As she set down the burden of her untruth at her aunt’s feet, Iris heaved a sigh heavy with guilt and grief. She had made her confession, she had said as much as she could say, but now she knew that the absolution of Auntie Rosa, or Gregorio, or Isabella, or of all the Leales and Capotostis combined would never free her of her guilt, unless she forgave herself. She wondered whether she ever could, but decided her inner debate would have to wait; guilt would certainly be hanging around later, while Auntie Rosa was on her way out now. It was time to set aside her selfish concerns, and give back some of the kindness and comfort she had received from the woman who had loved her like a daughter.
Iris sat up straight on her heels, pushed back her shoulders, and looked over at Lily. Her eyes were alert now, wide open and staring at Iris as if she had never seen her before. Iris rubbed her arms to chase away a sudden chill, then ran her hands over her eyes to wipe away the tears.
“My poor Auntie Rosa,” she said, turning back to her. Her hand shook as she reached to caress her aunt’s remarkably smooth cheek, running her fingers over her face, resting them on the glistening spot on her forehead, mingling her tears with the holy oil. “You’re fed up with this body, aren’t you? With those bowlegs Uncle Alfred always teased you about. With those ears that won’t let you hear and those eyes that won’t let you see. With those hammertoes and back pains, with the worn-out knees and arthritic hips you never wanted to replace with new ones. You made me think you were eternal. But you’re ready to leave now, aren’t you?” Sorrow pressed down on Iris as she bent closer, resting her cheek on her aunt’s lap. She wondered whether the sound of the first language Auntie Rosa had heard as an infant would soothe her.
“La mia cara zia,” Iris said, terrified by the responsibility of being there at the moment of passing, yet hoping she might reassure her aunt that there was nothing to fear, that all those loved ones who had gone before would be waiting for her on the other side, ready to embrace her together with the God she had worshiped devoutly her whole life. “Ora vai a casa. La tua mamma e il tuo papà, la tua sorella e i tuo fratelli ti aspettano. Dolores ti aspetta, e anche Henry. Sono già con Dio, tutti pronti ad abbracciarti. Ti voglio tanto bene. Ti ricorderò sempre. Accenderò tante candele per te, e spero che anche tu pregherai sempre per me.” There were no more words, and too many words left to say. The tears streamed freely down Iris’s cheeks, soaking the shawl on her aunt’s knees.
Ever since embarking on this journey home, Iris had been possessed by a sense of urgency. She was acutely aware that the passing hours and minutes and seconds that had brought her to the present moment would not stop for her now; that they would keep slipping away until they had robbed her of all time left with this woman who had been many things to her; the woman who, above all things, had loved her unconditionally. On her knees, she wept: for Auntie Rosa, for Lily, for herself; for her refusal to ever let go of what was dead and gone.
“Here, Iris,” Lily whispered, passing her the box of tissues.
“Oh, Lily. It’s just too hard.” Looking up at Lily, Iris was shocked by how small and fragile she appeared from that perspective, as if all the substance and vitality had been sucked out of her. This was the shell of her sister Lily, like the woman in the chair was the shell of her Auntie Rosa.
“It’s not easy for you to say goodbye either, is it?” Iris said, seeing the tears trapped in Lily’s tired grey-green eyes. Pulling herself to her feet, Iris grabbed some tissues and wiped away the tears spilling from her own eyes. She must find a way to reconcile Lily with Auntie Rosa, so that she could let her go. And then maybe Iris could find a way to let her go, too.
“Auntie Rosa sure adored that Hawaiian music,” she sniffed, memories swirling about her like dry ice on the stage of that high school musical Lily had starred in. “Remember how she used to lean back in the rocker with her eyes closed and that blissful smile on her face when we played with Uncle Alfred?”
Lily simply nodded as the tears swam round and round in her eyes. They made Iris think of those faraway tunas circling frantically in their death chamber.
“Let me have that uke, would you?” she said to Lily. Lily picked up the instrument, and handed it to her. Iris ran her fingers over the scratched koa wood, then toyed with the four pegs until the strings sounded vaguely in tune, at least with each other. She began strumming slowly, trying to recall one of Auntie Rosa’s favorite tunes.
“Across the sea, where the trade winds blow
You came to me, so long ago”
Iris paused. “Auntie Rosa loved the way you used to sing that song. She said your voice gave her goosebumps. Would you sing it for her once last time?”
Lily hugged herself, and shook her head.
“Please, Lily. You won’t have another chance.”
“I don’t remember the words,” Lily said. Her eyes were two salty pools on the brink of overflowing; Iris worried that the tears would corrode her to the soul if they were not cried soon.
“I don’t remember the chords, either,” Iris said. “But I don’t think Auntie Rosa will mind. Besides, Uncle Alfred will give us a hand. He always did.” Iris raised her eyes to the ceiling, pausing for a moment before beginning again:
“Across the sea, where the trade winds blow
You came to me, so long ago
Still Lily would not join in. “Please, Lily,” Iris pleaded. “Do this for her. Do it for yourself. Do it for me.”
“Now my love is lost, but I’ll always know,” Iris began again, alone,
“You’ll be here with me, when the trade winds blow.”
