closing her eyes for a moment, she releases a deep breath and says, “I thought I would never see this again.”

“But you must've realized you left it behind?”

“I could've sworn I packed it. I never would have left my diary behind out of fear that your father would find it. He's a good man. I didn't want to hurt him, and then later . . .” She pauses before continuing. “Then later when I didn't come home . . . Well, I suppose at that point it wouldn't have mattered if he found it. For I had already broken his heart by not going back home.”

“So he never knew about Carlo? I was too afraid to ask him for the same reason. I didn't want to hurt him any more than he's been hurt already.”

My mother shakes her head. “He didn't know. So you read the diary then.”

“I'm sorry. But I couldn't resist. I wanted to know more about you.”

“I'm glad you read it. Please, don't be sorry.” My mother says this in English, surprising me. She sees my surprise and says, “As you must know, your father was teaching me, but I learned little while I was in New York. A few years after I returned to Sicily, I took lessons.”

“But why? You didn't really need to know English here.”

“I wanted to be able to speak to you in English someday.”

I'm stunned.

“You were planning on coming back?”

“I was.”

“So why didn't you?” I can't hide the irritation from my voice. I try to restrain myself, but I can't, and the anger I've kept inside me for almost four decades is unleashed.

“How could you have left your three-year-old daughter behind? Do you have any idea how hard it's been for me growing up without a mother? I had to watch my friends' mothers attend their graduations, bake cookies for them, go shopping with them for their prom dresses and wedding dresses, while I wondered why my own mother couldn't be there for me. I used to cry myself to sleep at times, going over and over in my mind that last day I saw you when you played with me in our yard. I used to fantasize that you would come home and never leave. I drove Daddy nuts when I was a little girl, crying and asking him when you would come home. And then when I got a little older, I asked him why you had never returned. Your absence from my life has made me question whether I can ever be a good mother if I decide to have children. How can I be when I don't know what it's like to have a mother's love? And what about Daddy? Do you know how lonely he's been since you left? He's never allowed himself to fall in love with anyone else, and I don't know why, but he never wanted to get a divorce from you. I guess it didn't matter once you fell off the Earth—and then when you refused to tell Daddy where you were or what you'd been up to? But it all makes sense now. You didn't want us to know about your other life as a rich, famous singer.”

“You know about that?” Sarina's face pales.

“My husband hired a private investigator to find you. He told us. I didn't believe it, but now that I'm here and I see this house on a private beach and your servants, I know it's true. Of course you didn't want Daddy to know. For how could a rich, successful woman still abandon her child and not even go to see her? You had the money. And even if you didn't, Daddy had money. He would've sent it to you to come home or to come visit me. But the truth is you were worried if your fans found out you had a child whom you had abandoned, that would've ruined your career. You were selfish and didn't want to be tied down to a husband or a child. Who knows? Maybe you never returned because you met up with Carlo again and wanted to be with your old lover. For all I know, you could have faked that letter from your cousin.”

Sarina's eyes fill with tears. She blinks them back.

“You have every right to be angry with me and hate me. I wouldn't expect anything less,” Sarina whispers, her voice choking up.

Seeing her in pain hurts me, but I try to quell the feeling. I can't let her break me.

“But you're wrong in thinking that I faked my cousin Agata's letter just so I could return here and find Carlo. And you're wrong in thinking that I was ashamed of you and feared my fans would find out I had abandoned my child. They knew about it.”

“What?” I ask incredulously.

“In my songs, I talked about leaving you. So they knew.”

“But they probably thought you were talking about someone else or a fictitious person.”

“I was asked about it in interviews, especially since a few of my songs were about my pain over leaving you. I didn't lie. I told the truth. It cost me fans, and my record that was out at the time had the worst sales, but I didn't care. I refused to deny you existed and to pretend to the world I was something I was not. It was a small punishment for me to pay for leaving you.

“Julia, I'd like to tell you everything that happened when I returned to Sicily. But if you'd rather not hear it, I understand. I'm not telling you this to defend myself, but I believe the time for secrets is over. I think you can agree.”

