The cabin key, in my jeans pocket, suddenly feels heavier.
“We’ll contest it!” Mrs. Gardner wails from the car, her voice full of grief, her face and clothes crumpled.
The huddle around me starts to disperse. Zio Mario puts his family in the car; the boys with wild, happy eyes, his wife crying and reprimanding at the same time. Cristina has already left, her kids munching on big boxes of Milk Duds, nonplussed. Zia Connie and Zia Rosa wash dishes with Bella in the cabin, gossiping and admonishing too, no doubt, while Papa and Uncle Roberto stack chairs into Vinnie’s pickup.
Jack offers to help clean up. Thanks to my cousins he has an eye that’s going to go black and an angry red scratch across his collarbone.
I shake my head. “No, it’s okay, thank you.”
Together we look out at the mess. The table has been righted but the ground is still covered in broken crockery and food and discarded cutlery.
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “There are lots of hands.”
Jack clears his throat. “I was coming to warn you. Mrs. Gardner called. She sounded . . . well, how she was.”
“There was nothing you could do,” I say.
“I’ve never seen her like that.”
“She hates me.”
Jack pauses, but doesn’t disagree with me. “What will happen now? Will you stay?”
I tip my head, considering.
“Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”
“It’s okay. It’s just that I don’t know.”
He nods, looks down at his feet. He’s wearing black Havaianas; I’m surprised he ran as fast as he did in them.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
“It’s not your fault.”
He winces and clears his throat again. “No, I mean about the other day. I should never have said what I said.”
I shake my head. “No, I asked. I was—”
“You were upset. I shouldn’t have—”
“Jack. Stop. Please. I was unfair and I should be the one saying sorry. Please stop saying sorry?”
“Okay.”
I think of myself screaming at him, leaning against the car, being helped into his house. A whirling, wailing, confused tornado of grief. Not unlike Mrs. Gardner. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Maybe we should agree to pretend it never happened,” I say.
Jack doesn’t reply.
I open my eyes to find him staring at me, bruised and expectant.
“Frankie, if you ever want . . . a friend . . . or something. To talk or have a coffee . . .”
He looks away.
“Coffee?” I ask.
He nods, still not looking at me. “Coffee. Tea. Cake. A piece of bread . . . a walk. Pretty much anything.”
“Anything,” I repeat, dumbly, feeling oddly light-headed.
“Yeah. I know I shouldn’t be saying this, but I don’t want you to just disappear, if that’s what you’re going to do, without saying . . .”
“Okay,” I mumble.
He looks down at his legs, brushes dirt from them, coughs. I can’t stop staring at him.
“I should get back to Huia,” he says. “Merriem said she’d get her painting eggs.”
“It’s not Easter,” I say.
“I don’t think it matters. They made Christmas cookies a few weeks ago.”
I suddenly have a vision of Merriem and Huia peering into an oven full of baking cookies. The kitchen is warm and smells of cinnamon and brown sugar and there’s a bowl of runny red icing on the counter with a wooden spoon in it that’s already been licked. Huia’s face is scrunched up because she’s impatient, and Merriem has her arm around her. My tongue ties; I can’t remember what I was going to say. I stare at Jack as my eyes start to fill with tears.
“Frankie? Are you all right?” His voice is thick with concern.
“Yes,” I say, taking a quick breath. “Yes, fine, sorry. You should go. Huia will be getting worried.”
“I can stay and help.”
“No.” It comes out too blunt and I regret it. “It’s fine. Truly, I’m fine,” I lie.
But when Jack does leave, retreating down the winding path through the trees that takes him out of sight, I realize my hands are shaking. The memory of Mrs. Gardner twisting out of her shirt, her eyes bulging and ferocious; learning that the cabin was Alex’s all along and now it’s mine; the image of Merriem and Huia together without me; and the thought of not being here with them and close to Jack—they all leave me trembling.
Chapter Twenty-one
• • • •
I sense someone beside me and turn to see Daniel. He takes hold of my quivering hand and squeezes it. His presence is so much like Alex’s it makes my whole body uncoil from the inside.
“I have to go,” Daniel tells me. “I think Mom needs me right now.”
I notice that he’s changed into a clean shirt. I stand by while he pushes some clothes into a bag, his guitar beside him. I pass him a sweater he has dropped.
“Alex never told me about the cabin,” I say.
Daniel nods. “I don’t think he ever thought about it actually belonging to him. Granddad died a long time ago.”
“Alex was his favorite.”
“Yeah, he was.”
“Your mom and dad thought it would go back to the family.”
Daniel shrugs. “You were his family too, Frankie.”
Tears threaten again. I feel as though I’ve stolen something. “I don’t need it. It should be yours.”
He shakes his head. “It was Alex’s. It was his decision for you to have it. I know you’ll take care of it, choose what to do. . . . It’ll be right.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. It will be okay. In the end.” His voice is weary and resigned. “I don’t want a cabin, Frankie. I want my brother. That’s all I care about.”
“I know,” I whisper.
