by Dana Faletti
“Anch’io.” Me too, Olivia said, pushing herself up to standing and stretching her arms toward the black sky. “My feet hurt.”
“Poor baby,” Michel said, approaching her and pinching one of her full cheeks before he leaned in to kiss her good night.
“Good night, Tayeet,” Olivia said in her funny way, and bent to give Tate two kisses.
Tate tousled her cousin’s hair. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, you go to the convent, Tatiana,” Michel told her.
“Ah, no.” Olivia tsk-tsked, placing her hand on her hip and teasing Tate with her eyes. “I fear the nuns will not want you, Tayeet, especially after they see how the two of you dance.” She winked at Tate and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Buona notte.”
And she was gone.
The silence of night echoed between Tate and Michel, their aloneness swelling and stretching over their bodies, provoking, tantalizing.
After watching the brake lights of Giuliana’s sedan turn a sharp corner and disappear from view, Tate folded herself into Michel’s lap. He cradled her head and softly kissed her lips.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “All night I’ve been imagining this.” As their kisses changed from sweet to steamy, Tate’s pulse quickened. Her nipples hardened into peaks. She sat up, straddling him on the patio chair, arching her back so that her hips angled as snugly as possible into his.
“Calabrisella mia…” Michel sang into Tate’s neck, his breath spreading waves of heat all over her skin, flooding her senses. When she felt his fingers ride up the back of her shorts, she couldn’t help but release a small sigh.
Abruptly, Michel stopped. He scooped Tate up into his arms and stood, accidentally kicking over the chair and leaving it on the ground.
“What are you doing?” Tate asked, tracing a line with her finger from just below his ear to the base of his jaw and then kissing the spot where her finger stopped moving.
“I’m going to show you the wine cellar.”
“I don’t want any more wine,” she told him, appalled, confused, and starving for him all at once.
“Me neither, cousine.”
* * *
Sometime later, just as the rooster began its relentless morning crow, Tate slipped beneath the sheets of the twin bed in her stark, humid room at Zio’s house. Her muscles were as fluid as water, her nerves loose like jelly. When she closed her eyes, she imagined the convent at Nicotera, the site where her father was born. In a few short hours, she would be standing in the places where Nana had stood, where she’d met Zia Luisa and made some of the hardest decisions of her life. It all seemed so surreal.
The vision faded from the center of her consciousness to the outskirts, and eventually vanished as her mind became far too relaxed to hold onto a thought. With every shred of her being completely satisfied, Tate drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 34
Tate
Zio Nino escorted her to Nicotera. He said little during the slow drive along the highways and narrow back roads that twisted and lunged to accommodate the undulating land of Southern Italy.
Forty-five minutes into their trip, Zio placed his hand over Tate’s. She looked at him from her perch on the passenger seat.
“Bisogno un peet stoap?” he asked and set free a wheezy bout of laughter, exposing the brown stains on his teeth.
Tate smiled. “No, Zio, I’m fine,” she said and trained her gaze once more upon the view outside her window.
To her right, the sea was constant, bordering cliffs and valleys, gifting color to an otherwise muted façade of tans and olive greens. To her left, the landscape experienced second-by-second metamorphoses, bushy brown botanicals coming right up to deserts of dust in the space of a breath. As Zio exited the highway and circled through a roundabout of fast-moving cars and bikes, Tate sensed that they were close. The ground beneath them suddenly inclined, sloping sharply toward the very sky it seemed, and Tate gripped the door handle, her knuckles white. When the first switchback set the vehicle somewhat straight once again, she breathed.
“This is like the road to Valanidi,” Tate observed.
“Yes, but no guardrails,” Zio replied, a smirk leaking from the corner of his eye.
“Fantastic,” she said in English, and uttered a superstitious prayer to St. Christopher. “Just get us there in one piece.”
When they pulled into a narrow alleyway, Tate was sure that at some point, she’d been plopped into a time machine, and she was now emerging into some sort of nineteenth-century scene. Gray, watermarked stone stretched all around them, tinging the buildings with an antiquated severity.
