“I am so sorry.”
“Ditto,” Lucy says, her voice thick.
“Rosa’s waiting was finally over. We were both taken by surprise. When my sister arrived in Ravello, she wasn’t expecting motherhood to come so soon. She chose the name Josephina, after our mother’s mother.”
A shiver goes through me. One sister gives birth, the other buries her child. And the names—Johanna and Josephina—so very similar. Could the gods be any crueler? It’s no wonder Poppy transferred her love to Josephina.
From the car stereo, a sonorous ballad plays. The melancholy notes make my nose sting. Lucy shapes her sweater into a pillow, and soon she’s propped against the door, softly snoring. Poppy sighs when I reach for her, almost a purr. She’s a small child in my arms, in need of comfort tonight. Her breathing slows. Her body falls limp against mine. My arm goes numb and begins to tingle. I don’t move. I breathe in the sweet scent of my aunt, feel the faint rise and fall of her breath, hoping that years from now, I can close my eyes and retrieve this very moment.
“I should have tried harder to connect with you,” she whispers. “Please forgive me.”
I stroke her downy head. “There is nothing to forgive. You tried. But I allowed Nonna …” My words trail off. I’m an adult now. It’s not fair to blame Nonna.
“Next time you speak to Rosa, please tell her I’m sorry. That I love her.”
Uncle Dolphie was right. Reconciliation would give Poppy peace—and probably my nonna, too. “Why not tell her yourself? We can call her tomorrow.”
She shakes her head. “I phoned Dolphie just before leaving the States. We had a lovely conversation. But Rosa … she will not speak to me.”
I clench my jaw, anger burning in me. “She’s stubborn,” I say, “like my sister.”
“Yes. I’ve tried many times to reach out to Daria.”
I look down at her. “Really? She never told me.”
“You and I are together. That’s enough.”
“Thank God,” I whisper, and I kiss her head. “And thank you.”
“I love you, Emilia.”
“I love you, too, Nonna.”
I catch my mistake, but for some reason, I don’t correct myself. Neither does my aunt.
Jan drops us off at Rico’s old apartment above the bakery. “It is yours for as long as you need it,” he says, handing Poppy an old-fashioned brass key. “I will stay down the hill at Elene’s.”
Lucy helps Poppy into her nightgown before retreating to the living room sofa. I dampen a cloth and wash Poppy’s soft cheeks.
“I always dreamed I’d sleep in this room again,” Poppy says, staring up at the wall above the door. “He carved our initials. They are still there, somewhere.”
“I know,” I say. “He loved you very much.”
“He still does,” she reminds me, and I’m ashamed that I referred to him in the past tense.
The sheets are crisp when I pull them down, and Poppy burrows into them like a little kitten. I climb in beside her and turn off the lamp. Amber light from the piazza stripes the room.
“Did you get in touch with Brody?” Poppy asks.
“I did.” I say a silent thanks to Brody, Poppy’s helper back home. “He’s happy to continue watching over the farm until we return. He wants you to know he’s riding Higgins every day, keeping him exercised.”
Poppy nods. “Brody refuses to accept a raise, though God knows he could use the money. Did I tell you he lost his leg in Vietnam? Never utters a complaint. The man is a peach, just like his father was.”
It seems strange now, to think that Poppy had a whole other life without Rico, that she had a relationship with Brody’s father, her “man companion.” As my beautiful aunt’s life comes to a close, I can’t help but wonder, does she have regrets?
“Did you ever want to get married again? Have children?”
“No,” she says without hesitation. “Though I did love Thomas.”
“Brody’s dad? He wasn’t just a … consolation prize?”
She turns to me. “You’ll find the older you get, the less stingy you become with the word ‘love.’ Thomas taught me to laugh again. And I believe I was a comfort to him, after his wife died. We were wonderful comrades, Thomas and I.” She smiles, as if recalling a sweet memory.
A breeze rustles the sheer curtain. “Does it bother you that Rico married Karin?”
“I’d be sad if he hadn’t. You see, Emilia, not every love requires passion, nor does all passion require love.”
