Stella Mia

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  In addition to entering my mother’s address into my smartphone, I’ve also written it down on several pieces of paper and placed them in different places—my wallet, purse, luggage. I guess you can say I’m paranoid. It only dawns on me now that my actions are crazy, since if I were to lose Sarina’s address, I could just contact the PI and get the address from him again. I shake my head. Ever since I found my mother’s diary, I haven’t been acting like myself.

  After Kyle told me the PI had found Sarina and had an address, I kept asking the PI to confirm it was really her. I think his finding my mother so quickly also made it hard for me to believe he had located the right Sarina Amato Parlatone. I received another shock when Kyle told me that the reason the PI was able to find Sarina so quickly is that she’s a famous Sicilian folk singer. I didn’t believe it at first, but then I remembered the songbook I had found in the trunk and how Sarina had sung at the Villa Carlotta. But part of me still doesn’t want to believe it until I hear it from her. Of course the thought that she possibly chose her career over me has entered my mind. I began to get angry all over again, but Kyle told me not to jump to conclusions until I hear what Sarina has to say.

  In addition to Sarina’s address, the PI also gave Kyle a phone number. I thought long and hard about whether I, or my father, should call her first and let her know I was going to see her. I decided not to. I want to make sure what she tells me is the truth and not some rehearsed version of it.

  “Messina!”

  The announcement that we’ve arrived at our port of call snaps me out of my thoughts. My palms feel sweaty as I grab my luggage and make my way down to the main level of the ferry. It’s just a matter of time now until I see my mother again.

  24

  Reunion

  My taxi arrives at a large but modest house that sits about a hundred feet away from the beach. There are no other neighboring houses for miles. An enormous wooden fence wraps around the property. I pay the taxi driver and slowly make my way to the front entrance. My heart is beating so loudly that it’s competing with the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. The surf is quite strong today. I look out at the beach, but it’s quiet. No swimmers are in sight. It’s early evening, so I guess it would be a bit late to go swimming. But I know how much Italians love taking their passeggiate, so I’d imagine I would at least see people walking along the beach. Then I notice the private property signs.

  I think about what the PI said about Sarina’s being a famous Sicilian folk singer. If it weren’t for the fence and the fact that her house sits on a private beach with no houses nearby, I would begin to doubt his claims that my mother is famous. I was expecting a much more lavish house. When I reach the door, I see there is a surveillance camera perched near the roof of the house and angled right where I’m standing. An intercom is also present—all likely signs that someone famous does live here and is safeguarding his or her privacy. Then again, many people have cameras and intercoms now, and they’re not all famous.

  Ringing the bell, I wait. But no one’s voice comes through the intercom. I wait longer until I press the bell again. Great. I didn’t anticipate that no one would be home. Now I’m stranded here on a remote beach, and my cell phone isn’t activated for international use. Turning around, I begin walking away when I hear the door open. I freeze.

  “Ciao! Chi è, per favore?”

  Could this be my mother?

  I turn around. The woman who greets me is very tall and has graying brown hair. Nothing about her looks anything like the photos of my mother from when she was young or even the more current photo Kyle’s PI had sent him. But even that photo was taken about ten years ago. A person can change a lot in a decade.

  “Buona giornata. Sto cercando la Signora Sarina Amato Parlatone.” I offer a shy smile to show the woman she has no reason to mistrust me. She still looks at me with a frown.

  “Parlatone?”

  “Si.”

  “Wait a moment, please.” She turns to leave, but then turns back around. “I’m sorry, but what is your name?”

  I’m taken aback that she knows English and that she knows I speak English.

  “How did you know I speak English?”

  “Your suitcase has tags for JFK. That’s in New York.”

  I glance down at my luggage. “Oh. Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “I’m sorry. My name is—”

  “Julia? Non può essere. It can’t be.”

