Nick stopped her with a raised hand. “April, you don’t owe me an explanation.”
She didn’t. But she wanted him to approve. She wanted him to say something encouraging, to remove the doubt that she was endangering her daughter.
“You know her best,” he said. “Trust your mother’s intuition. I do. ”
It would have been nice if he’d said, “You can trust him with your sensitive daughter,” but he’d given her the most optimistic answer he could.
She stole a glance at him, imagining what she would see if she aimed a camera his way. She’d been afraid to take his photo at Ali’s shop. Pictures were intimate things. But today, she felt she needed to know. He was Luca’s son. He held a key of sorts to her daughter’s future. What kind of man was Nick?
He held his shoulders straight and kept an unwavering gaze. He had a certainty about him. A sense of being in charge. He was a leader, she thought, able to lead others under fire. That was the kind of man he was. Who were his troops? His students?
But there was something else. It wasn’t in his eyes or the way he held himself. A camera might not even capture it. It reverberated off him—a rugged loneliness, a sense that if anything had to be done, it would be up to him and him alone to do it.
How much did Luca have to do with that loneliness? And if Nick could reach out to others—to his students, to Sierra, to her—why couldn’t he reach out to his own father?
He stretched his hands on the sill next to her. “Don’t forget one thing, April.” His voice startled her, as if he’d caught her aiming her invisible camera. He waited for her full attention. “Sierra is your daughter.”
April shook her head, not following.
“You’re modeling strength for her. And compassion. You’re showing her a dozen other traits that will serve her. Whatever road she’s got to go down, my guess is she’ll find the way with you showing her the route.”
April fiddled with a strand of hair at her neck, looking into Nick’s eyes, holding on to the words for all they were worth. He suddenly seemed nearer than he’d been, though neither of them had moved.
Nick was Luca Prodan’s son. As far as April was concerned, that was a good thing. Her daughter would profit from the old man’s wisdom and directness. Those were traits he had given his son, whether or not Nick realized it.
Chapter Seventeen
Hillary assumed April and Sierra would join the rest of the family for Christmas Eve. She was already rattling off orders to April on the phone about what to bring for hors d’oeuvres before April could tell her it wasn’t a definite thing. She wasn’t sure taking Sierra to Hillary’s was a good idea. Sierra was spending time with Luca, quite a bit of it, but April had yet to see the improvement she was hoping for in her daughter.
With Luca, she lit up, but otherwise, she kept to herself, averted her eyes, hid herself in oversize jackets and dark colors. And Hillary had a way of dictating every detail of a get-together that was only likely to make Sierra retreat further. April couldn’t tell Hill that though.
“Let me talk to Sierra, and I’ll call you once we’ve ironed out our plans.”
“Okay,” Hillary drew out the word. “We’re family, April. And it is Christmas.”
April tapped the counter. They were family. So maybe they hadn’t bonded like sisters in a movie, but Hillary was all she had left.
Nick called soon after and invited them for Christmas lunch at Luca’s. That was the encouragement April needed. Sierra could put up with Christmas Eve at Hillary’s if she knew they would spend the next day with Luca.
The candlelight service at Hillary’s church was serene with an extravagant choir that could have performed on any professional stage. The lights in Hillary’s gated neighborhood glistened, and April began humming “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” the last few blocks to the house.
At Hillary’s, the foyer and winding stairs were decked in tinsel, and a huge Christmas tree graced the living room.
“Sierra! I’ve missed you, girl,” Hillary squealed as she wrapped her in a fierce hug.
Sierra looked at April with a plea in her eyes. Hill might have figured out by now Sierra wasn’t a touchy-feely type.
“Come on, sweetie.” April loosened Sierra from Hillary’s grip. “Let’s put these presents under the tree.”
In the kitchen, April and Hillary dished dressing and cranberry sauce into Christmas bowls. Wes’s parents sat in the living room, enjoying the lights and their grandsons. April was pleased to see Wes had enlisted Sierra to hang mistletoe. There was something almost like a smile on her face.
“April,” Hillary said in a loud whisper. “Have you told her?”
April rolled her eyes. Surely her sister wasn’t bringing up suicide on Christmas Eve.
“No,” she said through clenched teeth. “I haven’t.”
Hillary stirred the mashed potatoes with a vengeance. “That girl is in serious trouble. Look at her. Her hair’s in her face. Her eyes are glazed. You’ve got to get professional help.”
April huffed out a laugh. If only Hillary could see Sierra on one of her bad days. It wasn’t as if April sat on her hands while her daughter grew worse. They’d tried a couple of antidepressant prescriptions when they’d first moved back to Houston, but they had caused Sierra to spiral into an even more frightening depression, and April had quickly ended the treatment.
During Gary’s worst times, April toyed with a theory that experimenting with cocktails of antidepressants and antianxiety medications initiated his more serious depressive cycles. She wasn’t about to begin that nightmare with Sierra.
Hillary moved closer to her. “Look, April,” she said in a sandpaper whisper. “Kids have a way of knowing things. It’s a good bet she knows deep down how Gary died. Until you start talking about it, it’s going to eat her up inside.”
