by Brenda Grate
“Catarina?” It was Bettina beside her.
“Yes?”
“Please, you haven’t seen your Mamma yet, have you?”
Catarina’s Italian was rusty, but she was sure Bettina had asked if she’d seen her mother. It didn’t make sense. She’d been at the house for a couple of hours already, but Bettina hadn’t said anything.
“What do you mean? My mamma’s here?” she asked.
“Sí. She’s over there. I thought you would have already gone to her home and known she would be here.” Bettina gave her a strange look, obviously wondering why she was being remiss as an Italian daughter. She must not have known of their family history.
Maybe Mamma never told her that I left and didn’t speak to them again. Of course! How could she not have realized? Appearances were everything to Mamma. It would have given their family a brutta figura to admit their daughter had left for North America and never spoken to them again. Famiglia was everything. A child’s responsibility was always to care for their parents. Bettina must have assumed that Catarina was back to care for her mamma.
All these thoughts ran through her mind and then stopped on one point. Her aging mamma. Her mother was not only alive, but just feet away from her.
She turned to where Bettina had gestured. An old, shriveled woman sat in a chair among the olive trees. She sat by herself, looking off into the distance.
Bettina still watched her strangely. Catarina needed to come up with a reason and quick.
“I had only just arrived when we met at the restaurant,” she said. “I wanted to rest and then surprise Mamma with a visit.”
“Ah, sí, sí,” Bettina nodded, her face clearing. Catarina hadn’t removed all the doubts, but it would have to do for now.
“I’ll go see her now,” she said. “Grazie.”
Bettina smiled and turned to a little one tugging on her skirt.
Catarina stood on shaky legs, smoothed down her dress and ran her hands over her hair. Everything in her screamed, “Run,” but she forced her trembling legs to carry her directly where she truly didn’t want to go.
The old woman—she couldn’t see her mamma in any of the woman’s features and she wondered if Bettina was mistaken—looked up at her with a lost-child expression as she approached.
“Buonasera,” Catarina said, not knowing what else to say.
The woman nodded. “Buonasera,” she whispered, her voice creaky, like she hadn’t much occasion to use it.
Catarina crouched down on the grass in front of the woman. “Mamma?” she said. “It’s Catarina.”
The woman looked at her and then quickly away. “No, no, Catarina, niente.”
Nothing? What does she mean by nothing?
“Mamma, it’s me, it’s Catarina.”
Mamma’s gaze again found hers and then fled. Her hands fluttered in her lap. “No, no,” she muttered over and over. “She’s gone, gone away. No Catarina,” she said again in Italian.
Catarina rocked back on her heels. It was too late. Her mother had gone somewhere from where she would never return, a place Catarina couldn’t reach. She had waited too long. But, it wasn’t too late to care for her as a good Italian daughter should.
Her mother had done something that she would stand before God and make penance for, but Catarina knew now that she didn’t have to carry that burden. Her mother would have to atone, but Catarina would have to make right the wrongs she’d committed against the people who loved her.
She got to her feet and looked for a minute longer at the woman who’d brought her into the world. She could see Mamma wasn’t well. Her scalp showed through her white hair. She was thin and pale, her cheeks sunken. She looked like she wouldn’t live more than a few months and nothing like the robust, full-figured woman who’d won Papà’s love and devotion. It was only after he’d been snared that she’d turned into a harpy.
As Catarina stood there, looking down at the shrunken woman, pity replaced the anger. This woman could do nothing further to hurt her. Catarina walked away to find Bettina. She needed to know if Papà was still alive.
Chapter 31
The building was fieldstone, as were most of the other buildings surrounding it. Catarina steeled herself and began climbing the stairs to the entrance. She hoped she was coming at a good time.
The reception desk was right at the entrance. Catarina stepped inside and smiled at the middle-aged woman who sat there, a pencil behind her ear and a serious expression on her sallow face.
“May I help you?” she asked in a colloquial Italian that Catarina wasn’t familiar with.
“I’m here to see my father, Francis di Rossi.”
The woman’s face lighted at once. “You’re Mr. di Rossi’s daughter? Wonderful. Please follow me.”
The woman struggled to her feet, her excessive size hampering her efforts. She rounded the desk, her face reddened by the exertion.
She waved Catarina forward as she set off down the hall with a pace that belied her size.
“He’s one of our favorite residents, although of course we don’t tell the other families that.” The woman beamed over her shoulder at Catarina and then plunged ahead.
The hallway was full of the elderly residents in wheelchairs or walking with canes or walkers. They seemed quite cheerful despite their position in life. Most seemed very feeble, which caused Catarina’s stomach to tighten at the thought of her dear Papà’s condition. Bettina hadn’t known how much he’d deteriorated. Mostly the reason he was there was because Mamma couldn’t care for herself any longer, let alone him. Bettina had taken on Mamma’s care since she had a couple of adult daughters who helped. But she couldn’t take on two elderly people. Papà had seemed the most able to handle being in a home, she’d said, so the decision was made.