The air seems to still. A vision of Matt’s sweet smile comes to me. I prop myself onto my elbow and search her shadowed face. “Do you honestly believe that, Aunt Poppy? Do you really think it’s possible to be with someone—maybe even marry someone—if you don’t feel passion?”
“I believe it happens all the time.”
A shiver blankets me. I feel as if I’m speaking to a wise sage who holds the answer to the question I’ve pondered for years. And everything hinges on her reply.
“But is that fair? Is that enough? Or should I—should everyone—hold out for the kind of love that sets your skin aflame?”
She smiles. “That, my dear, is a question we can answer only for ourselves. All I can tell you is that, after eighty years, I realize that love plays many roles. Paramour. Comforter. Protector. Mate. Though Rico is my heart’s only true passion, there’s much to be said for a love that provides deep friendship, or simply companionship, in a world that can sometimes feel like a fisted glove.”
Her eyes glisten in the night’s glow. “In the end, life is a simple equation. Each time you love—be it a man or a child, a cat or a horse—you add color to this world. When you fail to love, you erase color.” She smiles. “Love, in any of its forms, is what takes this journey from a bleak black-and-white pencil sketch to a magnificent oil painting.”
She touches my cheek. “It’s the sweet fruit that paints the field and wakes our senses. I’m not saying you must be on a constant quest for it, but please, if love comes to you, if you find it within your grasp, promise me you’ll pluck it from the vine and give it a good looking-over, won’t you?”
Her words wash over me as I try to reconcile the idea of Mattmy-pal becoming Matt-my-potential-love. Is it possible I haven’t given him a good enough “looking-over”?
As I begin to drift off, she grabs my hand, her grip stronger than I’d have expected.
“Your mother loved you very much.”
I freeze. I was only two when she died. Much of that time, she was ill. I’ve always wondered, was I the one who caused her illness? Did she resent me? Was I a bother to her?
“How do—?” I force the words over the knot in my throat. “How do you know for sure?”
“You were her angel. That’s what she called you.”
Tears slide past my temples. All my life, I’ve longed to hear these words. “But she never knew me, the person I am. I was just a baby.”
Poppy’s grip tightens. “A mother’s love isn’t measured in time, Emilia. It’s instantaneous and everlasting. And this, my dear, I know for certain.”
Chapter 47
Poppy
1961
Aboard the SS Cristoforo Colombo En Route to America
Rosa got her way in the end, as she was accustomed to. But to be fair, I went willingly. It seemed my only option. The eight-day voyage from Napoli to New York was mercifully calm. The days brought warm breezes and only the occasional thunderstorm. But newly born Josephina had her days and nights confused. Each evening, after we’d tucked ourselves into our stuffy cabin, Josephina’s eyes grew wide and curious. The duties of motherhood exhausted Rosa, and I did everything I could to keep the baby quiet while she slept. Often, I’d bundle her up and sneak out onto the deck, where we’d stand facing eastward, looking back toward the land where my Rico lived. Together, we’d watch the following black sea rise and fall. I’d point out the constellations, and we’d talk about her future.
Though Rosa understoo
d I was grieving, she was prickly when I was alone with Josie. She’d caught me, more than once, pretending to be a new mother en route to see her loving husband. The roles of wife and mother, she gently reminded me, belonged to her.
But Josephina and I shared a connection Rosa could not deny. She was a listener, my little vessel of joy. She’d study my face, wrinkle her little brow when I spoke of my Rico, the greatest man on earth. And when my eyes grew misty, she’d latch onto my finger, as if to reassure me that she understood my pain.
I called her my tiny miracle, and told her she was the reason I breathed. Because she was.
Chapter 48
Emilia
A long and lonely voyage, taking her farther and farther from her love and the infant she lost … nights spent with a new baby, with a name so similar to her own child’s. No wonder Poppy displaced her maternal longing and became overly attached to Josie.
“It all makes sense now,” I say, facing her. “You grew to love Josephina as your own. You were grieving. You meant no harm.”
