“Well, no tile, no sawdust. This is a fancy place, not like…” She squeezed his hand. “Not like a place I knew.” She eased into her chair, pulled back in time. “I was a child. I loved to skate along on the sawdust, on the tiles, black-and-white ones, with green scattered here and there.” She paused, seeing it in her mind. “No tablecloths on the tables, but a big bar. And ladies who wore hats with outrageous plumes. The windows had gold writing on them…” Her face froze in concentration. The image began to fade, and she strained to recapture it, to fill in the tantalizing details that might tell her who she was.
She let go of Charles and covered her face with her hands.
“Are you all right, Deirdre?”
“These flashes of remembrance are so frustrating. I’m excited to chip away at my forgetfulness, but I reach a wall that tells me I’ve gone far enough.”
“Do you think, if we traveled around the city, that you might recognize this pub that’s in your memory?”
“That’s a wonderful idea. I’d like to try. And if I exhaust myself, I have my doctor right with me.”
Charles ordered sherry for them. She sipped it, relaxing and looking around. The restaurant was elegant—high ceilings, gothic arches, and potted palms. He ordered roast beef and Bordeaux wine. The evening was a heady experience for her.
“Thank you, Charles. I think this is a good omen.”
He raised his glass to her. “To many more good things to come.” He sipped his wine, then took a deep breath and put his hand on hers. “You thanked me before.”
“And I mean it.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Of course I…”
“Don’t interrupt me, my dear Deirdre. This is not easy for me to say. You don’t have to thank me because, yes, I did things for you, but mostly, I did them for me.”
She leaned forward. “How?”
“It made me feel good…”
“Well, you’re the kindest man.”
He shook his head forcefully. “In one way I almost hope your memory doesn’t come back. This way, you are dependent on me.”
Her eyes widened.
“You are not making this easy for me.” As he held her hand, he looked down, as if studying the meal before him.
She sensed that he had something important to say, yet was ignorant of what was on his mind.
He finally looked up, his blue eyes uncertain. “You know, I can set your broken legs and heal your banged head, but I’m bedeviled trying to tell you this. Oh, hell, I love you, Deirdre. I want to marry you.”
She stared at him, her mind trying to ascertain whether or not she had heard correctly.
“Aren’t you going to say anything? Like, ‘Charles, you’re a bloody fool. Please stick to your doctoring’? Or ‘Call the waiter over and tell him to remove this wine glass’? Perhaps suggest I shouldn’t drive in my condition?”
“Charles…” She caught her breath. “Charles, I don’t know what to say. You took me by surprise.”
“You took me by storm.”
They laughed, breaking the tension.
“You are the most wonderful person in my life, Charles, probably ever.”
“At least for now.”
“I know that when I get my memory back, you will still be important to me…” She trailed off, the surprise leaving her unsettled.
“You don’t have to answer me now,” he said. “I would have waited until you were more on your own before I asked you, but I have had a wonderful offer from a hospital in Boston, and I’d like to take you with me as my wife.”
“You’ll be leaving here?” Fear stabbed her at the thought of being completely alone.
“I’ll be here for another month, enough time to wrap up my duties here. And for you to get a trousseau together, if you’ll have me.”
She was oblivious to the rest of the meal. A maze of new events assaulted her—the pub in her memory, Charles’ opportunity in Boston, his marriage offer, and the fear that she could be utterly alone. A month is all I have, thirty days. A drop in time to determine the rest of my life.
Charles took her back to the apartment he had rented for her. She had trouble turning the key in the lock, and Charles bent close to help her. He opened the door, took her in his arms, and kissed her, a long, impassioned kiss. She didn’t resist; rather, she felt detached. Why did his passion take her by surprise?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I have to give you time.” He left her at the door, her confusion deepening.
Lighting the gas lamp in her room, she looked around. This too was devoid of clues as to who she was. Her mind leapt from one question to another. If she married Charles, would her feelings change when she recovered her memory? What were her feelings? He was kind and good, and she was grateful to him. Was that love?