That should have been my decision, Catarina thought as she followed the woman to Papà’s room. I should have been here to care for him.
Regrets trailed her like a persistent cloud of gnats. She could wave them away all she wanted, but they’d swarm back immediately.
The woman stopped in front of the last door at the end of the hallway. “He’s in the best room we have,” the woman assured her. “Before you go in, I should let you know a few things.”
Uh-oh.
“When he’s having a good day, he knows his visitors and will have conversation with them. When he’s having a bad day, he is a little lost, like a fog has come over his mind. Don’t be distressed if it’s a bad day. Just come back again, and he should be better.”
The woman patted Catarina on the shoulder and left her in the doorway. Hesitation hung like an invisible shield between Catarina and the future. She watched the woman waddle back down the hallway and didn’t turn back to the door until she had struggled back into her chair.
Catarina drew in a lungful of air and pushed through the shield, determined to be done with the past.
He stood in front of an easel, exactly in the same position she’d left him so many years ago.
“Papà,” she whispered, her voice too soft for him to hear.
He painted a stunning scene. His talent had not deserted him although his clarity of mind had. Soft colors filled the canvas, the scene of the sea with families sunbathing nearby.
Oh, Papà.
Catarina stepped farther into the room, reluctant to pull him away, but also needing him to recognize her presence.
“Papà?” she said again, her voice now full of pleading. Mother Mary, please let him know me.
Finally he turned, brush in his hand, an inquisitive look on his face. “Sí?”
He doesn’t know me. But how would he know the woman I’ve become from the little girl I was?
Catarina stepped up to him, a smile forced upon her face.
He started, looked closer. “Mamma?” His face looked confused, almost afraid.
Before he could go down that path, Catarina said, “No, Papà. It’s me, Catarina.”
His eyes filled with tears, which sprang out o
nto his cheeks to make room for more. “Catarina?” he whispered. “Il mio Catarina?”
“Sí, Papà.”
He dropped the paintbrush, reached out his arms, and pulled her into his embrace. Blinded by tears, he cried on her neck and called out in a wail, “Catarina, il mio Catarina.”
“Papà, shush, Papà,” Catarina soothed him, rubbing his back.
Papà’s legs seemed to be giving way, so Catarina led him to a nearby chair and helped him into it, all while he clung to her neck and cried. She eased him back in the chair and pulled away so she could look in his face.
“Papà, oh Papà, I’m so sorry,” she said.
“It’s really you? My girl, il mio bambina,” he said as he touched her face. Papà spoke in the Italian of her girlhood. He had a musical voice, his words rising and falling in a cadence much like a sonnet. His voice brought back all the good moments of her childhood.
“I’m so sorry I never told you where I was, Papà. I’m so sorry.”
He studied her face as though he would never stop looking, like she would disappear if he took his eyes off her for a split second. Catarina didn’t blame him for feeling that way.
“My girl. Where did you go? I looked for you for so long.”
“I went to Canada, Papà. I have a good life there. I’m a painter like you.”
He smiled, showing a few missing teeth near the back of his mouth. Otherwise his teeth looked healthy for a man in his eighties. He’d always insisted that eating vegetables would save them.
“Do you paint or are you an artist?” Papà asked, getting right to the heart of the matter.
Catarina swallowed back the flood of tears that rose. “I’m an artist, Papà. A famous one, actually.”
He nodded and sat back a little, pride sitting like a mantel over his shoulders. “I always knew my Catarina would be molto famosa.”
“Well, not too famous, Papà. I’m known more in Canada, I think.”
She folded her legs beneath her and rested her head on Papà’s legs. He petted her hair in the old way and she finally allowed the flood of tears to breach the dam. He stroked her and allowed her to empty the well of bitterness that she’d dug as she’d waited for the airplane to take her away from her beloved father and country.
As the tears abated, Catarina began to tell Papà of her life in Canada and about her two daughters and her grandson. She was honest with him. She’d never been able to hide from him before, other than the one thing that ended up separating them. She told him how she had pushed her children away and how she’d never met her grandson. She told him how brave her daughters were and that she couldn’t wait for Papà to meet them.
And then she told him the one thing she’d kept hidden from him for so many years. She hesitated before telling him, but Papà insisted she speak. He knew there had to be something horrific to tear his beloved daughter from him.
There was silence for a while after she finished her story. Fear made icy trails up and down Catarina’s spine while she waited for a reaction. What if the shock is too much for him?