“There have been too many secrets. It's time I hear the truth from your lips.”

She begins recounting what transpired after she left me. I can't help but wonder if her story will merely create a deeper rift between us.

Sarina's Other Life . . .

 

 

 

“W
hen I returned to Sicily, it was bittersweet. I knew I wouldn't see you for some time, and then I found out my mother had stomach cancer. I tried to remain optimistic for the children's sake, but I knew her days were numbered and vowed to make whatever time Mama had be as comfortable as possible. While I was happy to be reunited with Mama and my siblings, those first few weeks were extremely difficult. They had all lost so much weight and were basically starving, relying on whatever food my cousin Agata could give them. Thankfully due to your father's kindness, I had money to buy food and Mama's medicine once I arrived in Sicily. But I knew the money would not last long, and I had too much pride to ask Paolo to send more.”

“Paolo?” I ask.

“That's what I called your father. Paulie was too hard for me to say when I first met him, and then even when I did learn how to pronounce it correctly, he preferred I keep calling him Paolo.”

Of course, I forgot that I had read in Sarina's diary that she had a difficult time saying “Paulie.” It's hard for me to picture my father as anything other than Daddy or Paulie. Even when I see his real name, Paul, on mail he receives, it's odd for me.

“So I did what I knew how to do. I set up shop in my mother's home and began reading tarot cards. It was slow though. Wives were afraid their husbands would find out they were spending money to have their fortunes read. Of course, many of the ones who came did so behind their husbands' backs. But it was barely enough to feed a household of five. I went into Barcellona to try to find work at one of the shops or restaurants. I was able to get work as a dishwasher in a restaurant. Agata looked after the children while I worked at night. By day, I took care of my mother and ran the household. Enzo and Carlotta helped as much as they could. Like me when I was their age, they were forced to grow up beyond their years. But they didn't seem to mind. They were so happy I was with them again, and they kept asking me to regale them with stories about America and the tall buildings I had seen in New York. They were curious about you and asked me why I hadn't brought you with me.”

My lips purse tightly at hearing this. I meet Sarina's gaze, but she lowers her eyes.

“I showed them photographs of you, which they loved. Anyway, when I learned of my mother's illness, naturally there was no way I could return to New York within a matter of weeks as I had initially planned on doing. Paolo understood of course.”

“I know. He told me. He also told me you refused to return to America with your siblings after your mother died.”

Sarina folds her hands in her lap and looks down at them. “That is true. Did he tell you why I was afraid of returning?”

“He said you were afraid you were going to kill yourself.”

“I was, Julia. You have to believe me.”

“But you might've been happier in New York the second time around with your siblings there. You would have had them and me to occupy you.”

“It wouldn't have mattered, Julia. Lord knows I was busy taking care of a newborn, and that still didn't block out the dark thoughts that ran through my mind. I hit you once. Did your father tell you about that?”

“He did, but you just lost your temper. All parents lose their temper. It's not like you kept hitting me.”

“No, but I found myself with my hand raised in the air more than once. Somehow I realized what I was about to do and stopped myself. But the time I completely lost control and hit you, I just reacted. I didn't even stop to think about what I was doing. It was in an instant. That horrified me—how I could go into a rage in mere seconds and without any warning. I was terrified I was becoming my father. You read my diary and of the abuse I suffered at his hands. I could never forgive myself for doing that to you. I was twenty-two when I left you. While I was no longer the teenager your father had married, I was still quite young. I didn't have the foresight to completely grasp the consequences my leaving would have on you. Had I known then the extreme pain I would cause you, as well as the guilt I have had to carry, I might have acted differently. I might have returned to New York. I really thought you would be better off without me. But there is more to my story.