She was overcome by longing—for whom, she didn’t know. In the shadowy world of her memory, she had fleeting visions of a man. He was all fluid motion as she watched him. Strong arms encircled her. She was on a swing, and whispered words sent her soaring. Passion stirred within her, passion and overwhelming tenderness.
If shadowy, half-formed memories ignited such fire, then what of the man? Surely I must have loved another.
The anonymous little room seemed stifling. She went to the window, threw it open wide, and looked up at the night sky. No stars shone on that cloudy night, but she continued to stare into the blue-black haze. Seconds later, the moon emerged from behind a cloud and hung in the vast sky alone.
She remembered a fable of the sun and moon, lovers who were destined to be separated eternally. She began to weep, and images began to crowd her mind. She was in a park, walking hand in hand with a young man. She loved looking into his face. He was smiling down at her and kissing her. Her heart raced. She was at a baseball game, the same man playing the game. Someone beside her yelled, “Home run, no, oh, no!” That wasn’t it. “Home again, with no…” Not that either. Then she heard it clearly: “Home run, Vittorio!”
Vittorio! Oh, God, Vittorio! She saw him clearly now, as if he were standing before her, a tender smile lighting his face. Dear, handsome Vittorio, the man she loved. She was overwhelmed with longing. All this while she had been without him. I know I loved him, and love him now, she amended. Where is he? What happened to us?
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, not to dispel the memory that was returning. Finally, her past came into focus. She called to mind the baseball game. She turned to look at the person beside her, and recognition washed over her. She saw the dear, gentle face of her brother, Dermot.
It was hard to contain her excitement. The memories flooded in. She pictured her tenement, with Vittorio and Dermot on the steps. Papa! And I am Kitty, Kitty Dwyer! My parents are Liam and Maeve Dwyer, and I live at 389 First Avenue. She began to pace. She had a past, a family, and a love that consumed her.
With a start, she remembered. She and Vittorio were to be married! Her father objected, so they had planned to elope. She was to meet him at school. What had happened?
Slowly, she recalled the events of that day—packing her bag with the blue dress that she was to be married in, baking an apple pie with Dermot, leaving her father a note, and kissing Dermot goodbye. The bittersweet memories flooded back. Then, the trip to the bank. It was raining hard, and she was rushing. A bolt of lightning lit the sky. She looked up, into the wild eyes and flaring nostrils of a horse, almost upon her. The image so terrified her that she let out a cry in the darkness. Arms folded tight, she gasped for breath.
“Sweet Lord Jesus,” she prayed, over and over. The litany calmed her. The day had been exhausting. Though she wanted to run to Vittorio, she was tired to the bone. She crawled into bed. She would need her strength tomorrow, she knew, to put the pieces of Kitty Dwyer’s life together.
Chapter 31
Kitty awoke the next morning and looked in the mirror.
“Kitty,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Catherine Dwyer.” The knowledge of wh
o she was raced to thoughts of Vittorio. She remembered how he had looked the first time she saw him, tanned and muscular, playing baseball with athletic grace. Remembering his kiss, an unquenchable hunger rose within her.
As she dressed, the silver pin Charles had given her, still on the collar of her dress, caught her eye. He has been so kind, and I can never repay him. Now I will only cause him pain. Then her love for Vittorio overtook her. Kitty’s hands shook as she buttoned her dress; she could hardly wait to see him. She would go to his house immediately. If he was at work, she would run to him. The months she was ill melted behind her; life ahead was expectant and shimmering. She gulped down a cup of tea, the most she could manage, and raced out of the house.
In a moment of panic, Kitty thought she had forgotten where he lived, but the memory returned. She rode the trolley to his house, looking around at the familiar sights, inhaling them as if they were the first breath of spring. She reveled in knowing each street name, in recognizing the tailor shop on Bleecker, the bakery that made oversized mince pies at Christmas, the empty lot where Vittorio played ball. With a pang, she looked for her brother at the lot and in the surrounding streets, but he was not there. Suddenly she was furious with her father for forcing her to choose.