She’s gripped with a wracking cough. I pat her back, a sense of foreboding coming over me. Poppy is dying. Earlier, she asked for forgiveness. I treated the request dismissively. But I realize now, she needs to hear it. Even if it’s not from her sister.
“I don’t blame you,” I say, my voice soft, “for what you did to my mother, for taking her.”
“Kidnapping,” she whispers. “That’s what they called it.”
“You weren’t yourself. Nonna should have understood.”
“I believe she did, deep in her heart. It was Alberto who insisted I leave. And of course Rosa agreed with her husband. I put her in a horrible position, having to choose. It is my biggest regret. Not a day has passed when I didn’t question my decision, or curse myself for acting so recklessly.”
“Shh,” I say. “That’s all behind you. You’ve created a beautiful life for yourself, filled with people who love you. You should feel proud.”
She turns to me, her eyes imploring. “When you see Rosa again, tell her I’m sorry. That I love her. That I’ve never stopped missing her.”
My heart shatters. And then a thought strikes. I study Poppy in the moonlight, my mind reeling. What if I were able to bring Nonna to Italy for a final sister reunion?
They say time heals all wounds. But in witnessing the simultaneous recoveries of my aunt and her beloved Rico, I can profess it’s not time but love that heals.
I insist on taking Poppy to the doctor first thing Wednesday morning. All along, Lucy and I assumed the advancing brain tumor was causing her decline. We’re surprised when the young physician treats her for a respiratory infection, giving her an intravenous cocktail of antibiotics and steroids and fluids. By Thursday afternoon, she’s champing at the bit, ready to get back to Rico’s side.
I rent a car—a sporty white convertible Poppy insisted we splurge on—and for the next week and a half, we rise at dawn and drive to Salerno. Even on cool mornings, she makes me put the top down. “That’s what heated seats are for,” she tells me. “Now, give it some gas. My goddess, Emilia, it’s a Maserati, not a minivan.”
While Poppy sits at Rico’s bedside, combing his hair, shaving his face, whispering her love, he slowly comes back to life. Every day, we see progress. He opens his eyes again. He smiles. He utters words, then speaks in short sentences. The doctor calls it a miracle. Poppy calls it fate. I call it beautiful.
By the second week, Rico’s eating on his own again, and most days he’s sitting in his wheelchair when we arrive, plucking his violin strings or fiddling with his old Leica camera. The color has returned to his face, and it’s easy to see the dashing German violinist who charmed the crowds—and my aunt. His jawline may not be as chiseled, his body might not be as taut, but I can clearly see the piercing blue eyes, the head of hair still thick and wavy, the brilliant smile that Poppy adored.
As if we’d struck some tacit agreement, Lucy and I talk in future tense, both of us intent on staying in Italy until our aunt’s dying breath. We take up a comfy spot in the hospital visitors’ lounge, giving Poppy and Rico their privacy.
Lucy sits at the hospital’s complimentary computer for hours at a time, researching something, though she won’t tell me what. Lucky for us, I still write the old-fashioned way—in my notebook. But now, the words stream from my pen, as if all around me the air is charged with love and light and a resurgence of life. When, hours later, we return to Rico’s room, we often catch them snuggled together in the hospital bed, Rico stroking Poppy’s bald head. Other times, they’re laughing at an old memory. Still other times we find them in tears, and I suspect they’re talking about the child—and the time—they lost.
“I want to marry you at the cathedral,” Rico tells her one rainy Monday, his voice deep and raspy. “I have all my paperwork completed for the government.”
She bats a hand at him. “We’re already married!”
My independent aunt, a second daughter who, after all these years, feels no need to prove their love, kisses her husband’s cheek. “You have been mein Ehemann for nearly six decades. You always will be.”
He smiles. “And you shall always be my wife.”
Poppy claps her mouth, as if catching herself, and spins around to where Lucy and I stand. “Oh, dear,” she says. “How thoughtless we are. Might it be important for you two that we marry?”
