“Do I?”
“Yeah. The face of a porcelain doll.”
I smiled. “The face of a doll and the temper of a devil!”
There it was, her laugh. That part of her, cheery and loud, hadn’t changed at all. “Hardly. It was strength, that’s what it was. You’re gutsy. It was one of the things I loved the most about you.”
I smiled and handed her the tin of peanut-butter cookies I’d grabbed on the way. “For you. You still love them?”
“Oh, I certainly do! Thank you! Let’s open them together. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
We sat in front of our mugs, the biscuit tin open, and, almost subconsciously, I prepared myself. I could feel she was going to tell me something – yes, there was a specific reason why she’d called me here. But what she did next was unexpected.
“I have something for you too,” she said, and handed me a bright yellow gift bag.
“Oh, thank you… you shouldn’t have.”
That was why she’d asked me to come over? To give me a birthday present?
“And… this.” She handed me a large white envelope.
“A card! Thank you again, Brenda. Really, thanks for remembering.”
“You’re welcome. But that,” she said, pointing to the envelope, “is not a card. It’s a letter for you. From a law firm.”
I tilted my head to once side, staring at the piece of paper. “A… what?”
She shook her head. “I only got it this morning – FedEx, you know – and I called you at once. Let’s just say, this is a first.”
I examined the letter. In the corner of the envelope I read: Baird and Associates, Law Offices.
Brenda continued, “They sent me a note to go with the letter. It said they were entrusted to give this to you when you turned twenty-one.”
“By my parents?” I looked down at the envelope, then back to Brenda.
It was impossible. Surely I would have got it long before today?
“I assume so.” She shrugged her shoulders; she seemed as bewildered as I was. “Whatever it is, it’s horrible that it’s stirring up these memories for you. I promise you nobody told me about this. The firm had specific instructions to only give it to you when you turned twenty-one, which is why, I suppose, they had it FedExed today.”
“Weird,” I muttered. I didn’t trust myself to say anything more. I was swallowing my feelings back, as I usually did, but I knew Brenda could see how spooked I was.
“I’m not happy at all with the way this has been handled, Callie.” The look in her eyes made me think that she’d probably given the law firm a piece of her mind already, or if not, she would do so as soon as she got the chance.
“So… you really have no idea what the letter says?” I asked.
“No idea. And no clue it existed, I promise you, hon—” She stopped herself. She’d remembered that when I was in care I’d hated being called honey, or sweetheart, or any other pet names. Only my parents could call me that – and my parents were gone. For everyone else, it was Callie.
“Brenda, if you don’t mind, I’d like to open this at home.”
“Of course. Do drink your coffee. And let me share these cookies with you.”
I nodded. I had a lump in my throat, but I forced myself to take a sip. I didn’t want to disappoint Brenda or make her feel like I was trying to leave quickly.
“Open your present,” she said, and I did. Inside the bag there was a multicolored, tie-dyed T-shirt. I had to smile. “D’you like it?”
“I love it. Thank you. Really, thank you.”
She reached across the desk and put her small, rigid hands over mine. “You’re welcome, hon— Callie.”
“Honey is fine,” I said, surprising myself. There was no reason to be wary, to be the abrasive, wounded child I’d been. “It’s a nice thing to be called.”
Back in my tiny studio apartment, my legs curled underneath me on my second-hand IKEA couch, I fiddled anxiously with the unopened letter in my hands. I couldn’t wait to open it, and at the same time I dreaded it.
I went to open the window for some air, and a small, furry body made its way inside. “Hi, baby,” I said as my white cat, all snow but for one black paw, jumped straight onto my lap, rubbed herself against me for a moment, then made a beeline to the corner where I kept her bowl. She didn’t exactly belong to me; she lived in the small park beside my building and took food and shelter when and where she chose. She was an independent creature, and I loved her for that. I’d named her Misty, but I was pretty sure she had a few different names, depending on who she was with. I knew that the elderly lady next door called her Ribbon – because of the black stripe she had around one leg – and fed her freshly grilled fish and bowls of cream. Misty-Ribbon was one lucky cat.