April braced her hands on the granite countertop. Did Sierra sense that her father’s death hadn’t been an accident? Sierra knew what her dad had been dealing with. It was possible that on some unconscious level she knew. But Sierra was not in any frame of mind to take another blow. And for goodness’ sake, it was Christmas! April let out a deep breath.
After dinner, the family sat in the living room. The floor lay cluttered with gift wrap and boxes, and everyone admired their presents. Christmas carols played in the background. People laughed. It was all exactly the way Christmas should be.
But after Sierra shoved a half-eaten piece of pecan pie away, April ended the evening with a sigh of relief.
The next day they drove to Luca’s, a strawberry cheesecake in Sierra’s lap and fresh rolls in the backseat. They needn’t have bothered. The dining room table was overflowing with platters of sausage, bowls of sauces, pastries dotted with nuts, soup, cabbage rolls, and a braided loaf of bread glazed with honey. Scents of paprika and vinegar drifted across the kitchen.
Sierra’s eyes were alight.
Now this was Christmas.
The four of them sat down to eat.
“You’re quite the cook, Luca,” April said.
He gave a slight nod. “It is a hobby.”
Luca ate a few forkfuls of food but seemed to take all his pleasure in the company rather than the food. In the middle of a pleasant conversation, he gave a biting glance to Nick, who must have seemed too preoccupied with Luca’s plate. “You do not need to look after my eating habits, Nicolae. You have my oath. I will not waste away before the new year.”
Despite the father-son tension, the meal went well.
April insisted on filling everyone’s glasses, as her mom and grandmother had done every holiday meal. Everyone talked lightly. There was laughter.
At the end of the meal, Luca raised his glass in a toast. “To celebrate the birth of our Savior.”
Glasses clinked.
After lunch, Nick and April began to clear the table and
ran soapy water in the sink. Luca and Sierra moved into the library. April watched them out of the corner of her eye as she moved back and forth between the dining room and kitchen. They looked at one of his bookshelves, both animated, talking, even laughing. Sierra gave no half-smiles to Luca.
Nick came beside her at the sink, taking dishes as she put them in the drainer and drying them. His nearness made her feel a little unsteady. But that was pure silliness. He was Luca’s son, a friend. That was all.
She looked up at him. “A man who helps with the dishes. I am impressed.”
He laughed, lines crinkling around the corners of his eyes. “Don’t get any big ideas. I’m just keeping you company.”
They looked away from each other and turned back to the work at hand. They spoke quietly, both keeping attention on the scene behind them, listening for the words that reached them from the library.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” April said, “but I think Sierra might be as good for your father as he is for her.”
“It does seem so.”
When the clean-up was finished, April and Nick sat at the kitchen table discussing work, art, places they’d been. Though both were drowsy from the big lunch, time passed quickly. She looked up in surprise to find the afternoon light dimming as it came through the window and the crows beginning to caw. It bothered her how much she liked sitting across from Nick, close to him, chatting. The very air seemed sharper when she was around him. Friend, she reminded herself. Goodness knows, there was no room in her life for anything more.
When Nick took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, she stood to give Sierra notice. “Five minutes, honey.”
Nick walked them to the car. “Take care, April,” he said, and with a nod to the other side of the car, “You have a good one, Sierra.”
He held the door for her and closed it when she’d buckled her seat belt. After a sleepy wave, he turned back to the house. April started to pull out of the driveway, then stopped. She’d forgotten her bread basket.
“I’ll be right back,” she told Sierra.
The door still stood open. April started to knock but couldn’t help but stop when she heard the men’s voices inside.
Luca’s muted voice, weary and rough as gravel, carried from another room. The library? “There is no need for you to stay now, Nicu. The women are gone, and I know you do not wish to be here. Go home to your own empty life.”
April drew a breath. It wasn’t exactly a jackhammer of a word, but the unkindness wasn’t in keeping with the old man she knew.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Dad,” Nick said.
She heard a rustle as someone stood, and then Nick was in her line of vision, picking up a half-filled water glass from a side table.
“I forgot my bread basket,” she said quietly.
His face was drawn tight. “I’ll get it for you.” He went into the library and quickly returned. “Merry Christmas, April,” he said, as he handed her the basket, but the merriness of the day already felt like a handful of dust. He watched from the doorway as she walked back to her car and pulled out of the driveway.
At home, a lump sat under the welcome mat. April pulled out a wrapped gift and flicked on the light switch inside to read the label. To Sierra. May your Christmas be bright. Feliz Navidad & all that. Carlos.
April weighed the present in her hand. It felt like a book. That meant it must be from someone who understood Sierra reasonably well. It was so much more her style than the gaming system from Hill.
April handed the present to Sierra. “Who’s Carlos?”
“Someone from school.” Sierra carried it off to her room.
A boy from school. Probably every other parent with a teenage daughter dreaded those words. But to April, they were a ray of hope. She prayed for anything—well, almost anything—to bring life back to her daughter’s face.
Before they went to bed, April and Sierra ate a bowl of granola together in their pajamas. April gave her a smile, trying to draw one from her daughter.
