by Paige Toon
‘That’s not it,’ she says calmly, holding her hand up. ‘She doesn’t want anything to do with your father – my husband. She’d rather live in squalor than accept his help.’
‘But that’s crazy. It may be only a matter of time before the walls collapse on her!’
My mother looks startled. ‘I didn’t know it was as bad as that.’
‘Well, you should know! Why don’t you know? Why the hell don’t you ever go and see her?’ I don’t know why I’ve never thought to ask any of these questions before. ‘Did you even go to Nonno’s funeral?’
‘Of course I went to his funeral!’ she snaps.
‘Did you? When? I don’t remember that.’
‘You were on holiday in the Hamptons with your friends.’
‘But I didn’t know you’d gone! Why didn’t you ask me to come with you? You must have known I would!’
‘Yes, I. . .’
‘What? Why?’
She looks shifty. The words come out with difficulty. ‘I . . . needed to go. . . alone. . .’
‘But why? I don’t understand!’
She sighs. ‘Oh, Daisy. . .’
I look at her in confusion. I’ve never seen her like this before, so composed and reasonable.
‘Tell me!’ I raise my voice.
She looks at me and her eyes are filled with pain. Then she looks away again and her answer is firm. ‘I just wanted to spend some time with my mother and be there for her without worrying about you. Okay?’
I shake my head. ‘No. That’s not it. There’s something else. What is it you’re not telling me?’
‘That’s enough, now.’ She stands up and walks out of the dining room.
‘No, it’s not!’ I follow her into the kitchen. ‘Tell me what’s going on?’ Candida is at the sink. She gives us a wary glance before quickly exiting the room. She’s probably startled to hear us speaking in another language. In fact, she probably had no idea about our Italian heritage at all.
My mother turns her back on me and faces the far wall.
‘Hey!’ I shout. I go to her and spin her around. There are tears in her eyes and. . . something else. . . Fear?
‘What is it? You have to tell me. You can’t not.’
‘Okay,’ she says.
‘Okay?’ I step back in surprise.
‘Okay. Let’s go for a walk.’
‘A walk? Alone?’
‘Yes, alone.’
‘At this time?’ It’s after nine o’clock at night. ‘Without a minder?’
‘Yes.’
I’m taken aback – this is very out of character for my mother – but I go along with it.
We’re silent on the elevator ride down to the lobby, and silent on the walk along the street. It’s only when we’ve turned the corner and are out of sight of our apartment block towering up above that my mother begins to speak.
‘I left your father once.’
I turn to her in surprise. She’s staring off into the distance, as though lost in her thoughts.
‘When?’ I ask.
‘It was before you were born.’
‘When you were living in England?’
‘Yes. Although I went back to Italy.’
‘To stay with Nonna?’
‘And your grandfather, yes. They welcomed me back. They didn’t want me to marry him in the first place. They said he had bad blood.’
I know what they mean.
‘Why did you marry him?’
She sighs. ‘I thought I loved him. I think I just loved the idea of him. I was at university in England on a scholarship.’
‘I didn’t know you went to university?’ It strikes me that I don’t actually know an awful lot about my mother. ‘What were you studying?’
‘English.’ She waves me away, a touch impatiently. I’m sidetracking. She continues. ‘I had this one friend, a well-meaning girl from a wealthy family who took pity on this poor soul from the mountains. She dragged me out one night to her father’s private members’ club and we got dressed up to the nines – me in a borrowed outfit. We sat on high stools at the bar while drinking martinis in cocktail glasses.’ I glance at my mother to see her smiling wistfully as she remembers. ‘Your father walked in. He was so handsome and well dressed. He took . . . an interest in me, I think you could say. He wanted to take me out on a date. I was flattered. I agreed.’
‘Then what happened?’ I prompt. I’m utterly intrigued by this story.
‘We got. . . carried away,’ she says, with difficulty.
‘What do you mean?’
She takes a deep breath.
‘You had sex with him?’ I ask. She looks at me sharply. We never speak about intimate things. I’ve never had that sort of relationship with her. ‘On the first date?’ She doesn’t answer, but suddenly I see it clearly. ‘And you fell pregnant with me,’ I say dully. So I’m the reason she ended up in an unhappy marriage. But her next words shock me.
‘Not with you,’ she says.
I stop on the sidewalk and stare at her, unable to walk any further.
‘Then with whom?’ I ask, the words threatening to choke me.
‘Perhaps this isn’t the place.’ She indicates the street around her, the sidewalk, the nearby canopy from a cheap Italian restaurant.
‘You can’t stop now,’ I warn, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. ‘Tell me.’
‘I miscarried at twenty-two weeks. Five and a half months,’ she explains, when she sees me trying to calculate it in my head. ‘It was a boy,’ she says sadly.
‘I almost had a brother?’ I ask.
She nods.
‘Were you married to my father by then?’
‘Yes. Only a month before. I wasn’t even showing yet. Your father was devastated. He always wanted a son.’ She glances at me apologetically, and in that instant I remember something my father said to me when I was only about five or six.
‘At the very least you could have been a boy . . .’
