Papa added a roll of gray duct tape to the tools in the box. “We go to cemeteries. You see angels there.”
“Not like that one. I don’t remember ever seeing a big one like that where the babies are buried. Or Nonno.”
Her father shrugged.
“I know Angie’s real name is Hope Marie,” Connie persisted. “How did she get that name?”
Papa frowned at her. “Why do you ask me these things?”
“Mamma’s busy. And you’re more likely to tell me the truth anyway.”
His soft brown eyes were apologetic as they stared into hers. “There are some things I cannot tell you.”
“About Angie?”
Papa turned away and picked up his toolbox without answering.
“What about Angie? I love her, Papa! I’m worried about her! I’m her sister! Why do you keep secrets from me?”
He remained with his back to her. “Secrets that belong to other people are not mine to tell or yours to know.”
Connie’s skin went cold. “But there are secrets. Is she even my sister?”
Anger contorted Papa’s face as he turned back to look at her, but something akin to fear resided there as well. “One who understands family would never ask such a question.” He turned and briskly walked away, the conversation over.
***
Connie spent the remainder of the afternoon sprawled on her bed, reading about ribonucleic acids. By five o’clock, the mouth-watering smells of browning beef and roasted vegetables were intense, and her stomach growled in anticipation.
The kitchen door creaked open and clicked shut, and a murmur of feminine voices came down the hall. It sounded like Angie was home. Connie had one more page to go before the questions at the end of the chapter. She should have time to finish before dinner was served.
Mamma’s sharp voice cut through Connie’s concentration: “Santa Maria, Angela, what did you do?”
Connie closed her book and scrambled from the bed, out into the narrow hallway. Nonna, Mamma, and Gianna were standing in the kitchen opposite Angie.
Angie stood near the door, still wearing her red coat, an apologetic smile on her face. “It’s how they wear their hair, Mamma.” She turned her profile to them. Her straight dark hair had been bobbed to a blunt cut that barely touched her jawbone in the front and tapered upward in the back. It hung shiny and smooth, and Connie had to admit, the style was extremely flattering. The simple lines accentuated Angie’s cheekbones and put the focus on her eyes and the fullness of her mouth.
“I like it,” Gianna said.
Connie could not contain her curiosity. “Who are they?”
Angie’s eyes met Mamma’s, and Mamma immediately changed the subject. “It’s time to get ready for dinner. Connie, you and Gianna put out the food. Nonna and I will finish the table.”
Being ignored was more than Connie could stand. “Can we stop playing games?” She immediately regretted the tone and volume of her words, especially in front of her grandmother.
Mamma turned to her with a calmness Connie did not expect. “We will talk after dinner, Concetta.” Her solemn gaze moved to Angie. “It is time,” she said so softly, it sounded like a prayer.
Angie nodded and moved past them all to go to her room, avoiding Connie’s gaze as she slid by. She joined the family for a dinner that was even more quiet than usual, but barely ate, and when coffee settings and fruit were brought to the table, she left for her room once more. Neither Mamma nor Papa called her back.
“It is time that we talk,” Mamma said as she poured coffee into Nonna’s cup. Connie met Gianna’s gaze across the table; Gianna looked as apprehensive as Connie felt. Beside Gianna, Nonna sat with her hands folded and her eyes downcast.
Mama filled her own cup and passed the pot to Connie. “Your sister has been going to see the family of Signore LaCroix. They are her family, also.”
Connie set down the coffee pot, too stunned to pour accurately. How could that be? Despite all of her conjecture, she had never believed she might be right. She didn’t want to be right. How could Mamma—
“Your sister was born to the LaCroix family,” Mamma continued. “We took her at birth.” Her gaze shifted to meet Papa’s, and he took up the story as though they had rehearsed it.
“We have raised her as our own.” His voice was stern. “And that does not change. She is still your sister.”
Gianna’s face had gone pale and her eyes wide. “There were no twins?”
“There was only Lucretia, born too soon. We knew she would die,” Papa said.
Mamma covered her face with her hands, and a grim Nonna rested her palm on Mamma’s forearm.
Connie watched her father. “You knew?”
He nodded. “We didn’t know why, but the doctor said each baby would be worse. They had seen it before. The first is okay. The second, affected a little. The third—your brother—died after he was born. The next would die before its time to be born.”
She had learned about this in genetics. “Did Mario turn yellow?”
Papa looked surprised.“You know this?”
“It’s called hemolytic disease of the newborn. It happens when the blood of the mother is a different type from the blood of the baby. It can get worse with each pregnancy.” She looked to her right, toward her mother who was quietly crying into her hands. “Now they have a shot that they give to the mother after each pregnancy, so that the next baby isn’t affected. But they didn’t have that in the forties and fifties. They didn’t really know what it was.” She turned back to Papa. He was watching Mamma with an anguished expression.
Gianna spoke. “So, you adopted Angie?”
Papa paused for a moment, then looked away from Mamma. “We told everyone they were twins.” He glanced at Nonna. “Only your nonna knew this was not true.”
“Why?” Connie asked. “Why would the LaCroixs give her up?”