The idea of the cabin being legally mine is too strange to deal with, and I know that Mrs. Gardner is serious about contesting the will. I can’t imagine it will be mine after the Gardners are through throwing money and lawyers and rage into the fight for it. Daniel is right. Beyond the strangeness is the fact that it doesn’t really matter. We both wish it was still Alex’s and that Alex was still alive.
I know I won’t tell Daniel about Summer. Someone else might, one day, perhaps, but I won’t.
“No wonder your mom was angry,” I say.
“She’s really hurting.”
“She never liked me, Daniel.”
“No.” He clears his throat. “I never understood it before. Then today she mentioned the French . . . woman.”
I think of standing on the lawn with her that long-ago day when I had first met his parents. The cold glass in my hand and the way she had asked where my family was from.
“She once said I reminded her of someone.”
Daniel nods and looks uncomfortable.
“Her father had an affair. She was French. She might have been a nanny. I’m not sure of all the details, but I know it broke Mom’s family apart. It changed the way people thought of them all. I’m so sorry, Frankie, I never knew you reminded her of that woman.”
“I never had a chance,” I mumble.
Daniel continues, almost to himself, “I think she was messed up from what happened. She gets these ideas in her head about the way things need to be. They don’t always make sense. Half the time I can’t guess what the rules are, but when they’re not the way they should be she can get pretty mad. It’s been like that since we were little. Everything has to be a certain way.”
I nod. That just about sums up my idea of Mrs. Gardner—everything has to be a certain way. The house, the yard, and, most of all, her boys. Especially her Alex.
“It makes life bearable, I guess,” Daniel adds. “Safe. She can cope when she’s in control. When things are exactly the way she likes them.”
“I was never what she
planned for Alex, was I?”
Daniel shakes his head. “But nothing is how she planned, Frankie. Or hoped. Just about everything is a mess and she doesn’t know what to do about it. Alex’s . . . death”—the word makes him take a breath—“she can’t do anything about it and that makes her crazy.”
I place my hand on his shoulder and he half smiles. I notice the violet half moons under his tired eyes. Looking down at his half-packed bag reminds me that he’s the only son left. He will have to make everything better for his mom all on his own.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“It’s a mess—but, Frankie, it’s not your fault. It’s not about the cabin. It’s just Mom and how she is. And right now she’s in a lot of pain.”
I nod. That I understand. For the first time in years I feel some empathy for Mrs. Gardner, knowing that her pain must ache and burn just like mine does. I always imagined that she was angry with me for somehow stealing her son away from her, and that she would make me pay for it. When she saw me, she saw a threat, a thief. When she saw me, she saw the French woman who had broken everything, robbed her of her happy family and changed her entire world. But now her son truly has been stolen. From both of us.
The two of us left so very empty-handed.
* * *
Daniel whispers a good-bye to Bella and we wave as his car disappears. Aunty Rosa kisses me on each cheek before she too gets into her car. Uncle Roberto gives a little nod from behind the steering wheel.
“Now,” Aunty Rosa says, leaning out of the window, “you ignore the things that . . . woman said. It’s not true. You’re a good girl, Francesca. Brava Carusa.”
“Thank you, Zia.”
She nods. “We’ll see you at Mass next week.”
I look over to Bella, who is now standing at the window of Vinnie’s pickup truck. She pats the window frame twice. Vinnie gives me a quick glance as he turns over the engine; his bottom lip is swollen from the fight. I glare at him. You are not forgiven.
The pickup truck trails the car up the driveway. Bella and I watch them go.
Papa clears his throat behind us. We both turn to him. There’s still some light in the sky but it’s becoming violet. Papa has put on a thick, cream woolen sweater with wooden toggles at the neck, which he’s had for years. There are patches on the elbows. He has a bottle of homemade rosolio and a couple of glasses.
“Zia Connie need some more help in there?” Bella asks.
“She’s just packing up the last of her dishes, then I’ll drive her home,” Papa replies.
Bella nods and goes inside, and Papa gestures towards the two Adirondack chairs. We sit and he smiles at me.
“Did Mama make you that sweater?”
He glances down at it. “Sì. You didn’t know?”
I shake my head.
“She made it when she was pregnant with you.”
He passes me a glass. The citrus and herb smell is sweet and strong.
“Thank you.”
Papa sips from his glass. “She was tired of making all those little shoes—what do you call them?”
“Booties?”
He smiles. “Yes, booties. And hats. She made so many that you got too big before you could wear them all. She was so excited.”
The aunties have told me what a miracle it was for Mama to get pregnant with one baby, let alone two. I think Aunty Connie fancied she’d played a part with her constant prayers. Perhaps she did, although prayers couldn’t save Mama in the end.
“It’s getting cool,” Papa says, glancing around.
“Hmmm.”
“I didn’t think you would stay out here so long.”
“It’s not been that long.”
“I thought you would move in with me.”
I don’t reply. I’m now even less sure where I will live.
Papa sips more of his rosolio and sighs. “I should be with trees more often. So much forest in Washington. I never noticed. You know?”
“Yes, I know.”
“Merriem says there are many hiking trails. Some near our neighborhood.”