‘Didn’t you try to have any more children after me?’
She looks off down the street. ‘Yes. I miscarried them all.’
‘All?’ I look at her in horror.
‘Six in total, but all in the first trimester. I never knew the sex of the others.’
‘What about me? Why didn’t you miscarry me?’ It’s a crazy question, and I don’t really expect her to know the answer, so I’m startled when she suddenly looks on edge. ‘Mother?’
‘Let’s keep walking.’ I hurry after her down the sidewalk, waiting for her to continue. Eventually she does. ‘I felt like your father hated me.’
I glance at her in confusion as she continues.
‘I lost him his son.’
‘It wasn’t your fault!’
‘But he didn’t see it that way. He wanted to try again. Straight away. But I had another miscarriage. I didn’t fall pregnant again for some time after that, and he just became bitter and resentful.’
‘But how did you cope with that? You must’ve been devastated yourself.’
‘I was,’ she says simply. ‘More devastated than I could ever describe. And to live with his hatred. . . It was too much.’
‘So you left him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say this was before I was born?’ I’m breathless from walking so fast.
‘About ten months before, yes.’
‘Wow. So you didn’t leave him for long, then?’
She shakes her head. Her expression is pained.
‘What is it?’
In the light of the streetlamps I see her eyes have filled with tears. I stop suddenly, struck down with realisation. She stops, too, and turns around to face me.
‘He’s not my father, is he?’
She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t nod or shake her head. Her eyes steadily meet mine as time seems to stand still.
‘I don’t know,’ is her reply.
‘You don’t know?’ My voice is wavering.
‘I don’t know,�
� she confirms.
‘How can you not know?’ I’m starting to feel hysterical. ‘Who was he? Who did you screw?’ My last words sound bitter.
‘He was my childhood sweetheart.’
‘Argh!’ I shout, all too familiar with that term.
She regards me warily, but my anger is not as strong as my need to know the truth. I breathe heavily as I wait for her to continue.
‘He was my boyfriend. We broke up before I went to England.
He was angry I was leaving him and said he wouldn’t wait for me. We left a lot of things unfinished.’
‘So you went back home and slept with him, while you were still married to my father?’
She doesn’t reply. ‘Go on,’ I prompt. ‘What happened next? Did you go running back to England?’
She shakes his head. ‘He came looking for me.’
‘Who? My father?’
‘Yes. He wanted to make amends. He wanted me back.’
‘And what about poor old whatshisname?’
She actually shrugs. ‘I was married. I felt it was my duty to go back to England with my husband.’
‘Fuck your duty!’ I shout. ‘Why didn’t you do what was in your heart?’ I’m so confused. I feel all over the place, sometimes with her, sometimes against her. I don’t know what to think.
‘My heart was torn, Daisy. And then when I realised I was pregnant again, I almost expected to miscarry. But I didn’t.’
‘No, you had me. And I bet ‘daddy’ was absolutely delighted with his little girl,’ I say sarcastically.
‘He was happy,’ she tells me.
‘But he still wanted a son.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you never gave him one.’
‘No.’
‘Does he know about the other guy?’ I ask unhappily.
‘His name was Andrea.’
I suck in a sharp breath as I hear the name of the man who could be my father.
‘No,’ my mother replies. ‘I never told your father what happened.’
‘Does. . . Andrea know about me?’
My mother shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure.’
‘Maybe I could have a paternity test? Find out if he’s my real father? Perhaps I could get to know him?’
‘He’s dead.’
Her words resonate through me.
‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes. I found out when I went back for your grandfather’s funeral.’
I feel crushed. Suddenly I can’t walk anymore. ‘Do I look like him?’ I ask quietly.
My mother studies my face and, finally, shakes her head. ‘No. You look like me,’ she says. We stare at each other as tears begin to streak down both our cheeks.
‘I don’t understand why you never left my father when he’s always been so hateful towards you.’
‘I thought I was doing the right thing. Doing the best thing for you.’
I shake my head. ‘You weren’t doing the best thing for me.’
‘But we would have had nothing!’ Her face is anguished.
‘I have nothing, now,’ I say, angry all of a sudden. ‘I don’t want the money. It’s never been what I wanted. I just wanted to grow up in a happy household with a family who loved me.’
‘We do love you.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. You don’t have to lie to protect me. I’m sure you’ve done more than enough of that over the years and I haven’t appreciated it or respected you for it.’
She says nothing.
‘Why don’t you leave him now?’ I ask eventually. ‘You could find love again, be happy. . .’
She steadfastly shakes her head. ‘No. This is my life now. And I’m fine. I have everything I could ever want.’
‘What? The latest Gucci bag and Prada shoes?’ My tone is sarcastic.
‘It makes me happy, Daisy.’
As I continue to stare at her, disappointment seeps up through my pores and suddenly I understand. She likes the money. She likes the wealth. She’s used to this life now.
‘I’m used to this life now.’ She uses the same words that have just passed through my mind. ‘I couldn’t go back. Not to Italy, not to the mountains. I like it here in New York.’