“To keep her safe.”
“From what?”
Papa glanced toward the door to the kitchen, as though he were afraid to say more where Angie might hear. “That is a story for another day.” His face left no doubt that the conversation was over.
A stab of fear twisted Connie’s insides as she and Gianna exchanged glances.
“When did you tell her?” Gianna asked Papa.
“When Signora LaCroix became sick in the summer. She wanted to see Angie.”
Gianna slowly nodded. “That’s when she started crying. Why didn’t you tell us then? Maybe we could have helped her.”
Papa’s voice betrayed his sorrow. “She didn’t want you to know. She was afraid you would no longer see her the same way.”
Gianna met Connie’s gaze across the table. “That’s why Mr. LaCroix brings the meat,” Gianna said.
And why Angie was free to hang out with Francis LaCroix. Connie turned to her father. “How did you know the LaCroixs? They live far away.”
“Father Ianelli.”
She looked down the length of the table to where her mother sat dabbing her eyes with a napkin. How astounding that after twenty years together, Connie was still learning about people she thought she knew and understood. How difficult it must have been for them to tell Angie she was not theirs. “Mammina, I’m so sorry—“
Mamma put up her hand to stop her. “There is nothing to be sorry for. She was a blessing then, and she is a blessing now.”
Connie looked at Gianna. It was time to go to Angie. The two of them rose to their feet and left the table.
Gianna led the way down the hallway to the bedrooms at the back of the flat. The door to Angie’s tiny room was open, and she was seated on the bed, her back to them, facing the window that looked out over the backyard fence into the neighbor’s yard.
“Angie?” Connie said softly. “Can we come in?”
The new short-haired Angie stood and faced them, a close-lipped smile on her pale face. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, devoid of their usual liveliness. Connie put out her arms, and Angie move
d into them, wrapping her arms around Connie’s torso. Connie held her tightly and kissed her on her wet cheek. When Gianna stepped forward, Angie moved to her, and they hugged.
“We love you, Angie.” Gianna’s voice was choked with tears.
“Nothing changes, kiddo,” Connie said, watching them embrace. “We just wish we had known a long time ago.”
Angie stepped back, putting distance between herself and them. “I’m not your blood.” Her voice wavered. “We’re not who we always thought we were.” Tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks. “The two of you belong together, and now I don’t.”
“That’s baloney,” Connie said. “How could you not belong when the three of us have been together your whole life? It just explains why you’re cuter than we are.”
Angie smiled in spite of her tears. Gianna pulled two tissues from a box on the nearby nightstand and offered one to her youngest sister. The two blew their noses in unison, and all three of them laughed.
“You see?” Connie said. “Nurture is stronger than nature.”
Angie’s smile faded.
“Does this change everything for you?” Connie asked worriedly. “About us?”
Angie rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes, then stared down at the floor. “It did at first. It made me sick. Nothing was what I thought it was. I was angry at Mamma and Papa. I was angry at you guys, even though they said you didn’t know. Or maybe because you didn’t know. Your lives were going on just the same as always.” She paused to take a breath. “I was jealous of you. In some ways … I hated you. You still had what I didn’t have anymore.” Her voice broke again, and she took a moment to compose herself, still avoiding their eyes. “I have to learn all over again who I really am.”
Connie’s heart ached and her mind scrambled to remember their interactions over the past few months. Had she said or done things that made Angie’s pain worse? She couldn’t remember.
“You’re still you,” Gianna said. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“You know who you are.” Angie’s tone was accusatory. “You know who you come from. I’m still learning all that. I’m not at all who I thought I was. I’m not Italian. I’m ….” She stopped and looked away from them, as though saying it was too painful.
Connie frowned. That wasn’t like Angie. “You’re French-Canadian, right?”
“That’s not all of it.”
“What do you mean?”
Angie shook her head. “Never mind.”
Not again. Connie’s temper flared. “Come on, Angie, are we going there again—more secrets? Because that’s where all this pain comes from—too many secrets and no trust! We love you, Angie, and that’s not going to change, no matter what you tell us.”
Angie’s defiant, angry glare took Connie completely by surprise. “I’m part Abenaki,” she said, practically spitting out the words.
Connie looked at Gianna, who seemed as confused as Connie. She looked back at Angie. “I don’t know what that is. Indian?”
“Yeah. Indian. American Indian. One you never heard of.”
Connie didn’t understand. “That’s not so awful, is it?”
Angie looked away once more. “It’s complicated. Not that being French-Canadian is a whole lot better.”
Her attitude made no sense to Connie. “Better than what? What are you talking about?”
Angie turned her back to them, her head down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really tired, and I can’t talk about this anymore. I really need to be alone.”
Chapter Fifteen
Monday
Connie was tired and cranky on Monday morning. She hadn’t slept well, perpetually on the verge of wakefulness, aware of Gianna tossing and turning, having a bad night of her own. They had talked themselves out after leaving Angie’s room, and afterwards there had been nothing left to say to help either of them settle into sleep. Things had changed in ways they could never entirely reconcile; their family dynamic would never be the same. Suddenly nothing felt right.
