by Ruth Houston
The house was eerily quiet. For the three months that I had spent here, it had never been this silent on a weekday afternoon before. The reason? Today was the house staff's day off. And my mother and father were at some charity event or other. My father had wanted me to go with them, but I had feigned sickness. He wasn't happy, but my mom had let me stay.
I sighed and unzipped my backpack. I pulled out four envelopes and just looked at them, sadness, disappointment, and a twinge of lingering anger sitting heavily in my stomach, an unpleasant mix. These letters were why I was leaving. They had finally given me reason enough.
My parents had been gone since early this morning, and I had wandered around the house with nothing to do. Eventually I had drifted into my father's study. It started with a casual look around the room, then a closer look at his meticulously clean desk. One of his desk drawers hadn't been closed completely, and sitting in his swivel chair, I had pulled it out and rummaged through, simply because there hadn't been anything else to do. At the bottom, I had found these four letters. Two were addressed to me in a very familiar hand. And the other two were in my handwriting, addressed to Branner, California. And suddenly I had realized why Winter had stopped writing me.
My father had been monitoring my mail. I had never gotten her letters, and she had never gotten mine, because all this time, he had been keeping them. The good for nothing bastard.
It had been the last straw. He had forced me to move from California, to attend that damn American school, to dress up formally every day of this past summer and go to his office (where I had been bored out of my mind), to attend meetings with him, to go to charity balls and fundraising events and all kind of crap for the whole summer, but here, I was drawing the line. I had had enough.
I had been so angry I had done the first thing that had come to mind – I called the nearest travel agency, booked the next flight to SFO, and started packing. The ticket hadn't been cheap, but I had charged it on the credit card my father had given me, so it wasn't my money anyway.
So, three months too late, I was able to read my letters from Winter (I noted with disgust that they had already been opened). I thought sadly of how angry she must be now, and how, even though I was finally going home, she might never forgive me. I was about to read her first letter when the front door opened.
It was my mom.
"Oh, Christ," I muttered. This hadn't been part of my elaborate escape plan.
"Zack? What are you doing?" She was wearing a nice dress and had her hair up all fancy. "Why do you have your…" She trailed off, her eyes glancing over my suitcases. Silence settled between us, heavy and thick, as her gaze alternated between my luggage, my face, and the letters in my hands.
Finally I broke it, stating the painfully obvious. "I'm leaving."
She paused. "Your father isn't going to be happy."
"I don't care," I said, albeit rather cautiously. "You're back early. Why?"
"He's still at the charity event, shaking hands and writing checks," she said softly, a quiet sigh and resignation in her musical voice. She realized the front door was still open, and closed it behind her. "I…left early. I wanted to check up on you, to make sure you were okay."
"I'm okay," I said defiantly, though my heart was racing. She would never let me leave. I had been found out. But I said boldly, "I'm waiting for my taxi."
She bit her lip, saying nothing, and nodded just slightly. "Alright."
If I hadn't been sitting already, I would have fallen over. "What? 'Alright'?" I blurted out.
She nodded again, coming closer. Her footfalls echoed in the empty foyer. She came to a stop in front of me.
Well, I had already asked, so I might as well make sure. "You're actually – okay with this?" I waved my hands at my luggage disbelievingly.
She smiled sadly. "I figured you would do it sooner or later. You should go. I'm not going to stop you."
I stared at her.
"You never liked it here," she said quietly, golden eyes gazing at me tenderly. "You belong in California, in Branner. Joshua never should have forced you to come here to Italy with us. I made a big mistake in agreeing to let you come. But your father is a very convincing man."