She’s trapped by her wealth, I can see that so clearly. But I won’t let that happen to me. I won’t.
That night when we return to the apartment, I go straight to my bedroom and call Holly.
‘Can I stay with you?’
‘Yes!’ she shrieks. ‘A million times, yes! When are you coming back?’
‘Give me a few days to get it sorted.’
‘You know we’re in Belgium this weekend?’
‘That’s right, yes. Do you get back on Sunday?’
‘Yes.’
‘I could come then . . .’ I think aloud.
‘If you fly into Heathrow around the same time, we could share a cab back to my place. I’ll get my itinerary and text you the details.’
‘Cool.’ Pause. ‘Do you still have my things?’
‘Of course. They’re in the loft. I’ll put them in your bedroom.’
‘So you didn’t give them away to charity?’ I check, smiling.
‘Hell, no. Who do you think I am, Laura? Sorry, bad joke
.’ I don’t speak.
‘Daisy?’ she says tentatively. ‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘I don’t know, Holly. But I’m sure as hell going to try.’
Chapter 22
My plane ticket is booked, my bags are packed and, yes, I even packed them myself. I’m taking with me only what I brought here – the designer outfits I’ve boxed up and sent to Cindy, Lisa and Donna. They may be rich, but they still like a freebie, and they’ll have more use for them than I will. The only thing left to do is tell my parents, and my father is typically late home from work again. My flight leaves in a few hours, so I don’t have long. Part of me hopes he doesn’t return in time, but three years ago I left without saying goodbye and now I’m determined to be stronger.
I find my mother in the living room. She’s doing what I usually do, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the joggers in Central Park. I stand there and watch her quietly for a moment, feeling a rush of love for her. It surprises me. Maybe one day I’ll understand what she’s been through and the choices that she’s made, but right now I’m still finding it difficult. If anything, perhaps being away from her again will give me the space to forgive her for being the person that she is.
‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’ she asks quietly, slowly turning her head to look at me.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
She nods. ‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
‘And what will you do?’
‘I’m going back to work with the Formula 1 team.’ I turn around and look towards the door as I fidget with my hands.
‘He’s not going to be happy about it,’ my mother says.
‘I know.’
‘Daisy . . .’ she starts.
‘Yes?’
She begins to speak in Italian again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’ I answer back, also in Italian.
‘For everything. I’m sorry you didn’t have a happy childhood. Or adulthood,’ she adds. ‘I wish you would stay.’
‘I’m sorry, too,’ I reply, ‘because I can’t.’
‘I know. And I will miss you. Please don’t leave for as long this time.’
‘I won’t.’ I hesitate while standing there, and then walk to the sofa and sit down. She joins me. ‘What was he like?’ I ask. ‘Andrea.’
She’s not surprised by my question. ‘He was fiery, passionate, but we were only young. I don’t know what sort of a man he turned into.’
‘Did he get married? Have children?’
‘Married, yes, children, no.’
‘So I don’t have any half brothers or sisters.’ It’s not really a question, more a statement.
‘I don’t know if he was your father,’ my m
other says. ‘I don’t know how important it is for you to find out. But I know that it would kill Stellan.’
‘Kill his reputation, you mean.’
‘It’s the same thing.’
I stare at her and wonder to myself if I need to know. What would I do? How would I handle it? Is there any point, now Andrea is dead? Perhaps not. I don’t know how I’ll feel in the years to come, but I guess I don’t have to decide anything right now.
‘I think I’ll leave it alone for the moment,’ I say.
She smiles tearfully and reaches over to hold my hand. ‘I’ll miss you, my little star.’
I’m taken aback. ‘That’s what Nonna calls me!’
‘It’s what she called me, too, when I was growing up.’
The sound of my father’s voice makes both of us jump. ‘What are you saying to each other? Why are you speaking in that language?’ He’s standing at the doorway, staring at us angrily. I notice a figure creeping around in the corridor behind him and realise it’s Martin.
My mother immediately looks fearful at his words, but I feel brave. ‘We’re speaking in Italian. It’s our language.’ I motion to my mother and me.
‘It’s not your language,’ he spits. ‘That’s not how I raised you.’
I try to stay calm. I know he just feels threatened because he doesn’t understand.
‘Hello, Martin.’ I change the subject.
‘Hello!’ He scoots past my father and comes into the living room. ‘Two more days to go before the big day. I don’t have an office for you, but I thought you could perch in the corner of mine for the time being. Keep me company.’
‘Thank you for the offer.’ I try to keep my sarcasm at bay, but I’m speaking through clenched teeth. ‘But as I’ve already told my father, I’ll have to politely decline.’
‘Daisy,’ my father interrupts. ‘Do not disobey me.’
‘She’s a feisty one!’ Martin rubs his hands together with glee. ‘But I like a challenge.’
‘That’s enough!’ I raise my voice and leap to my feet. ‘I am NOT coming to work with you, I’m going back to England.’
‘You are doing no such thing,’ my father says angrily.
‘Just try and stop her.’ That was my mother speaking and the sound of her deadly calm voice makes us all spin around. ‘Martin, can you wait in the office, please,’ she says.