“Convento di Santa Genoveffa.” The words rolled off of Zio’s tongue like a warm waterfall, flowing magically over Tate’s ears as he put the car into park and killed the engine. “Are you ready, Tatiana?”
Tate could hardly believe her eyes, could hardly contain herself as she pushed the car door open and bounced from her seat onto the pavement. A numbness fell over her, seeping into the very roots of her hair and cooling her cheeks as she strode on wobbly legs to the decorative black iron-screened entrance to the convent. Tate rang the bell, fully expecting a stern-mouthed old woman in black and white robes to appear.
“Can I help you?” A cheerful-looking redhead in a dress that fell around her youthful curves shocked Tate with a welcoming smile.
“I’m Tate Robbins,” she said, her own name sounding clipped and foreign on her tongue. “I called a few weeks ago to request a visit. My grandmother, Maria Domani—” Tate stopped, realizing her mistake. “Her name was Saccone when she was here. Maria Saccone.” She looked to Zio and swallowed the tremble that was trying to work its way into her voice. He nodded and smiled, infusing her with the courage she needed to go on. “She gave birth to my father here, at this convent.”
“Ah, come in, Signora Robbins,” the woman said, extending her hand to shake Tate’s. “I am Signora Mascucci. You may call me Nina.”
Tate crossed the threshold into the building and gestured to Zio. “This is my uncle, Antonino Domani.”
Zio removed his hat and nodded.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Nina said to Zio, squeezing his hand and smiling warmly. She led them to a bench just outside an office door. “Please wait here for just a moment,” she told them and disappeared around a corner
“Tatiana,” Zio said as they waited. “What is it you wish to find here?”
“I don’t know, Zio. I just want to see the place, the living quarters, the chapel, the courtyard, all of the things she told me about.”
“Ah. And for what, bella?”
“What do you mean, for what? I’m curious.”
“I see,” he said and picked at the dry skin on his thumb. “The ghost of your grandmother is not inside these walls, you know.”
Tate looked oddly at Zio. “I know,” she said.
“That woman was far too colorful to spend any of her afterlife among these drab hallways.”
Laughing, Tate nodded. “Yes, Zio, I agree. Trust me, I’m not looking for her ghost.”
The wooden door opened, and the click of Nina’s heels announced her return. “Okay, Signora Robbins. You and your uncle may have a look around. I would accompany you, but there is an urgent matter in the office I must attend to. Here is a little map of Santa Genoveffa.”
“Thanks,” Tate said and took the slip of paper from the attractive young woman.
It was the chapel that unhinged her: the smell of incense mixed with the quiet chanting of the sisters in the first few pews, the very wood of the kneelers onto which her grandmother’s knees had bent. Tate could almost hear the prayers Maria must have uttered inside these walls. She clutched at her chest, feeling as if she had to stop her heart from beating right through the sinew and bone that kept it in its place. Her legs lost her strength, and suddenly Nana’s memories were bleeding into her own.
* * *
Stained glass hospital windows and sweaty brows.
The intens
ity of the pain that would amount to the death of her greatest hope.
She, too, had held her child.
Just as Nana had cradled Domenico to her chest, Tate had held her son’s sweet, lifeless form to her own breast. Choking on tears that wouldn’t burst from her eyes, her body had been wracked with silent grief. She remembered the feel of his tiny head, still warm and wet with fluids, against her lips, the ripe smell of him and his soft infant hair on her cheek.
For thirteen hours, she’d labored. The pains had come on slowly at first, as they often do after Pitocin is administered. Nathan had held her hand weakly in his cold one as the nurse pushed the yellow fluid into her IV.
“I’ll be here for you, Tate. I won’t leave you,” he lied. A few hours later, he’d gotten a page and had seemed relieved to flee to whatever emergency awaited. He hadn’t returned after that— not to physically be at the hospital with Tate, and not emotionally, ever.
Although the doctors had explained to Tate that the baby’s heart had stopped, she’d held on, had prayed to every saint in the book that the doctors were mistaken. It wasn’t until after they’d taken her son away that she’d allowed herself to rage.