"No kidding," I muttered. I didn't know what else to say to her. She was my mother, I thought. Funny how these things work out. I returned her gaze steadily. There was something about her that had never settled as being right. Ever since I had started living with them, here in Italy, I had always thought that she somehow seemed…unfit for the world she lived in, this fast-paced world of advertising and unnecessary luxury and high society. She always seemed slightly out of place. How many times had I seen her looking out a window to our backyard, gazing wistfully at the outdoors and the freedom of the songbirds that always liked to perch on the branches of the trees, spilling their music to the fresh air and grass and endless sky? How many times had I caught that unhappy flash in her eyes as my father announced another meeting to go to, another important person to meet, another deal that needed to be signed? I wondered now, as her eyes searched my face, how she had ever gotten mixed up with someone like him. Did she love him? I thought. How could she? Then I remembered the box in the closet upstairs.
"Look, before I go," I said, "I wanted to ask you something."
"Go ahead," she said, breaking my gaze and sitting down next to me, dress and all.
"When I was packing," I started slowly, "I found this box in my closet. It was filled with all these old things – a quilt, a doll, some books, a dress, a diary, a scrapbook, and a picture." I furrowed my brow as I looked at her, shrugging my shoulder just slightly. "It looked like you that was in the picture. With your mom, or something."
Her expression showed her surprise. "Show me where it is," she said immediately.
I led her upstairs into my now empty temporary bedroom, and showed her the box and all the things. We sat on the bed together, sifting through the memoirs, and when I looked up at her, her eyes were shining with unshed tears.
"These are all my things," she said quietly, "From a long, long time ago. You're right, this is a picture of me and mia madre. Your Nonna Pastorelli. I still remember the day we took this picture."
"Is there a Nonno Pastorelli?"
"No. He left my mother when I was very young. I don't remember him."
"Have I ever met Nonna?" I asked quietly.
"No," she shook her head, blinking to clear her eyes of the tears. "Never."
"How come?"
She sighed. "Because I was young and stupid."
"And…" I prompted her gently.
"I grew up in the Mezzogiorno, in the south in a little village by the sea," she started slowly. "It was just me and my mother. I don't have any siblings. We were poor, but we had everything we needed, so I guess it didn't matter all that much." As she talked, she held the quilt in her lap, tracing the stitches between the patches of cloth with her fingertip. She was dredging up the past, and from the pain in her eyes I could tell she had gone through some difficulties. I felt some regret for treating her in the indifferent way I had. "My mother was a seamstress. A wonderful seamstress. She made all my clothes, this quilt, my rag doll, everything. Everyone in the village came to her for help when they needed a piece of clothing fixed. She was content with her life…and she loved me very much. I loved her too. She was the only person I had in the world. We led a simple life, and she believed in three things: God, herself, and me. But like I said, she was content with her life, while I was dying to get out of that village." She smiled sadly. "I was young and stupid," she repeated. "I wanted to get out of there, to see the rest of the world. So the first chance I got to leave, I did it."
We were silent for a long moment. "And what chance was that?" I asked after a bit.
"When I was seventeen I got a scholarship to the Conservatory of Music in Florence."
"Music," I said, startled.
"You never wondered why you were made to learn all those instruments?" she asked, an amused h
alf-smile gracing her face. "That was my influence. When I was little I studied music with this old man who lived in our village. He was the only person who owned a piano. My mother loved me, but the one thing she hated was when I went to that old man's house to learn piano. But I learned so much from him," she said wistfully. "He was the one who got us train tickets into Florence so they could audition me. My mother was furious. And I was angry too. I wanted her to be happy for me, to be proud of me, but she wasn't. She thought I was being selfish, while I thought she was being selfish. It didn't come out neutral.
"So I left my home and I haven't seen her since. I expect she's still angry. I went through school in Florence, and though I had little money, my richer friends helped me and a group of us flew to the States. Zack, let me tell you something," she said, "It is no easy task making a living as a musician. I realized that early on, and went back to school for another three years. I had to support myself through little music gigs and competitions here and there, and it was hard for a while. But when I was in school…I met your father."
I interrupted her, standing up. "I –"
"Hold on," my mother said urgently, stopping me physically with a hand on my arm. I jerked away, angry.