  A woman is standing in the doorway. She’s staring at me, her eyes are wide open, and her hand covers her mouth. While she looks familiar, again it’s not quite my mother’s image. Also, her hair is a rich chocolate brown, and she looks too young to be my mother, who would now be sixty-one. This woman looks like she’s in her late forties, maybe early fifties. But how does she know my name?

  “Yes. My name is Julia.”

  The woman rushes over to me and takes me in her arms. I just stand there. This has to be my mother, but it doesn’t feel right. I always imagined that if we were reunited someday I would instinctively know it was her, even if her looks had changed dramatically.

  After hugging me, she kisses me on both cheeks and takes my face in both of her hands.

  “It’s a miracle. God has answered my prayers.”

  I scrutinize her face and see she has the same upturned, bow-shaped lips that my mother and I have. She is also petite like my mother, but looks even shorter at 4’11”. Still, this is not the face of the mother whom I remember holding me up to the grapevine or the face in the other fleeting images I have kept in my memory. But it must be her. The woman must see my look of confusion.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just I am shocked. I am Carlotta—your mother’s—”

  “Sister. Of course.” Now it all makes sense. “You know of me?”

  “Why, naturally. You are my niece. I recognized you from your wedding photo that Sarina has in her bedroom.”

  “She keeps my photo in her bedroom?” I don’t know why this comes as a surprise to me since my father told me he sent her my wedding photo. But hearing that my mother keeps my photo displayed in her room brings to the surface a bunch of emotions. I swallow hard.

  “Si. And photos of you from when you were a baby and little girl. It’s quite a shrine.” Carlotta smiles. She looks like she is about to cry, but manages to hold her tears off.

  “Is she home?”

  “Yes. But before we step inside, I have to ask you. Did your mother write to your father? Is that why you’re here? I’ve begged her to write or call. But of course, she has so much pride and would never admit to me if she had.”

  I shake my head. “No. My father has not communicated with her since a few years ago. She did not know I was coming.”

  Carlotta frowns. “I see. Then how did you know where we live if she did not contact you?”

  “My husband hired a private investigator. I guess I should have called and let her know I was coming, but I preferred not to.”

  Carlotta’s face looks pensive, then she says, “It doesn’t matter. What is important is that you are here.”

  She takes me by the arm and leads me inside. I almost forget my luggage, but the woman who answered the door takes it. She is now staring at me, curiosity written all over her expression. Of course she listened to the whole exchange between Carlotta and me and now knows I am Sarina’s long-lost daughter.

  “Where are my manners? I’m sorry, Julia. This is Adriana, one of our maids.”

  One of their maids. So it is true that my mother is rich and famous. I bow my head slightly toward Adriana. She bows her head back and mumbles, “Piacere.”

  The interior of the house has a wide-open design with views of the beach. While the house is quite spacious and comfortable, it is not as lavish or over the top as I would expect the home of a celebrity to be. My eyes scan all around, searching for my mother, but she is nowhere in sight.

  “Sit down, Julia. You must be thirsty. Let me ge
t you a drink. I just made some fresh limonata. How do you Americans call it?”

  “Lemonade. Thank you. That would be nice.”

  “By the way, Julia, your Italian is quite good. Your mother will be so pleased to see you learned it. I take it your father taught you?”

  “No. He hardly speaks it anymore. I took it in school.”

  “I’ll be right back. I’ll go find Sarina. She won’t believe that you are here.” Before Carlotta goes to get my mother she comes over and kisses me on the forehead. She then strokes my hair as if to prove to herself that I’m not a ghost and am really sitting in front of her.

  I take out of my purse a tissue and wipe the sweat from my face. My shirt is completely wet and sticking to me. Though I had heard how hot Sicily gets in July, I’m still not prepared. There are just ceiling fans in the house. One of the doors that opens up onto the beach is halfway ajar, allowing the ocean breeze to blow through, but it’s a warm wind that offers little relief. Why don’t they have the air-conditioning turned on? Lord knows my mother can afford it.