Against her mother for virtually killing herself with her smoking habit. For dying of lung cancer when Tate desperately needed her here.
Against Nathan for building her up, then leaving her at her lowest.
Against God for taking her parents, for taking her baby.
Against Saint Jude, because he was supposed to be the patron saint of lost causes and he’d ignored her pleas.
“Tati,” Nana Maria had whispered, her wrinkled lips kissing Tate’s sweaty cheek. “I’m here, bella.”
Hot tears finally had exploded down Tate’s face, and she’d allowed herself to sob into Nana’s shoulder for what seemed like hours. Later, when the doctors explained that there was damage to her uterus, making it near impossible for her to conceive again, Tate once again broke down.
“Shh,” Nana had said, stroking her hair and rubbing her back. “It’s gonna be okay, Tati. Nana’s here. I’m not going anywhere.”
But that was a lie, too.
It was April 15, the Wednesday before Easter, when the doctors found the cancer. Their total lack of urgency in diagnosis lit a fire in Tate’s belly. Nana had been back and forth to Dr. Murray dozens of times since Christmas, complaining of abdominal pain.
“Diverticulitis, Maria.” He’d spoken so surely, writing out a prescription for a useless medication. “This is common at your age and in your ethnic group. You Italians eat lots of seedy tomatoes, right?”
And he’d laughed at that. The bastard had acted as if he was just hilarious, playing God, playing guessing games, no more sure of himself than a child playing hangman, choosing letters at random. Wasting precious time that could have saved Nana’s life. Guessing, while the minutes ticked away, the body parts jumping onto the stick figure in the hangman’s noose.
Eventually, when the pain would not subside, Dr. Murray and his team decided to delve a little more deeply into Nana’s symptoms. A couple of scans and an exploratory surgery later, they had their answer.
“Oops, look what we found,” was what it sounded like they were saying as the diagnosis descended on Tate’s family like a sandstorm. The Domanis couldn’t escape the blast by plugging their ears or squeezing their eyes shut. The doctors’ voices crept in through tiny crevices, changing the shape of their world forever.
“Ovarian cancer. Stage four.” The diagnosis tunneled through acid-laced air, burning Tate’s flaring nostrils, making her want to scratch off her skin, scratch out their eyes. “Not much time. Get your things in order.” No word mincing, not an ounce of gentleness. And to boot, no amount of the magic potion they used to poison cancer was going to make Nana better. All that belly pain had actually been her diseased ovaries, and now the cancer was everywhere.
Dr. Murray shook his excuses like tail feathers at Tate’s grieving family.
“Ovarian is the most difficult to diagnose of all cancers, hard to detect until it’s too late.” It was often referred to as ‘the whisper killer,’ because the signs were so subtle. “And, it rarely affects women like you, Mrs. Domani, women with seven children.” Apparently the more children a woman gives birth to, the less chance she has of developing ovarian cancer. So said the doctors. “We were completely surprised to find this, Mrs. Domani.”
In other words, the God-players had chosen all the wrong letters. Nana had been hanged.
* * *
A tired face swam suddenly in front of Tate’s eyes, a serene countenance of understanding framed by a white wimple. The nun smiled quietly down at Tate, offering a hand to help her up from the chapel floor.
“Tuo padre, non gli occhi ancora brillano come il mare?” Do your father’s eyes still sparkle like the sea?
When she tried to stand, Tate’s knees buckled beneath her, and she crumbled into a heap of barely breathing anguish. Depleted, she stayed there on the cold tile.
“Vieni con me, cara. Ti prendo un po d’acqua.” Come with me, dear. I’ll get you some water.
The nun hoisted Tate to her feet. Scents of anise and lemons wafted in front of Tate’s face as the old woman’s thumbs drew the sign of the cross over each of her cheeks.
“You’re—”
“Isabella.”
“You’re the one that helped my grandmother.”
Sister Isabella nodded. “Si,” she said, smiling. “Bella Maria.” She took Tate’s chin in her hands and squeezed it. “Bella nipote.” Beautiful granddaughter.