“The money I was making washing dishes at the restaurant still wasn't quite enough. And as I said earlier, I wasn't making much reading tarot cards out of my mother's home. I worked up the courage to ask the owner one evening if he would let me sing one or two nights a week. I convinced him that by having entertainment he would get more patrons dining at his restaurant. He agreed to let me sing two nights a week, and he paid me for those nights. He also let me keep whatever tips the patrons gave me. After a month, his restaurant was beyond full on the nights I would sing. He asked me to sing from the middle of the week through the weekend, when the restaurant was at its busiest. I took a chance and told him I would only perform on those extra nights if I could stop washing dishes and if he doubled my earnings as a singer. He agreed. After about three months, I again worked up the courage to ask him for a raise. I knew how well the restaurant was doing, and it was largely because of my singing. He tried to talk me out of a raise, and can you believe I threatened to walk out on him?” Sarina laughs. “I was no longer the naïve teenage girl who worked for the likes of Signore Conti. I was becoming more confident in my talents as a singer, and I wanted to provide for my family as best I could. Finally, I was able to buy Mama the china set I had promised her. And I bought new clothes for the children. I even bought Carlotta a new doll, and I bought two cats for Enzo. I also began sending money to your father. It was for you of course.”

“You did? He never told me.”

“That's because he returned it. I knew he didn't need the money, but it was my small way of trying to provide for you, just like I was doing for my mother and siblings. Since he wouldn't accept my money, I sent packages with little toys and clothes. Many of the clothes I knit myself in the middle of the night. I had begun having insomnia after I returned to Sicily. I think I did not want to go to sleep because my dreams were always filled with you. So I knitted when I couldn't sleep, which was most nights. I was relieved you lived in a place that had very cold winters and could use the warm clothes I was knitting for you.”

“My father did tell me you had knit clothes for me, but he only mentioned the ones you made while you were pregnant with me.”

“He might have forgotten. Ask him when you talk to him.”

“He told me he saved the clothes you had knit when you were expecting me. I'll look for them when I go back home.”

Sarina smiles. “I know it didn't compare to having me with you, but knitting those clothes made me feel in a small way like I was still caring for you.”

“You said you also sent toys. What were they?”

“I bought for you the same doll I had bought for Carlotta. She had beautiful long red hair and was dressed in a Sicilian folk costume. I imagined your own hair would look the same when you got older and let your hair grow.”

“Bella! That's what I named that doll. I remember her! Daddy gave me that doll, but he told me it was from him.”

My mother's face looks pained at hearing that my father lied to me about the doll. I begin getting angry at my father again for all the secrets and even the lies.

“He shouldn't have done that. He should have told me the doll and the other gifts were from you.”

Sarina leans over and places her hand over mine. I'm startled for a moment by the contact. Her hand is warm, and it manages to calm me. Part of me wants to pull away. But I don't.

“Don't be mad at him. He did what he thought was right by you.”

I shake my head. “It's funny. When I confronted him after I read your diary, he told me not to be mad at you. I would think he would still be mad at you for leaving us. I would think he'd want me to be angry with you.”

“Your father was a saint. But he was angry at me and let me have it on the phone when I told him I wasn't coming back—at least not anytime soon. I don't blame him for being angry. He had every right to be.”

“So did you have some idea when you thought you might be able to return?”

“No, not really. I kept waiting for when I was ready.”

“I guess you were never ready. Here I am forty-two years old, and you're in your sixties. I assume it's safe to say you weren't ever going to come back.”

“Let me finish my story, Julia. One night while I was singing at the restaurant, a man was watching me very closely. He was sitting at a table in the front. After I was done performing, he came over and introduced himself to me. He was the owner of a record company. He was on vacation in Sicily and had asked for a restaurant recommendation from one of the local people. He had also heard about the singer whom everyone was flocking to see at the restaurant. His curiosity had been piqued. He told me I was one of the best singers he had ever heard. I was stunned. He wanted to make me famous and offered me a recording contract. I didn't know what to do. I felt overwhelmed. Never in a million years had I imagined myself having an opportunity like this. I sang for myself and to help support my family and me. I never dreamed it would go beyond that. He told me to think about it for a couple of days, and he would return to the restaurant then to get my answer. He also told me that I would never have to worry about money again.

“I went home that night to tell Mama.” Sarina's voice lowers as she turns her head, letting her gaze wander toward the view of the beach. Her eyes look far away.