“Good night, beautiful,” she said.
“Night.” A fleeting smile crossed Sierra’s face.
Not tired enough to sleep, April rummaged through her closet and pulled out a box of photos. She sat on her bed, sorting through them. Mostly they were of Gary and Sierra. The photos had once been her pride and joy. She lifted out one of Gary with Sierra in his lap. She was about six. He had circles under his eyes, as dark as war paint, and he leaned back in the recliner, his eyes closed. Sierra didn’t seem to mind. She snuggled against his chest like a newborn.
Even in Gary’s decline, he’d shown tenderness to Sierra. There were times April kept Sierra away from him, afraid the collapse of her father would be too frightening.
But usually, even when he was unable to function, he held Sierra in his lap. When his eyes were swollen and his tongue thick with the worst of depression and he was too far gone to speak, he crossed his fingers over his chest, a love letter in sign language to his little girl.
She gently traced a finger over the corner of the picture. Oh, Gary.
Their marriage had been turbulent and never, ever easy. But he was the only man she’d ever truly loved. What she wouldn’t do to have a bit of his warmth now, his presence, his soul-deep understanding of Sierra.
April thought of Luca speaking to her over coffee with his slow, thoughtful words. Surely he loved his son. What would cause him to speak with such meanness to his only child, who bought his groceries and paid his bills? April put the photos back in the box. Nick and Luca were none of her business.
But she knew they were. They became her business the day Sierra walked into Luca’s house.
Chapter Eighteen
Sierra sat, in a sweater, on the steps outside, soaking up the thin sunshine. It was mild for a January afternoon, but then Houston winters were unpredictable. Winds off the gulf battled with the ones blowing in from the Arctic. One day, it would be balmy enough to be spring. The next, the temperature dropped to freezing. Today, the winds must have signed a truce.
Her stomach growled. She’d forgotten to eat lunch. A familiar mewling came from beneath the stairs. Someone else apparently hadn’t eaten either.
The white cat had been haunting the stairways and ledges for months. Sierra couldn’t convince it to come within petting distance, but she could sometimes coax it close with a bowl of milk.
The cat didn’t belong to anyone as far as Sierra could tell, so she named her Zana after a fairy tale in Mr. Prodan’s book. Zana let out a plaintive meow. She was a demanding little thing for one who wouldn’t let anyone so much as scratch her ears.
“I’m coming, your highness.”
Sierra rushed back into her apartment and then back out with a paper bowl full of tuna.
Zana eyed the bowl greedily but wouldn’t approach until Sierra drew back onto the landing. Then she stepped lithely to the bowl, reminding Sierra of an albino leopard from a wildlife show. As soon as Zana licked the bowl clean, she darted off across the courtyard, under the willow tree, and sprang up a fence to a balcony in the next apartment building.
Sierra ambled back into the apartment and lay on her bed looking out the curtained window. She missed Argie, their chocolate Lab. He had been friendly, often resting his weary old head in her lap for as long as she wanted him there.
She closed her eyes, trying to remember those days. She could remember their last house. She could remember the yard. She could remember Argie. But no matter how hard she focused, she couldn’t think of a single memory that took place there.
Sierra sat up cross-legged. She just needed to think harder. She searched for birthdays and Christmases, vacations or meals at home in their different homes—Virginia, California, Colorado. But she couldn’t find even one mental clip. A surge of panic flooded through her.
She looked past the solid walls, the clear windowpanes
in front of her. She could remember what Dad looked like, basically. She remembered the walk by the creek she had written about in her haiku. She had remembered that one so easily when she wrote it. But there must be other memories. There had to be a whole file of others right next to it in her memory banks. No one forgot her father.
She imagined herself walking through their house. But all she saw were closed doors. The door to Mom and Dad’s bedroom—closed. The door to the living room—closed. She could see a light coming from Dad’s study, but she couldn’t remember what was inside. How could she have forgotten everything?
The harder she tried to remember, the more a band of pain wrapped around her head. The bed seemed to move beneath her as if she drifted on the ocean. She gathered Ky, her stuffed kangaroo, to her and buried her head in a pillow as the pain pressed against her forehead.
“Hey, sweet girl.”
Mom opened the door, and Sierra blinked at the light from the hallway.
Mom walked into the room and sat on the side of the bed. “It’s your big sixteen tomorrow. Have you thought any more about what you’d like to do?”
Mom didn’t ask about what friends to invite. She knew there wasn’t anyone.
Sierra sat up, toying with her socks, pulling them on and off her heels. “Mom, can you tell me about Dad?”
Her mother arched her back. She gave her a cool smile, and she looked at some imaginary spot in the distance, the way she always did when Sierra asked about him. “What about Dad?”
“I can’t remember him. I tried to think of things we did together. Of even just being together.”
“Your dad loved you so much, sweetie.”
“But we did things together, right? Why can’t I remember?”
Mom fluffed a pillow. “It’s the heart’s way of letting go. We have to let the memories fade a little or the grief would stay so fresh we could never move on.”
The Language of Sparrows Page 11