Tate stood silent, weighed down by the words in her throat. If it were not for the actions of this singular woman…
“Grazie.” The phrase stuttered spastically from her mouth. “Grazie mille.”
“Non ho fatto niente,” Sister Isabella replied. I did nothing.
“No, Sister Isabella.” Tate reached for the woman’s hands, folding them into her own. “You did everything.”
* * *
“Thank you, Zio,” Tate said as she buckled her seat belt and sat back, enveloping herself in the comfort of the Mercedes. “For taking me here, for being with me.”
“Ah, Tatiana, do not thank me,” he said as he pulled the car away from the curb, out of the stiff air of the narrow alley and away from the stiff atmosphere of Santa Genoveffa.
“I have to confess I’m glad it could be me, bella, and not your Zia. It is a privilege to walk you through the ashes of your grandmother’s past. But remember, Tatiana,” he said, pausing to glance at her, “these fragments you are gathering do not define the woman. She was so much more than the sum of what you’ve found here.”
Tate smiled at her great-uncle, a man who was a bright ball of laughter on the surface, his devil-may-care humor his most obvious attribute. What she’d discovered over time was that Zio was also layered with quiet sensitivity and a depth he did not permit many people to reach. She leaned over the gearshift to rest her head on his shoulder, feeling blessed to be one of the few to breach his inner nature.
“You’re one of a kind, Zio,” she told him, and he reached his right hand around her to pat the side of her head.
“Dorme,” he told her. Sleep. “You didn’t get much rest last night, if I’m not mistaken.”
Choking on her saliva, Tate lapsed into a coughing spell for the next few minutes, wondering what Zio did and did not know about her activities of the previous night. She never responded to his comment, instead choosing to close her eyes and quietly snuggle into the man who was so like the father she dearly missed.
The sound of the engine, its repetitive shifting and revving, was soothing music, and soon Tate allowed herself to be completely enveloped in its gentle song. She slept soundly, even through the jerks and bumps on the way back to Zio’s home, her grandmother’s solid decision a heavy and steadying blanket over her.
When she opened her eyes, they were once again on her grandmother’s mountain. Valanidi, where the midday sun blister
ed the skin of the tomatoes that were laid out on upside-down milk crates to dry on the rooftops of houses. Where the air smelled of stale cigarettes and overripe grapes. Where her love stood waiting for her under the patch of lemon trees beside the house.
As the Mercedes crunched slowly over the gravel parking area, Tate let her eyes come into focus on Michel. In his hands he held a large peach, and as he bit into it, the juice flowed over his mouth, drizzling onto the collar of his shirt.
Tate licked her lips and sucked in her breath, the denseness of the day’s events dispersing throughout her veins. She was completely depleted emotionally, too many of her Nana’s stories having come to life before her eyes today at the convent. What she needed was to lose herself inside that sensual somewhere, and she knew Michel’s hands were the only ones that could take her there. She ached to take the place of the ripe fruit at his fingertips, to drip sweetness over and under him and to allow him to devour all of her.
“Tatiana, we’ve arrived,” Zio said, and exited the car just as Michel approached the passenger door.
“Come, cousine,” Michel said. His eyes seemed to read her wantonness, his presence already absorbing some of the fever she exuded. “You can tell me everything.”
He gently eased the helmet over her tangled curls and helped her onto the Vespa, his skin leaving invisible scald marks everywhere he touched her. Tate had to grind her teeth to stop herself from tumbling onto him right there in the presence of her uncle and the handful of people on the street.
“We’ll be back tonight,” Michel called to Zio, who raised his stubby hand in the air to signal he’d heard Michel. He continued his subtle limp toward the front door, not bothering to turn and face them.
Tate squeezed her knees around Michel’s sun-soaked form and curved herself into him, her body weeping with sweat and need.
As they flew down the mountain toward the reprieve of the sea, Tate’s fear of motorcycles evaporated. All that was left was the anticipation of his hands on her skin.