I glance down at Papa’s leather shoes, his neatly pressed pants. I can’t imagine him hiking, although if anyone could convince him it would be Merriem. My gaze lifts back up to his sweater. The knitting is thick and complicated. It’s a timeless style; he could probably keep wearing it till the wool gave out completely. I’m surprised the color has held, hasn’t grayed over time, but then that’s Papa’s care. He would wash it with Mama in mind, making sure to look after it just so. Perhaps even thinking of Mama while his hands are in the water; remembering her rounded, pregnant shape curled over the knitting needles, lit by the glow of the television, her dark hair falling down her slight back.
“Do you still miss her? Mama. After all this time?”
Papa looks at me. He hesitates. “Sì. I miss her still.”
“I’ve been trying to do the right thing, Papa,” I whisper.
“I know. Of course you have.”
“I don’t remember Mama much.” There is guilt in my voice.
“You were so small, Francesca. You’re not supposed to remember.” He tips his head to look up at the darkening sky. “She knows you love her.”
I wonder what she would think of me now. I take another sip and watch Papa roll his glass in his hands.
“People talk about closure,” I say.
He frowns. “What is this?”
“When you get over something, I guess. When it doesn’t hurt so much.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did you have a time when it . . .” I can’t think how to put it.
“Went away?” he asks.
I nod slowly.
Papa shuffles closer to me and puts an arm around my back. I can feel the thickness of the wool of his sweater, smell the slight damp in it from the chill air. Like Hudson’s Bay blankets and winter coats. “Life becomes better. Things become better. But it remains. It always remains. I never had this closure.” He gives me a kind look. “I’m sorry, cara mia. I would never wish this for you. It will get better. But, probably, it will never go away.”
I nod. I know as much, within myself, but hearing him say it makes it real. Alex is gone. He will always be gone. Mama is gone. She will always be gone. Perhaps Alex and Mama are in the same place. Looking down on me.
“Darling?”
I look into Papa’s face.
“You don’t have to come back home. You don’t have to do anything. But don’t stay here too long.” He reaches into his pocket and unfolds an envelope. “Giulia asked me to give you this.”
“What is it?”
“A letter. From your travel insurance.”
I take it but don’t open it.
“Giulia explained to them what happened. They’ve given you a refund. A voucher. You can use it for other travel.”
“Other travel?” I repeat.
Papa nods. “Life will be better, duci. But you have to . . . live it. You see?”
He squeezes me against him.
“Yes, Papa. I see.”
Wishing that I did.
* * *
As Papa and Aunty Connie are leaving, it starts to rain for the first time since I arrived at the cabin. The rain smells different in the forest. In town, it smells warm, of steaming concrete, wet clothes, and wet hair. Here, I realize, you can almost smell it before it falls, as if the ground is opening itself up in anticipation. It’s warm and mushroomy—loamy. And then the rain slowly patters down through layers of leaves and branches and whatever else lives far above our heads. Mosses, lichens, parasitic plants, microcosms nestled in protected crevices where branches reach out from trunks like arms.
Bella and I are struck dumb for a moment, then we run into the cabin. Inside we lie, rain-splashed and a bit breathless, on top of the bed, listening to the drops.
When we were small and it rained, we would take a big golf umbrella outside and sit underneath it together. We had to curl up tight to both
fit, with as many toys as we could manage, too. A couple of dolls, a teddy bear, doll furniture. We could play under there a very long time. Why it was different to play under an umbrella in the rain as opposed to being inside by a window, for instance, I don’t know. Luckily for us it rained a lot in Seattle so we had plenty of opportunities to dash outside with Papa’s big green-and-red-striped umbrella and make up stories and games, worlds, and dynasties. And when Mama died, it felt like there were just the two of us against the world. We were as close as twins for a while. Papa was grieving, and the aunties were busy looking after the practical things—Aunty Rosa making meals; Aunty Connie giving us our baths. The hushed voices, careful footsteps. Those poor girls.
Before Mama died, the house was always full of activity. When she wasn’t sick, Mama was busier than a bee. She always had something to do and something to clean. In the summer, she made simple sauce and preserved lemons. In winter, she darned anything that needed mending and made lavender drawer pillows to keep insects at bay. Fall was for directing Papa to rake the leaves, and freezing meals for the winter. In spring, she harvested zucchini and kept the yard from going completely wild. In between the seasonal chores were the weekly chores for the family and the church. In between the weekly chores were the daily chores—meals, vacuuming, dusting, wiping things down, chatting to friends on the phone, making espresso and more espresso and yet more espresso. Without Mama, our house was strangely, horribly silent and calm. It was better to be outside in a world of our own making, the sound of the rain ping-ping-pinging off our makeshift shelter.
On the cabin’s bed, I lie closest to the wall with Bella laid out on my left. The rain drums the roof. Bella is staring up into the beams, where graying cobwebs stretch out like hammocks in corners and crevices.
“I saw you talking to Vinnie. He could barely look at me all day,” I say.
Bella sniggers. “Coward. He was supposed to apologize to you. Although that was before . . .”
I shake my head. “What a mess. Jack’s properly hurt, you know. Trust Vinnie to be in among it all.”
“It wasn’t just him. Luca was the worst. Vinnie was trying to break it up.”
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