I looked back to the letter, my hands resting on the cat’s soft fur, and swallowed. “Here we go,” I said to myself.
Carefully, making sure I would not tear anything that was inside, I opened the envelope. The paper I drew from inside was heavy and expensive-looking. I unfolded it and saw that and it was printed, not handwritten. On the upper left corner there was the name of the law firm again, and a flowery, elaborate logo. I imagined an office furnished in dark wood, with old-fashioned prints on the walls – a lawyer’s office like you’d see in the movies.
My heart was jumping out of my chest; I began to read.
Dear Miss DiGiacomo,
We are writing to you on behalf of Mr. Joseph DiGiacomo and Mrs. Carol Elisabeth DiGiacomo. We are in possession of some documents Mr. and Mrs. DiGiacomo deposited with us, to be given to you on, and not before, May 24, 2019, your twenty-first birthday. Mrs. Brenda Thibodeaux, social worker for the state of Texas, was the only contact we could find for you. We were sorry to find out that your adoptive parents have passed away…
I blinked. I must have read that wrong. I was probably tired, confused. I re-read the last line. We were sorry to find out that your adoptive parents have passed away.
There had to be a mistake. I’d never been adopted, only fostered. They must have got it wrong. Child Protective Services were flooded with work and chronically understaffed, so it was entirely possible. Of course, it was all a mistake.
Still, I kept going over that sentence, zooming in on that word “adoptive”.
Had we known of their sudden demise, or had we been given specific instructions for such an eventuality, we would have contacted you earlier. However, no provision had been made for such circumstances.
I stood, much to Misty’s annoyance, and paced the room a few times. My parents had entrusted something to a law firm, to be given to me on my twenty-first birthday. They had died, and nobody had told the firm – so there had been no change to the plan, even if I was now an orphan. I forced myself to take a breath, sit back down, and finish the letter as calmly as I could.
We should be grateful if you would phone our offices to make an appointment with us; we’ll be delighted to supply you with the documents in question and discuss any questions you may have. We imagine there will be many.
Our sincere condolences for your loss and our very best regards. We remain at your disposal,
Anthony Baird
Baird and Associates
For a moment, I was tempted to scrunch up the letter and forget all about it. Maybe it was some sort of scam.
But…
Doubt.
The niggling lie that I could be adopted also had to be squashed, as far-fetched as it was. Misty jumped on the couch, looking outraged at the lack of attention. I poured some more dry food into her bowl, and set out some milk for her, working on autopilot.
Climbing onto the kitchen counter, I read the letter all over again. It had to be some strange misunderstanding. “Garbage,” I said aloud.
On impulse, I grabbed the phone and dialled Brenda’s number.
“Brenda? It’s Callie,” I said, pacing the room as best I could. My apartment consisted of one room that served me as a kitchen, livi
ng room and bedroom, and a bathroom where I had to shower sideways.
“Hey, did you open the letter?”
“I did. There’s a mistake. I don’t think the letter is for me.”
“Are you sure? Because they specifically said it was for Callie DiGiacomo, that the only contact they could find was me. Callie, I’m pretty sure there was no mistake.”
I shrugged. “Then it’s a joke.”
“What did it say?”
“Are you sure you don’t know? Because how can it be—” My voice was shaky.
“Callie, you’re not under our care anymore. It would be illegal for me to open your mail. We have nothing to do with those lawyers or whatever is in that letter.”
“It mentions my parents. But it calls them my adoptive parents.” I hoped she couldn’t tell that my voice was breaking a little, and tears were gathering in my eyes – but of course she could, she’d known me since I was a child.
There was a pause. “What?”
“I have never been adopted, as far as I know.” It was more of a question than anything else.