Lily’s voice was weak when she joined in, a cross between a croak and a whisper, but Iris heard it. She hoped Auntie Rosa did, too.
“Mine is the heart, that won’t forget,
The dreams we shared, without regret
We’ll meet again, where love will be
No Kau, a Kau, for eternity.”
“Oh, my God,” Iris whispered. “Look, Lily.” She pointed to a droplet glistening at the corner of Auntie Rosa’s eye. Iris took a fresh tissue from the box, and leaned close to Auntie Rosa to dab at the tear. “Oh my God,” she cried. “I don’t think she’s breathing anymore. Should we call the nurse?”
“You can call whoever you want,” Lily blurted, “but it’s not going to do any good.” As soon as she spoke the words, Lily doubled over, as if gripped by a searing physical pain. Iris hoped she wouldn’t be sick again, and vomit all over Auntie Rosa’s red jacket. But the sound coming from behind the thick, matted veil of hair that hid her face from view was not one of retching; it was a tight, whimpering sound; it was the sound of a wounded animal. It was the sound of Lily finally crying.
“I know you wanted to talk to her too, Lily,” Iris said, placing a hand on Lily’s head. Her throat felt so tight she could hardly speak. “But I don’t even know if she heard what I said.” Iris hung her head low, full of shame for the words she had spoken, and regret for not having spoken them sooner.
After a moment, Lily pulled herself up straight. Instead of looking at Iris, she tilted her head back, and stared at the ceiling. “Don’t worry, Iris,” she murmured. “She heard it all. So did I.”
Iris’s eyes followed Lily’s gaze to a cobweb dangling in the early morning light, then traveled back to her face, where she thought she could detect a faint smile, despite the tears still streaming down her cheeks. Aching for the closeness they had lost, Iris placed her arms on Lily’s shoulders, and turned her sister around to face her. “I love you, Lily,” she said.
“Me too,” Lily said, her arms limp by her side as Iris pulled her close and embraced her. Iris succumbed completely to her grief, weeping with Lily over the loss of the aunt whose irrepressible love had both bound and divided them, and over the loss of the childhoods on which she had left her lasting mark. She was overcome with sorrow and awe, enveloped in Auntie Rosa’s final gesture of love – reuniting Iris with her little sister - performed through the miracle of death.
&n
bsp; Lily was the first to speak. “It’s all a big mess, Iris,” she said, her voice little more than a breath on Iris’s shoulder. “I’m a big mess.”
All the anger she had felt toward Lily melted away. Death overruled all, pardoned all. Iris squeezed Lily tight, and when she released her hold, Lily wavered slightly. When she took a step back to look at her, Lily stared down at the floor. Her hair, which had somehow become streaked with grey, fell in tired curls around her drawn face. Her purple paisley top hung loosely about her skinny torso, and her legs swam in the baggy green sweatpants Iris had helped her into before sticking a pair of flattened flip-flops on her feet and dragging her to the car.
“Yeah, you are a bit of a mess.” Iris’s chin trembled as she forced a smile. “But you’re not the only one,” she said, looking down at herself and opening her arms to display the striped top spattered with Lily’s vomit and mottled with the mussels marinara shared with Max on another continent, the rumpled linen trousers starched with seawater, the sneakers splotched with the blood of tunas.
From: Iris Capotosti
To: Lily Capotosti
Sent: Sat, January 8, 2011 at 12:55 PM
Subject: The rest of the story
Dear Lily,
When I called you that morning and you were acting all loopy on the phone, I couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on with you. All I knew was that the only way you’d make it to see Auntie Rosa in time was if I dragged you over there myself. I literally had to bang your door down, and when I did, I was totally shocked to find you sprawled unconscious on the sofa.
After I recovered from the initial scare and saw that you were hugging a bottle of vodka, I remember being so furious that I could have killed you. However, as we both know, I was never great at showing anger, and worse at acting on it. That’s when one of my better-honed skills kicked in, and I found an excuse for you. I asked myself: Why would Lily get herself drunk instead of going to see Auntie Rosa? Then, I answered myself: Because she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t get over all her resentment and unresolved issues fast enough to go there and tell her that she loved her before it was too late. So she drank a little vodka, and then a little more. I could relate to that. But I wanted you to have one last chance with her, so I forced you to come with me. I would have felt so guilty leaving you there to sleep it off, and you would have regretted it forever.
But I could tell by the way you acted at the hospice that it wasn’t all about Auntie Rosa. And afterwards, when I found out more about your life, I knew you had far more serious problems. So I still understood the vodka. Now, after reading your last chapter, the plot thickens, but my story falls apart. As it turns out, you were more than just drunk. I feel so stupid.
Why didn’t you tell me that then, Lily? And while we’re at it, why don’t you tell me something now: Did I walk in on you trying to kill yourself?
Love,
Iris
P.S. It took all these years to ask this question, but I’m not sure I’m ready to hear the answer.