"I have to go," I said steadily. "My taxi's probably waiting outside right now."
"No," she said, more firmly. "You need to hear this before you go."
I glared at her as her eyes pleaded with mine.
"Please," she said, brushing a piece of dark curly hair behind her ear.
I frowned.
"I'll talk fast," she said. For a moment, it almost seemed as if she were smiling, just slightly, but if she was, it was gone in an instant. How could she find humor in something like this, at such a serious moment? I realized with a start that it reminded me of someone I knew, someone who could find something to smile secretly about even in the craziest of situations, because she always saw the big picture or the irony or the laughable aspects of life…
My breathing quickened. I had to catch that flight into SFO. I couldn't go another day without seeing her again.
"Zack, sit down," my mother said gently, bringing me out of my thoughts. "Please."
"I have to catch my flight. I have to," I said frantically. "You don't understand. I can't stay here for another day."
"I know," she said, standing up. "I already told you, I'm not going to stop you from going back."
She was doing me a favor, I thought. And she wanted me to do one for her too – to simply listen was enough for her. Slowly, I nodded, and we sat back down.
We were quiet again.
"It's kind of embarrassing, actually," she murmured, eyes cast downwards. "Stupid in love type of thing. You dad wasn't always the way he is now. At least, that's what I like to think. I guess it was one of those love at first sight romances."
In spite of myself, I rolled my eyes slightly at the cliché, chuckling a little. She smiled as well.
"Don't laugh," she grinned.
"Let me guess. 'You can't pick who you fall in love with,' right?"
"Exactly so," she said lightly. "We were young, in love, and full of hope – one of the most miraculous combinations you'll ever experience. At any rate, we found jobs at the same company, got married young, had you…" She touched my cheek gently with her fingertips, almost as if she was afraid of me. "I regret a lot of things I did in life, but you're the one thing I know wasn't a mistake. Almost immediately after you were born, Joshua 'hit gold' – his phrase, not mine," she told me at the look on my face. "Apparently he had struck the best business deal anyone in our company had ever seen, and they were shipping him off to Milan to work with some higher-ups of the Italian branch – and he wanted me to come with him. Of course, who was I to say no?" She smiled bitterly. "I realize now it would have been better had I refused. So we packed up…and I packed all these things," she gestured at the contents of the box, "in a box and stored it away. Kind of like putting away my past, I suppose. Anyway, we didn't have the money or time to bring you along. Luckily, Victoria was a family friend of Joshua's, and she was willing to take care of you for the time being, free of charge. You probably don't remember, but we used to visit you a lot when you were younger, especially me. Sometimes I'd make trips back just to be with you. Every time we came back to California I insisted we bring you back, along to Italy with us, but Joshua always said no. It was almost as if he didn't care."
"He still doesn't," I interrupted.
She pressed her lips together in thought. "Zack, dear, it wouldn't be fair to lie to you. I get the feeling he doesn't care either," she said sadly.
"That's okay," I reassured her. "It doesn't matter all that much to me. I accepted that a long time ago."
She shrugged helplessly. "But…"
I mimicked her action. "But nothing. Seriously. He makes me mad, because he still thinks he can tell me what to do, but I've stopped caring about what he thinks of me. Go on."
"Well…" She sighed. "Okay. There's not much else to say. I just wanted you to know that…Joshua wasn't always a bad person, you know. Even now, I think he's still good at heart."
"Yeah," I scoffed.
"I think," she said gently, "That he doesn't know how to act around you, and he regrets the fact that when he was younger he was so concerned about his career that we ended up neglecting you. And that gets him angry. Then he directs the anger at you, and you get mad, and no one's happy, least of all me."
She gave me a moment to absorb this piece of information.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay what?"
"Okay," I repeated, because I didn't know what else to say. I didn't quite believe her, but I didn't want to tell her that. "Did you want me to say something to that?"