“That’s absurd! When you came to us we decided, together with you, that fostering would be a better option for—”
“I know. I know,” I cut in. “Somebody messed up, that’s all.”
“Us? The lawyers?”
“Someone! I have not been adopted.”
“Unless… unless this happened long before we came on the scene. Which is why we had no idea. Maybe…”
I closed my eyes. “Don’t say it.” I didn’t want to hear.
“Maybe your parents kept it from you. Maybe they were planning to tell you, but then the fire happened.”
“It can’t be.”
“It could be. It’s unlikely, but it could be.”
“No. No. It makes no sense. You would have known!”
“Not if the adoption happened somewhere else entirely, or if it was an informal arrangement. Sometimes there’s no official record of an adoption, even birth certificates can be deliberately filled with wrong information. I’m not saying that’s what your parents did, but it is possible.”
I swallowed as Misty settled against me, purring softly, happy after her meal. From the road came the rattle of a bus stopping, then moving on – my hair quivered slightly in the breeze coming through the open window. Everything felt unreal.
“Let me help you.” Brenda’s voice came from the cell phone, as unreal as the rest. “Please, come to the office tomorrow, and—”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“We can look at it together, we can meet the lawyers together—”
“It’s fine. Thank you though.” I couldn’t face another trip to Starfish Outreach.
“Okay. I’m here for you if you need me.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Call me as soon as you speak with the lawyers. Please.”
“I will. Thank you, Brenda.”
I put the phone down, took my face in my hands and, finally, allowed myself to cry.
2
Baird and Associates made its home in a tall, steel-and-glass building in the heart of San Antonio. I’d passed it many times, not knowing, of course, that one day life would take me here in such an unexpected way. Bracing myself, I made my way into the immaculate reception. My hands were shaking, I’d been awake since dawn, and all the coffee I’d downed since then was churning in my stomach. Looking around at the marble lobby, the men and women in suits and heels, I regretted wearing jeans and trainers. I had to steady myself before I approached the receptionist’s desk.
“Hi. My name is Callie DiGiacomo,” I began, and leaned lightly on the cold marble counter. “Anthony Baird – his firm – I guess this place? – sent me a letter. He said to make an appointment, so I thought I’d come here in person.”
The receptionist – a tiny face peeping out of hair extensions rigid with hairspray – looked up from her computer screen, offering only a sigh in response. She clicked away at the mouse, then slid her eyes to me. “The first available appointment is next week. Monday, three o’clock?”
“Monday? That’s days away.”
“I know. Are you going to take the appointment?”
“Well, I understand Mr. Baird is very busy, but it’s quite urgent.”
“Everything is urgent in this office.”
I bit my lip. “Are you sure you don’t have anything earlier?”
She didn’t bother to look at her computer again. “I’m sure.”
“But I—”
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted. “Did you say you were Callie DiGiacomo?” I turned around to see a man walking toward me. He was gray in every way – hair, suit, tie, eyes. On a foggy day, this man would disappear entirely.
“Yes.”
“I see.” He looked at me kindly, as if he knew who I was, more than just knowing my name. “I’m Anthony Baird. Come on up. And morning, Marissa.”
“Good morning. Mr. Baird, it’s appointments back to back this morning—”
“Just ask them to wait a little. This is important.”
I stopped myself from giving the lovely Marissa a triumphant look as we walked towards the elevator. Mr. Baird was older than I’d first noticed, and I saw warmth in him. A touch of… sympathy, maybe? Not at all what I was expecting. He certainly didn’t look like a con man. But then, con men should look trustworthy, shouldn’t they? My mind was going in circles.
“Thank you,” I managed, stepping in beside him, “for fitting me in. I appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem, Callie. Your situation is quite… unusual. And it must have caused you quite a lot of grief. I’m going to try and make it easier on you.”
I swallowed.
His office was exactly how I’d imagined it: dark wood; old prints on the walls; papers strewn across the desk, some organized into piles while others fanned out in one long line.