“She was so happy for me when I told her. I said, ‘Mama, if I do this, you will never have to worry about money again. I will take care of you and the children. I will buy a villa by the beach. You'll never have to live again in this shack of a house that Papá built. You can leave your horrible memories of him behind in this house.'

“Mama stroked my cheek. She was so weak at that point. Her illness had caused her to lose a lot of weight. She looked very small in her bed, and her nightgown swam around her frail body. She said, ‘Sarina, you make me so proud. You always have. Go. Sing for this man. Let the world hear your beautiful voice. Make me and your daughter proud.'

“When the record company owner came to see me, I told him I would do it. I signed the papers that night. The next day, Mama died.” Sarina's voice chokes up.

Tears come to my own eyes.

“I think she was ready to die then because she knew after hearing my news I would be all right. She knew I would be able to take care of my siblings, and they would never have to worry about where their next meal came from.

“So I buried my mother, and then I threw myself into writing song after song. My record came out six months later. The radio stations all over Sicily played it. It wasn't long before everyone knew who I was. I quit my job at the restaurant and began touring, but I would only perform in northeastern Sicily. The children came with me, and the record company even hired a woman to look after them and tutor them while I was working. I was adamant that they resume their studies since I was never able to.

“Singing my heart out to hundreds of people was a strange but wonderful experience. I became another person when I was on stage. Most of my songs were about the struggles I'd had—my father beating me and my mother, finding love and losing it, living day to day trying to get enough money to eat, leaving my beloved island of Sicily for the shores of America, giving birth, leaving you. I sang about all of it, and I felt the pain of everything that had happened to me all over again.

“Enzo, Carlotta, and Pietro loved coming to watch me sing. As I said, I made sure they got the best education. But everything I did for them, I know was also my way of trying to make up for not being able to do the same things for you. The years went by, and every year I resolved I would find the courage to return to you. But then a deep depression would set in. I was terrified of becoming that shell of a person I had been in America. And then the thoughts of ending it all would surface. It was like a demon that would not completely loosen his grip on me. And when he appeared, he reminded me he was only too eager to let me drown in that bottomless pit. You see, Julia, though I was happy to be in Sicily and reunited with my family, there were still times I thought about ending my life. I hated myself for not returning to you and for not being able to be a real mother to you. I think what kept me from carrying the act out was my singing and the hope that someday I would find the courage to come see you.”

Sarina pauses before continuing.

“I bought this villa within a year of my record's coming out. My brothers moved out when they reached their twenties and got married. We're still close, and they come visit me every other weekend. They have children. Enzo has two boys, and Pietro has two girls and a boy. Carlotta also got married, but the only child she had—a girl—died while she was still an infant. Carlotta tried to have other children, but none came. Though she and her husband were very happy, Carlotta still couldn't bear to be far from me, so they bought a house about half a mile from here. Her husband died suddenly of a heart attack five years ago, and she came to stay with me shortly afterward.” Sarina begins coughing. She tries to resume speaking, but the coughing starts up again.

“Do you want me to get you some water?”

She nods her head.

I take her empty wineglass and walk over to the kitchen, which is just off the dining area. I see a bottle of water sitting on the counter and then remember learning during one of my Italian lessons in school that Europeans often like their drinks at room temperature and rarely use ice. Rinsing out her wineglass, I pour water. Sarina's coughing has subsided, but now I hear her clearing her throat. Maybe I should give her a break. No doubt my showing up unexpectedly gave her the shock of her life. Guilt washes over me that I didn't call to let her know I was coming. I could've even called after I landed at the airport. Here I am accusing her of being selfish when all I cared about was confronting her and getting my answers—though what I've heard so far hasn't convinced me yet that her leaving was justified. I also can't help wondering if she's being sincere in telling me she always thought about me and planned on coming to see me someday. However, the knowledge that she sent me gifts while I was growing up is a small comfort. At least I was on her mind. Up until now, I always figured I hadn't been. Sighing deeply, I head back to the living room.