Papà finally nodded, his dark brown eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Sí, sí, Cara, I knew.”
“You knew?” she whispered, shock stealing the force of her voice.
“I knew and didn’t know. You understand?”
“Sí.”
“Your mamma changed after the bambino passed. She was always angry at me, pushing me to be a better provider for you.” He hung his head at that and a tear hit his pant leg. “But after the bambino, she seemed to hate me and even you, Cara. I thought for a long time it was grief, but it went on unabated. You were sick for so long and I feared for your life,” he brushed a hand over her hair and cupped her chin, “so I didn’t notice right away. After you recovered,” he gave her chin a squeeze and dropped his hand into his lap again, “I began to notice the change in both of you. You were so angry with her, but you said nothing. Never looked at your mamma and she never looked at you but to order you to do some chore or go to your bed.” Papà looked so sad, Catarina could feel it in her soul. “And she never let me touch her again.”
“Oh, Papà,” Catarina said. “I’m so sorry.”
“When I figured out what must have happened,” he continued, grief etched deep into his face, “I never wanted to touch her again. I didn’t throw her out, but I never loved her again.”
“How could you stay with her?” Catarina asked. “When you knew?”
“Well, I could never have known for sure, she wouldn’t have told me, but a man does not desert his wife. I took care of her need for food and shelter, but I would never have given another child of mine to her. And then she took you away too.” Papà dropped his head and cried. “I thought I’d lost you forever, but here you are.”
“I’m so glad it wasn’t too late to see you again.”
“My work kept me going. That and the hope that you’d come back one day.”
Her Papà loved her so much that he’d waited and believed for so long. He was a much better parent than she.
“Well, I’m here now, Papà, and I’m going to care for you like I should have all these years.”
Papà just gave her a big smile and said, “Come, Cara, let’s paint together.”
Catarina stood, held out her hand and said, “I’d love nothing more, il mio papá.”
Chapter 32
Jilly hung up the phone with a smile lingering. Anna had brought her up to date on all the happenings in Italy. Jilly wished she could be there with them, especially to meet Nonno, but knew she, Gregg, and Matty would make the trek soon enough. She didn’t mind waiting. She had so much painting to do.
Ever since arriving home from Toronto, Jilly had been painting with an urgency she’d never experienced before. The images came to her mind in vivid color, demanding she give them life. In only a week she had done six paintings. Gregg had encouraged her to show them to Mel, and she decided that today she would go to the gallery. Matty had gone to his grandmother’s house for a visit, so she was free. Anna said Mel was usually at the gallery on Saturdays when Jilly told her what she wanted to do. Anna was enthusiastic, sure that Mel would want to show Jilly’s work.
She and Anna had cooked up a plan to make it up to Mel for ruining her party. Mamma had agreed. Now it was up to Jilly to make it happen. She hoped Anna was right that Mel would want to show her paintings.
“She’s a fan of Mamma’s work,” Anna had said on the phone.
“But mine is nothing like hers.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Anna assured her. “It’s good, really good. That’s the only thing that matters.”
Jilly loaded a few of her paintings into the car. They were the ones she liked most, but they were also diverse. She wanted a few different ones in case Mel didn’t like a certain style. Her hands shook as she fastened her seat belt. She was an art teacher, used to critiquing work, but it had been a long time since someone had judged hers. She couldn’t help but remember Mamma’s harsh words so many years ago. She understood now that Mamma was trying to push her to do better, but no matter how she filtered the words, they still clung to her like static electricity.
I know I’m painting better now, but what if Mel doesn’t think so? What if Anna and Gregg’s judgement is clouded by their love for me?
There was no other way to find out but to take the paintings to the gallery. Jilly turned on the car and scraped her courage together.
“Jilly. How are you?”
Mel gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and Jilly’s courage nearly failed her. She pushed forward anyway and greeted Mel with a hug, probably surprising the heck out of her. Jilly had always kept Anna’s best friend at arm’s length, not really understanding her, and honestly not trying to. She figured Mel would think Jilly was just being nice now in order to use her, but she hoped Mel would see her sincerity. There were a lot of things Jilly wanted to change.
“I was hoping I’d catch you early, before people started showing up
. I wanted to apologize—”
Mel waved a hand in the air. “No need. Anna explained everything.”
“I know. But I still wanted to tell you in person. I feel bad for ruining your gala. I wondered if you would take a look at a few paintings for me and give me your professional opinion?”
“Are they yours?” Mel asked.
“Yes.”
Mel smiled and her shoulders relaxed. “I’m glad you’re painting again. Bring them in, let’s see.”
Once Jilly had a couple of them displayed on the easels Mel had set up, they both took a step back to study them. Jilly clasped her sweaty hands behind her back and watched Mel out of the corner of her eye.