She leapt off the trolley and stood for a moment gazing up at the building where Vittorio lived, her heart beating. She forced herself to walk to the stoop in dignified fashion, like a woman old enough to be married, then gave up and scrambled up the steps. She pounded on his door. After an eternity, a woman asked something in Italian.
“It’s Kitty, Mrs. Rossi. Kitty Dwyer.”
The door opened to reveal a woman holding a baby.
“I’m looking for the Rossis.”
“No, no.” The woman kept shaking her head.
Kitty’s voice rose. “Vittorio. Vittorio and his mama, Ottavia Rossi.”
The woman said something in Italian and pointed to the landlady’s door.
The landlady, an old Italian woman, recognized Kitty and immediately shook her head.
“The Rossis…” Kitty began, wondering how to communicate with her.
“No here,” the old woman said.
“Where are they?” She was anxious to share her happiness. “We’re going to be married.”
“Marry.” The old woman smiled and nodded her head.
“What?”
“Vittorio. He marry.”
“He got married? To someone else?”
The woman continued to grin and nod her head.
Kitty pressed her hand to her heart. “Who? Where is he?”
She shrugged her shoulders and began to close the door.
“Wait! Are you sure? Where does he live?”
The woman shook her head. The door snapped shut.
Kitty could not believe it. She refused to believe it. She would find another neighbor and ask them what happened. Paolo! She’d find Paolo. She raced to the Crespis’ tenement and pounded on the door. A woman answered, and in a heavy Polish accent, told her they had moved to Boston.
“Boston, of course. They talked about moving there. Did you know the Rossis, Vittorio and his mother, Ottavia?”
“Yes, I met them.”
She took a deep breath and plunged on, her heart on hold. “Do you know if Vittorio got married?”
“Yes. He came with his wife, Concetta, a pretty woman.”
Kitty shrank back, unable to speak. She turned and broke into a run, wanting to be away from there, far from the sight of a place and memories of a love that hurt like an open wound. She thought of the months of not knowing who she was, and of Charles’ wish that she remain that way. Now she fervently wished she had not regained her memory.
Without a past, she had no pain. She could have lived that way and been happy enough. Now her memories of Vittorio and of the bright future they had planned stood in dark contrast to the bleakness of the present.
Kitty ran from the tenement so fast she didn’t hear the woman call after her. The woman shook her head and returned to her parlor. “Vittorio?” she said aloud. “No, no, his name was Vincenzo.” Newly arrived from Poland, she was unused to Italian names. “Vincenzo, Vittorio.” She shrugged. “An honest mistake.”
Kitty walked the streets, heedless of those around her, brushing past them, rushing headlong to nowhere. She walked until her legs ached. She tried to think methodically about herself and her future. She could not go home. Even if her father accepted her, he was partly to blame for her losing Vittorio, and she did not even want to look at him.
Charles is too fine a person to be considered a last resort, but without him, I’m penniless and homeless. He loves me and I owe him my life. Charles was her only choice. She knew she would never be happy without Vittorio, but she vowed to make Charles happy.
Kitty returned to her room as darkness fell, and found Charles pacing in front of the house.
“Deirdre, I was worried. You’ve been gone so long.” He looked at her with his expressive blue eyes.
She managed to smile up at him. “I’m sorry to worry you, but I have some good news. Come in, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
She made him sit down on the sofa and stood in front of him. “You can’t call me Deirdre any more. My name is Kitty. Kitty Dwyer, and I remember everything from my past.”
Charles jumped up and threw his arms around her. “Wonderful!”
Seeing how thrilled Charles was for her, she had to smile. “Give me some time, and I’ll tell you all of it.”
“Kitty Dwyer.” He repeated her name, trying out the sound of it. “I like it. You are like a kitty, soft yet feisty. It suits you.”