She’s letting us know, in case we’re concerned, that she will put an end to the Fontana Second-Daughter Curse with a legal marriage certificate, in a way nobody can dispute. I have zero need for this sort of closure. But perhaps Lucy does. I let her answer for us.
“If you marry,” Lucy says, her voice slow and deliberate, “just to disprove some effed-up, whack-a-doodle curse that never was, I, for one, will not be attending the wedding.”
It’s November third, a warm, overcast Saturday, and we’re sitting at a table in the hospital courtyard playing Shoot the Moon, a card game Poppy taught us.
“You had a club in your hand, but you played a spade,” I say to Rico. “No wonder you always win.”
Rico tsks and shakes his head, laugh lines shooting from the corners of his eyes. “You are a poor loser, mein Mädchen.”
My girl. Just like my aunt calls me. He places the cards into a box and reaches beneath the table for his old Leica camera.
“Enough with the pics,” Lucy says, sticking out her tongue as he snaps a picture of her. She yanks the camera from him. “You three,” she says and motions for us to gather.
Poppy comes up on one side of me, Rico on the other, their hands intertwined. Poppy kisses my cheek. I turn to Rico, his blue eyes bright with joy and love.
“Say formaggio!” Lucy says, making me laugh just as she snaps the photo. She sets down the camera and scoots to the edge of her chair.
“Guess what?” she says. “I’ve finally decided what to do with my life. Ready for this?” She mimics a drumroll. “Duh-duh-duh-dah! I want to cut hair. That’s right, I’m not exactly sure when or where, but at some point I’m enrolling in barber school!”
“Marvelous!” Poppy says, clapping her hands.
“So that’s what you’ve been researching on the hospital computer.” I hold out my hand for a fist bump. “That’s awesome, Luce.”
“I emailed all the info to Carol and Vinnie. My mom thinks I should go to cosmetology school instead, but I like cutting men’s hair. I’m not into waxing and facials and all that stuff.”
I cannot believe this is the same girl who once chose her eyeliner over her toothbrush.
“I talked to Grandpa Dolphie about it,” she continues. “He says I can do an apprenticeship in his shop.”
I picture Uncle Dolphie’s forlorn shop, with the opera music and empty chairs. He has no idea what he’s in for. His granddaughter will flip his sleepy shop on its axis, providing a much-needed shot of adrenaline. Uncle Dolphie will complain every step of the way. But deep inside, he’ll love it. Finally, he’ll have a purpose again.
His shop—the business he worked so hard to build—will continue on to the next generation. He will not be forgotten. Isn’t that what we all want?
“You’re becoming the character your playwright intended,” Poppy says. “Next year, after you’ve finished barber school and Emilia has completed her novel, we will all celebrate together.”
“Sure thing,” Lucy says without hesitation. But I remain silent. Will our aunt even be alive a year from now? Will Rico?
Poppy’s eyes hold mine until finally, I agree.
“But the novel,” I say. “You’re thinking I’ll have it finished in a year? I’m not sure it’s poss—”
“It’s possible,” she says and winks.
Lucy’s explaining the difference between a cosmetologist and a barber when Rico’s doctor approaches. “There you are!” She’s wearing her white lab coat, an iPad tucked beneath her arm. “I have good news, Mr. Krause. Your lab results remain stable. I am signing your discharge papers. Tomorrow morning, you are free to go home.”
Rico chokes up, and I can only imagine what these words mean to a man who’s spent much of his life behind a wall.
Tomorrow he will return home, to the tiny apartment he shared with Poppy. He’s healthy now, and so is she. My mission here is accomplished. But might there be a greater mission? A mission Uncle Dolphie proposed last fall?
I motion to Lucy, and she follows me over to a little flower garden, where patients’ names are memorialized in carved stepping-stones.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Lucy says. “The lovebirds need some space. Those apartment walls are pretty thin.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“Uncle Vinnie really should have invested in charm school.” I shake my head. “I’m going home, Luce.”
She rears back. “No. Not yet. We’ll rent our own place, here in Ravello.”
One Italian Summer: The perfect romantic fiction read for summer 2020 Page 27