  Standing up, I walk around the space, which looks like a casual living room, almost like a family room. There’s a photo of a woman dressed in a Sicilian folk costume. I peer closer and see it’s Sarina. She doesn’t look much different from the photos I have of her, so the picture must’ve been taken not long after she returned to Sicily. The folk costume looks different from the one I found in the trunk. She looks back at the camera with a sad smile. Her eyes are also devoid of happiness.

  I’m startled by the sound of a door creaking open.

  “Meow!” A gray cat runs toward me, its tail high up in the air. It looks like it came out of one of the doors of a china cabinet that sits in the adjacent room, which must be the dining room.

  I bend down and pet the cat, who is now rubbing up against my legs. I’m startled by a ball of orange fur that’s plopped underneath the coffee table. Another cat. This one is sleeping.

  “Ah! You’ve met Bruno.” Carlotta comes back with my limonata. A black cat is following her and meowing. How many cats do they have?

  “Grazie.” I down most of the lemonade. I see Carlotta is staring at me. Our eyes meet, and she realizes she’s gawking and smiles before glancing away.

  “Do you also live here?” I ask.

  “I do.”

  I’m not surprised. From what I read in Sarina’s diary, she absolutely adored Carlotta.

  “There are so many cats.”

  “Sarina can’t bear to see any strays. We start feeding them when we see them on the beach, and before we know it, they’re a part of our family. We have six.”

  I then remember Tina, the family’s beloved pet that Sarina and Enzo were forced to abandon. No wonder she takes all the strays in.

  Placing my glass of lemonade down on the coffee table, I cross my arms in front of my chest and pace around the room, going over to the doors that lead to the beach. I stare at the ocean, and for a few moments I’m able to still my thoughts. I don’t hear footsteps behind me until I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  Turning around, I am face-to-face with my mother. She looks much older than the mother I remember from my childhood photos. Her beautiful auburn hair, which I’ve inherited, has darkened considerably, and gray hairs are quickly overtaking it. Her hair is pulled up into an elaborate, braided bun. Large gold hoop earrings dangle from her earlobes, which look quite stretched. She wears a loose, copper-orange tunic and a long skirt with an intricate pattern that resembles mosaic tiles. Three rings adorn the fingers of each of her hands and gold bangle bracelets circle her wrists. She looks like a well-dressed gypsy. Except for the lines beneath her eyes and on her forehead, she has few wrinkles. But her face holds a worn, tired expression, which makes her appear much older than sixty-one. But I guess that’s no surprise when I remember the difficult childhood she had and her severe depression. Still. I would have thought becoming a famous singer and having a more comfortable life financially would have helped her to maintain more of her youthfulness. She obviously isn’t vain since she has chosen not to dye her hair. She wears no makeup. Though she has aged considerably, there is still a regal beauty about her. It’s the way she holds herself, though there is a slight stoop to her back. She looks shorter than I remember her. But again, I was just a child when I last saw her. When I was a toddler, she seemed to tower above me. Now, her arms look painfully thin as do her legs, and there is a fragileness to her.

  She pulls her hand away from my shoulder as if she’s been burned and holds it in the air, unsure if she wants to touch me again. But thinking better of it, she slowly lowers her hand. Tears trickle down her face.

  I remain frozen in place. I’ve imagined this moment countless times from when I was a little girl right up until I rode here in the taxi. When I was a child, I imagined running into her arms, screaming “Mama!” as I wrapped my arms around her neck and never let go. But in the past couple of weeks, when I knew I would be making this trip, I imagined a very different scenario. I pictured us standing here, just as we are now, not knowing what to do or say. I thought I would cry, but I’m not even close to tears. Numbness is all I feel.

  “Mia figlia.” My mother whispers “my daughter.”

  Hearing those words uttered from her lips hurts so much, but I refuse to let her see my pain.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was coming.” I walk past her and go sit down on the couch, keeping my eyes averted from her gaze.