He made a place for her on the sofa. “Please sit down, Kitty Dwyer, and tell me all about yourself.”
Kitty spoke about her childhood, of growing up upon the death of her mother, and her love for her brother. She spoke of everything but her deep love for Vittorio. A romance that didn’t work out was how she described it, and told him of her father’s objection to their courtship.
He listened, from time to time encouraging her quietly. When she finished, he sat back and said nothing.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
He looked down at his hands. “Selfishly, I’m wondering how this will change us. You seem different already. For someone who has just discovered who she is, the moment you’ve been praying for, for months, you don’t seem happy.”
“I’m just…overwhelmed by it,” she lied. “I hope you’ll be patient.”
“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” he said quietly. “One day more than forever.”
“You won’t have to wait that long. Not if we’re to be married in a month.”
“My darling Kitty, do I understand that you’re saying you’ll marry me?” He looked at her, his eyes full of hope.
She could barely bring herself to look into those eyes, so kind, so giving. She was about to deceive the man who had lavished her with love and generosity, to whom she owed everything. She could give him gratitude, but not love.
“Yes, Charles,” she said, forcing a smile, “I’ll marry you.”
Charles’ smile was ecstatic as he swept her into his arms. “I love you, Kitty Dwyer. I want to spend my whole life making you happy.”
Kitty pressed her cheek against his shoulder, thankful that Charles could not see the pain on her face. The comfort that she had felt in his arms before was gone. He was not Vittorio; his touch was suddenly alien. She would spend her whole life with one man, yet love another, a man she could never have.
The day Kitty packed her bags for Boston was especially hard for her. As she methodically folded dresses and underwear, she was reminded over and over of the fateful day she had packed to meet Vittorio. This time she had two large suitcases to fill. As soon as Kitty had agreed to marry Charles, he delighted in buying her clothes and jewelry. She had dresses in every color, fine wools, with shawls to match. She had soft leather shoes, the best she had ever worn.
Charl
es had bought her a satin case in which to keep her jewelry, and she placed the pieces inside, gold and silver pins and necklaces, and a long gold chain holding a watch with pastel enamel flowers on its face. Looking down at the case, she couldn’t help noticing the engagement ring on her finger, a single large diamond that caught each ray of light in multifaceted splendor.
The magnificent ring, the beautiful clothes, and the jewelry were all silent reminders that her desire was not for adornment. She longed to fly back in time to the day she had packed one simple blue flowered dress.
She began to talk to herself. “No more wallowing in sentiment like Papa. What’s done is done; there’s no turning back. Be thankful to God for Charles. Where would you be without him?” Her monologue did not make her happier, but it spurred her to action. She had made her decision, the only one she could have under the circumstances, and she would get on with her life. She nodded her head and took the two bags, so laden with belongings that she had to drag them along to the front hall where Charles could load them into his automobile for the trip to Boston.
Charles arrived at her door promptly at ten a.m., anxious to begin the trip, his usual reserved self overwhelmed by high spirits at the thought of a new life with Kitty as his bride. He loaded the car with her bags and then, taking her hand, quickly settled her in the car. He raced to the other side, continually tipping his hat like a vaudeville dancer. Kitty couldn’t help laughing at his uncharacteristic silliness.
“Where to, milady? Would Boston suit your plans?”
“Charles, you’re in high spirits. Of course, Boston, but I’d like to ask a favor of you first.”
He became serious. “Kitty, anything.”
“Will you take me to say goodbye to my brother? I can’t move far away and not see his dear face one more time.”
“I’d be happy to. Let’s see your father, too, and tell him we’ll be married.”
Kitty put a cautionary hand on his arm. “I’ll try to see him myself, but I have to do it alone. He would never accept my marrying an Englishman.”
He looked as if he were going to object, but Kitty was adamant. “I have to do it my way.”
Choices of the Heart Page 20