Greg was quiet when he came to pick her up, and that was fine with her. She was in no mood to carry on a conversation. They rode for close to half an hour before he spoke for the first time. “Are you okay?”
She kept her eyes on the road ahead. “Not really.”
“Rough weekend?”
“Yeah.”
“Paul?”
Connie shook her head. Funny, she hadn’t even thought about Paul since her conversation with Gianna about why he hadn’t come to dinner.
“Is it something you want to talk about?”
“Not really.” She glanced at him as he drove. “You’re pretty quiet yourself.”
He shrugged, keeping his profile to her.
“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings on Friday,” she said. “I didn’t mean what I said about it meaning nothing that we were together. I was angry.”
“I was out of line.”
She wanted him to know he had been right about Paul’s companions.“That was his boss, and the lady owns the house they were working on.”
“Good. I’m glad everything’s okay.” He had totally misunderstood her point.
Connie turned away from him to stare out the windshield once more. Everything wasn’t okay. It might never be okay again. “I just found out that Angie’s adopted.”
The statement apparently took him by surprise, for he took a long time to respond. Finally, he said, “Were you the only one who didn’t know?”
“Gianna didn’t know, either. Angie’s only known for a couple months. She’s pretty upset. We all are.”
Greg kept his eyes on the road. “Isn’t it unusual to wait so long to tell someone they’re adopted? My cousin’s adopted, and his parents told him as soon as he was old enough to understand what it meant.”
“I don’t know.”
Greg thought for a moment. “So, that means she wasn’t a twin? Was there even a baby that died?”
“Yes. I guess that’s what made my parents adopt. My mother found out she couldn’t have any more of her own.”
Greg made a “humph” sound. “So then, that dream you told me about—that an angel brought Angie—maybe that wasn’t so far-fetched. That’s how you saw it as a little kid.”
The novelty of his idea intrigued her. “Do you think so? That somehow I knew she wasn’t born to us? That someone gave her to us?”
“What else happened in your dream?”
Connie closed her eyes to concentrate. She could feel the icy night air. “We were in a car—just me and Gianna—and I was cold, really cold. And the angel was outside the car, looking in at us. And then I think my parents got in the car and the angel went away, like they weren’t supposed to see it, but it left a baby there, on the carseat.”
“That’s what it sounds like to me. Do you still want to go see that angel in daylight?”
She wasn’t willing to tell him she had already gone with Paul. “No. You’re right. It was just a dream.” She opened her eyes to look out the windshield. “Has your cousin ever tried to find his birth parents?”
“Not that I know of. Does Angie want to find hers?”
“She already has. She visits them.”
Greg looked pensive.“That was fast. Is that why you’re upset? She has another family?”
She hadn’t really thought about it that way, but he was right. Part of what hurt was Angie pulling away, building a relationship with the LaCroixs that did not include Connie. Connie was no longer as important to her as she had been; she was sharing Angie now, and Angie had new people that she cared about.
“Maybe that’s it.” She smiled at him. “Thanks. That helps.”
Greg’s face showed cautious disbelief as he returned her smile. “It does?”
“Yeah. It helps me put it all in perspective. It’s not really anything to be sad about. It’s just an adjustment. She’s still part of our family, too. Nothing’s really changed.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I should change my major,” he said with
a grin. “I’ve always liked psych.”
“You might be a natural.”
Greg laughed, and the sound made her smile.
“I sort of broke up with Paul,” she said, suddenly wanting him to know.
“Sort of?”
“He doesn’t like that Gianna’s going out with a black guy.”
“I can understand that.”
Disappointment immediately reversed her improving mood. “You can? So, that’s how you feel, too?”
“No. But I can understand guys who do.”
“Really.” Connie made no effort to disguise her skepticism.
“Men are territorial. And protective of their women. Even the ones that aren’t technically theirs. It’s a mating thing.” He glanced sideways at her. “Do you know what I mean? Black guys aren’t from our tribe. They’re a threat. We’re a threat to them and their women.”
“That’s sort of what Paul said.”
The mention of Paul’s name changed his tone from friendly to brusque. “The difference is, some of us can learn to recognize it for what it is and get past it. We don’t live in caves anymore, and it’s okay to cross racial lines.”
Connie smiled.
“What are you smiling at?” He sounded irritated.
“I was just thinking how much I enjoy talking to you.”
“Humph. That’s better than nothing, I guess.” He glanced at her once more. “So, what does it mean to be sort of broken up with Paul?”
“I haven’t heard from him since we argued about David.”
“Then you’re free this weekend?”
Connie gave him an encouraging smile. “As far as I know.”
“What would you like to do?”
That was easy. “See La Boheme at the Flynn.”
“You’re on.”
Connie’s smile broadened. “So, you’re an opera buff as well as a Bogart fan?”
Greg shook his head. “Hell, no. I can’t stand opera. But for you, I’ll tough it out.”
***
Connie spent her free period in the library, looking up Abenaki Indians in the encyclopedia. When she found nothing, she approached the gray-haired reference librarian sitting behind an ornate mahogany desk.
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