  “No need for you to apologize. I’m just shocked. Do you mind if I sit with you?”

  “Of course not. It’s your home.”

  I hadn’t even noticed Carlotta was no longer in the room until she reappears with a glass of white wine for Sarina.

  “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” Carlotta places her hand on Sarina’s shoulder and gives it a light squeeze before walking away.

  An awkward silence follows. I take my glass of lemonade from the coffee table and slowly sip what’s left of it. I sneak a sideways glance at my mother. She’s still staring at me. Just like Carlotta, she must be wondering if I’m real.

  Of course I’m dying to get right to it and ask her why she left me. I’m dying to know what she’s been up to since she left America. But now that I see the years have not been too kind to her, I’m afraid of giving her a heart attack, especially since I know I won’t be able to contain my anger.

  “I have a few of your things that I wanted to return to you.” I get up and walk over to my luggage, which Adriana left in the foyer. After wheeling it into the living room, I unzip my suitcase and take out her Sicilian folk costume, the notebook with her songs, and the pack of tarot cards. I hand them to her.

  “I found these in Daddy’s basement. I thought you might like to have them back.” I place them on her lap. She begins examining them, and her lips turn upward into a small smile.

  “Thank you, Julia, but I had told your father whatever I left behind was yours. I remember leaving mostly winter clothes since I’d have little use for them here.”

  I nod my head. “I found them. I also found this.” I take her diary from my suitcase and hold it out to her.

  She stares at the diary for a moment before taking it. Opening the cover, she flips through the pages and then pauses to read a few of the entries. Closing her eyes for a moment, she releases a deep breath and says, “I thought I would never see this again.”

  “But you must’ve realized you left it behind?”

  “I could’ve sworn I packed it. I never would have left my diary behind out of fear that your father would find it. He’s a good man. I didn’t want to hurt him, and then later . . .” She pauses before continuing. “Then later when I didn’t come home . . . Well, I suppose at that point it wouldn’t have mattered if he found it. For I had already broken his heart by not going back home.”

  “So he never knew about Carlo? I was too afraid to ask him for the same reason. I didn’t want to hurt him any more than he’s been hurt already.”

>   My mother shakes her head. “He didn’t know. So you read the diary then.”

  “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t resist. I wanted to know more about you.”

  “I’m glad you read it. Please, don’t be sorry.” My mother says this in English, surprising me. She sees my surprise and says, “As you must know, your father was teaching me, but I learned little while I was in New York. A few years after I returned to Sicily, I took lessons.”

  “But why? You didn’t really need to know English here.”

  “I wanted to be able to speak to you in English someday.”

  I’m stunned.

  “You were planning on coming back?”

  “I was.”

  “So why didn’t you?” I can’t hide the irritation from my voice. I try to restrain myself, but I can’t, and the anger I’ve kept inside me for almost four decades is unleashed.

  “How could you have left your three-year-old daughter behind? Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for me growing up without a mother? I had to watch my friends’ mothers attend their graduations, bake cookies for them, go shopping with them for their prom dresses and wedding dresses, while I wondered why my own mother couldn’t be there for me. I used to cry myself to sleep at times, going over and over in my mind that last day I saw you when you played with me in our yard. I used to fantasize that you would come home and never leave. I drove Daddy nuts when I was a little girl, crying and asking him when you would come home. And then when I got a little older, I asked him why you had never returned. Your absence from my life has made me question whether I can ever be a good mother if I decide to have children. How can I be when I don’t know what it’s like to have a mother’s love? And what about Daddy? Do you know how lonely he’s been since you left? He’s never allowed himself to fall in love with anyone else, and I don’t know why, but he never wanted to get a divorce from you. I guess it didn’t matter once you fell off the Earth—and then when you refused to tell Daddy where you were or what you’d been up to? But it all makes sense now. You didn’t want us to know about your other life as a rich, famous singer.”