Mr. Baird pointed to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Please, take a seat.”
I lowered myself onto the leather-upholstered chair and took the letter out of my bag. “So. This.”
“Yes.” He sank into his chair behind the desk. ‘First of all, my condolences on the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. DiGiacomo. I’m very sorry. We had no idea.”
The force of their loss hit me all over again, so strong even after all this time. The concept of death connected to my parents still had the power to almost break me. I cleared my throat, and Mr. Baird waited patiently for me to be ready to speak. “Thank you. But I don’t understand… how come you didn’t know they’re… gone? When did they give you these documents?”
“Your adoptive parents entrusted the papers to us when you were born, with a legally binding agreement they would only be given to you when you turned twenty-one. Had they survived, they might have decided to give them to you earlier, but sadly…”
Hearing him use that word “adoptive” was like a stab in my heart. “Mr. Baird, they were my mom and dad. My biological parents. I was never adopted.”
“Miss DiGiacomo” – his voice was soft; he wanted to break it to me gently – “according to Mr. and Mrs. DiGiacomo, you were. They told me themselves, in this very office,” he said. That look again: pity. I’d seen it so often in people’s eyes, ever since I’d been orphaned. I loathed that look.
My fingers curled around the letter, crinkling it. It was a huge effort to keep myself calm. I looked for something to say, and couldn’t find anything coherent, only a helpless, “It can’t be true.”
“Your parents said they didn’t want you to know you’d been adopted until you were old enough to deal with it.”
I closed my eyes for a moment. “They told you themselves?”
“Yes. I can’t believe we are in this situation now.”
“We…? I assume you know who your parents are,” I snapped.
“Were. But yes, I do know, and I understand how distressed you must be. I’m so sorry. I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. DiG
iacomo dealt with this the best way, but here we are.” In saying that, he bent down to take something out of his briefcase – a tiny key – and stood to open a dark wood filing cabinet. He searched for a moment, then produced a box from the cabinet’s highest shelf. Attached to the box with a rubber band was a blue cardboard folder. Box and folder were placed in front of me, and sat there like living things, calling me and yet repulsing me.
“Yes. Here we are,” I said, only just managing to speak.
Seamlessly, Mr. Baird opened a drawer in his desk and took out a packet of tissues, which he handed to me. I took one out of politeness, but I had no intention of sobbing. I tried to make a joke. “Do people often cry in this office?”
“Sometimes.”
I smoothed down my hair and tried to compose myself. “So… inside that file are my real parents’ names?”
He tapped the blue file. “I don’t know. It’s sealed.”
Both of us looked down at the box and the cardboard folder: thin, a bit faded, secured with a rubber band; inside there was my history. The box gave out a strange energy, almost pulsing to the rhythm of my heart. In all my hardest times, I’d clung to the fact that I didn’t have a terrible past, unlike so many other children in care. My parents had loved me, and the tragedy that had befallen us had been nobody’s fault, just a terrible accident. I had a legacy of love to keep me strong. But whatever was in there might change that.
Mr. Baird cleared his throat and snapped me back to reality. “Maybe you will allow me to open it for you? I can read it and give you the gist? It might be easier for you.”
“You’re very busy. That… Marissa downstairs said. I should go.” I extended my hands to take the box. I was trembling so much that it almost fell out of my hands.
“Callie, take your time. Stay for a moment,” Mr. Baird said.
I hesitated.
“When you know about your past, then you can look at the future, knowing the whole truth,” he continued, and convinced me.
“Yes.”
I placed the box on the desk again and removed the rubber band, my hands still trembling. Suddenly, I became hyper-aware of my surroundings: the smell of wax wafting off the furniture, voices outside the door, the light, rhythmic tap of Mr. Baird’s foot under the desk. Little did I know that all those details would forever be burned in my memory.
The Italian Villa: An emotional and absolutely gripping WW2 historical romance Page 2