"No, I just wanted you to know," she said simply.
I sighed. She nodded.
"Okay," I said again, slowly.
"You should probably go now," she whispered, "Or you're going to miss your flight."
She waited with me outside; my taxi pulled up shortly. We got my luggage in the trunk, and when the driver got into his seat, I was left standing awkwardly with my mom, not knowing what to say.
"Well…" I said.
"Give me a call when you get home," she said, smiling slightly. "I want to hear from you."
I nodded. "Thanks," I said, "For telling me everything. I'm glad you made me listen."
"Me too," she said, and hugged me.
"Bye," I said.
"Goodbye."
I exhaled deeply as we pulled out of the driveway. My mom waved to me, and I waved back.
-Winter-
"Oh, Winter, please stop crying, darling. Come here."
A warm pair of arms surrounded me as I sobbed uncontrollably.
"Come on Win, please don't do this," he whispered in my ear, voice a little shaky.
"Shut up Tristan," I wailed, burying my face in his chest. "Just shut up. I hate you. Why do you have to leave?"
"Winter, you know I'll miss you," he said softly, sadly, stroking my back soothingly. He hugged me hard, his tall form embracing my petite one easily.
"I-I'm s-s-serious," I mumbled miserably, tears still streaming down my face. It felt like my heart was being squeezed mercilessly. I was sure my chest was about to explode at any moment. "Tristan, what am I going to do without you?" I wailed.
He, too, was more emotional than I had ever seen him before. He pulled away a little so he could look me in the eyes. His cerulean orbs were suspiciously bright as he said, "Winter, you know I'll be back in time for the holidays, and you know you can call me anytime. Alright?"
I sucked my lips in a fruitless attempt to make myself stop crying. "Okay," I said in a small voice.
"I'll call you as soon as I arrive in San Diego, sound good?"
All I could do was nod as I burst into sobs again. God. Were airports made with the intention of being such a dramatic place?
"Oh, honey, please stop crying, it pains me so much to see you like this," he murmured
in my hair. "Please don't cry; your pretty face would look so much better with a smile. Give me a smile, please?"
I tried; it was a very watery, very shaky smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Tristan, I'm going to miss you so much. But I'm really glad for you too. Finally off to college," I said quietly. "I'm really proud of you."
"You have no idea how much I appreciate that, Win," he replied seriously. "I have to go in now, they're going to call my flight really soon."
I nodded again, and he kissed my cheek and pulled himself away gently, picking up his backpack and carry-on luggage. I had been the last one to say a long goodbye. Tristan gave a nod to his dad, a smile to his mom, and one last hug to all his siblings. After Eva got her hug she moved closer to me, linking her arm through mine in a friendly, reassuring gesture that was one of those things I loved most about her.
"You okay?" she asked me softly as Tristan gave Katherine a very long hug, whispered some words in her ear, and kissed her sweetly on the lips.
"I'll be okay," I said, glancing up at her. Her eyes, too, were red and watery, and she sniffled a little as Tristan entered the line to get through security. Katherine came over and linked arms with me on the other side.
She looked so sad, I thought as I looked at her. Tristan had confessed to me a few weeks ago that he was pretty sure she was The One. I knew he was being serious. There was a tenderness to their relationship, a strong, unbreakable bond connecting them, that I knew both were in love. It was obvious in the way he looked at her, and the way she always smiled that smile for him. But looking at Katherine today, her straight black hair dragged back in a messy ponytail, cute little nose red, already fair skin pale, that I mused, it must be hard being in love, if it meant that you had to be that miserable when the occasion arose. Not that Tristan looked much better off.
He had gotten through security without a hitch, and pulled his backpack and carry-on luggage off the black conveyer belt. Tristan turned, gave us all one last wave, caught Katherine's eye and blew her a kiss, and was gone, weaving through the mass of people to get to his gate, head of dirty blonde hair bobbing in and out of vision.