From: Lily Capotosti
To: Iris Capotosti
Sent: Sat, January 8, 2011 at 2:35 PM
Subject: Re: The rest of the story
Dear Iris:
I have been a nervous wreck ever since we exchanged these last two chapters, waiting to hear from you. I knew you would ask me about that, so I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, trying to formulate an answer that makes some kind of sense. All I can say is that there are ways of ending your life without killing yourself. Killing seems so violent; all I wanted was to extinguish the flame that was devouring me. I just couldn’t tell where the pain ended and where I began.
I may have been out of it, but I saw how pissed off you were at me that day. I wondered why you never forced me to explain my reasons for not going to see Auntie Rosa. But now I see it was because you had already cooked up and packaged your own neat little justification for me once again. How generous of you.
It’s sobering for me to realize what you must have thought of me, but you never said a word. I let you believe I was just drunk, because I figured drunk wasn’t such a bad state to be in. Even people like you got drunk for fun, right? Because you wanted to, not because you couldn’t bear to live your life for another moment.
I didn’t tell you the whole story because the last thing I needed at that point in my fragile life was to create another scene in which I cast myself as the screw-up and you as the savior. And yet that’s exactly what happened. When you roused me, it wasn’t from a state of drunkenness, but from an all consuming despair; you pulled me back from the edge. So, I was (a screw up) and you were (my savior), and there we were. Yet again.
Love,
Lily
From: Iris Capotosti
To: Lily Capotosti
Sent: Sat, January 8, 2011 at 4:02 PM
Subject: Re:Re: The rest of the story
Dear Lily,
I’m shocked to find this out, terribly saddened and hurt that you did not tell me at the time. But I’m not as scandalized as you might think. Maybe because I now realize I flirted with the same fate each time I chased down my little blue pills with a glass of wine. One day you need an extra pill or two, then an extra glass of wine - or a bottle of vodka. As we both know, people do die that way. Accidental overdose. Or not so accidental. The line is fine, almost imperceptible, isn’t it? We were both lucky.
But since you brought up the savior/screw-up concept, I want to tell you something. It is harder than you think to be the “savior”. It is harder than you think to be responsible for other people’s happiness and well-being. It is harder than you think to know that any love that comes your way is contingent upon your impeccable virtue and unflagging willingness to live up to other people’s expectations. People only love saviors when they don’t screw up. And if they do, they’d better have a savior of their own in the wings.
I may have been your accidental savior that morning, but in a way, you were mine, too. If Lily “the screw-up” hadn’t been by my side, I doubt I would have had the guts to come clean with Auntie Rosa. I was ashamed of covering up what I had done to Gregorio, and I never could have lived with myself if she had died before I had the chance to tell her the truth. Seeing you sit there in your wretched state gave me the inspiration I needed to open up. It struck me that if you witnessed me baring my soul, maybe you would be encouraged to open your heart to her, too. But I still couldn’t bring myself to tell her the whole story. And it wasn’t terribly courageous of me, anyway, when I had no proof that she could even hear me. Sort of like kneeling in the confessional, and saving your juiciest sins until you hear the priest snoring.
That morning I cried out of shame for my shortcomings and out of fear for my future, as much as I cried for Auntie Rosa. Maybe a part of me wanted to show you that I could be a screw-up, too. I just needed somebody, anybody - whether it be a dying old lady or a drunk young one - to tell me that it was OK, that my happiness counted for something.
In retrospect, it was probably best that I didn’t know the truth about that morning. Now that I know the facts, however, I realize that if Auntie Rosa hadn’t picked that day to die, I wouldn’t have rushed home like that. If she hadn’t waited for me, I wouldn’t have had the chance to waken you with my phone call. I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn’t. I could never have survived losing both of you. So you see, in the end, Auntie Rosa saved us both.
Love,
Iris
From: Lily Capotosti
To: Iris Capotosti
Sent: Sat, January 8, 2011 at 5:17 PM
Subject: Re:Re:Re: The rest of the story
Dear Iris:
It strikes me that it is precisely because you were playing the savior and I was playing the screw-up that things turned o
ut as they did. I mean, wouldn’t it be a hoot if killing myself was the one thing I got right?
Speaking of getting things right, I have to admit that it was touching to read your accounting of Auntie Rosa’s passing. From all appearances, experiencing that together created a bond between us and healed over old wounds. I could tell it was really important to you to believe that back then, so I let you. Why taint that experience for you? Why burst your bubble about who I was and how I really felt? What would have been the point? It just didn’t seem worth the pain it would have caused you to hear, nor the pain it would have caused me to say.
I’m glad you brought up the “s” word. Shame is like poison. Like you, I was already under the impression that love was the reward for good performance, and as it was, I was struggling to eke out enough love to survive. I suspect that so many of the choices I’ve made - and am still making, quite possibly - have their foundation in that old belief that there is something basically unlovable about me. Worse, that the “something” is so vague that it can’t even be identified, and therefore it can’t be fixed. You were one of the only people in my life who I felt just truly loved me. Somehow you saw me as vivacious and talented and beautiful. How could I put that at risk that by letting you see the truth of who I was? I couldn’t imagine how you could love that. I couldn’t imagine looking into your eyes and seeing pity instead of your sweet version of me, the me I had always wished I could be.
[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series Page 131
