Blessed Are Those Who Mourn (15 page)

 

Chapter 28

M
Y BROTHER
M
ARCO
is alone with my mom when we walk into the hospital room.

It is eleven o'clock in the morning. My mother has been unconscious for forty-­four hours. Grace has been gone nearly two full days, which means the odds of her coming home safe are drastically decreasing from here on out.

Marco jumps to his feet. I can tell by the dazed look in his eyes that he was sleeping. He shoots me a guilty glance.

“How is Mama?” I ask as he folds me in his arms. I press my face against his soft T-­shirt, which smells like some expensive cologne.

He shrugs an answer to my question. She's the same.

“What did the doctor say today?”

“They did another MRI this morning to see if the blood was draining on its own or if they're going to do the surgery on Monday. They might try to bring her out of the induced coma tomorrow to see how she is.” He looks away as he says it, then grabs Donovan in a bear hug.

Despair threatens to flatten me, lay me out prone on the floor. I push it down.

“There's more. This is so fucked,” my brother, who believes swearing is for buffoons, says.

I look up, surprised.

“I wasn't sure if I should say anything, you guys have enough to worry about, but apparently the two radiologists are not in agreement with the diagnosis. The first one who claimed it was a grade 3 brain bleed is now off duty and won't be back until next week. The second radiologist said that she doesn't agree with his diagnosis. She thinks it's closer to a grade 1 or 2. She's the one who wants to try to bring her out of the induced coma. She said sometimes the way the brain is shaped could indicate a severe brain bleed when there isn't one. It's something fairly new in the field, and not all radiologists are aware of this possible discrepancy in what they see on the MRI. They've ordered another ultrasound, but they're not sure when they'll do it.”

I sit up. “That's great news. Maybe it really isn't as bad as they think?”

“Maybe,” my brother shrugs. “Who the fuck knows which one is right? All I know is that my mother is unconscious and my niece is—­”

He doesn't finish. Donovan abruptly stands.

“I'm starving, man, let's go grab some breakfast downstairs,” he says.

Donovan is going to tell him that we found Frank Anderson's grave.

I sit by my mom's side and lightly run my fingers across the back of her hand. I close my eyes and pray for my mom and Grace.

How can life be turned upside down so quickly? There is such a fine line between being blessed beyond belief and wanting to die from the pain of having both your mother and child ripped from your arms simultaneously. The difference is a mere sliver in time.

I grasp my mother's hand and plead with her.

“Mama? Please don't leave me. I don't think I can survive with both you and Grace gone.” When I say Grace's name, my voice crumbles and cracks. “Mama, I'm so worried she's already gone. Do you know? Could you tell when Caterina was gone?”

Her eyelids don't even twitch. Her breathing remains steady, her chest moving up and down rhythmically. The covers are folded neatly down from her light blue men's pajamas. I wonder who dressed her and where these pajamas come from. The tubes protruding from her mouth and nostrils send a wave of panic through me. The machines beside her whir and beep steadily.

An image of my mother facedown at Caterina's fresh grave, digging her nails into the dirt and wailing, shoots into my mind. How has she survived this long? How did she ever live a normal life after she was widowed the same week her daughter was murdered? Right then, I pray to the Virgin Mary to give me even a smidgen of the strength that my mother has inside her. She's been strong for so long. And I know why. For us. For me and Marco and Dante. I'm sure there were many nights she lay awake wanting to die. She doesn't have to be strong anymore.

I've begged her to stay with me, but then I remember my grandparents.

A
FTER MY GRANDPA
had a stroke, my grandmother held his hand and begged him not to leave her. I was twelve and so happy to see him get out of the hospital. He later told us the story about how he was in a beautiful green field and heard my grandmother's voice calling to him. A man in a black suit told my grandfather he could stay with him in the field or he could return to my grandmother. But if he returned, the man warned, he would be in a lot of pain and have a difficult life.

My grandfather returned and told us this story and the choice he made. However, it didn't take long until the man in the black suit's warning came true. My grandfather became a different man than the one we had all known, suffering in pain from physical maladies and eventually from Alzheimer's until he passed away ten years later.

I
THINK OF
my grandfather being called back by my grandmother and how we all felt like even though he was still alive, he was so different we essentially lost him years before he actually passed. Is that the life I wish on my mother, for my own selfish good?

I grasp her hand in mine, tears dripping on our tangled fingers.

“Mama, never mind. I was being selfish by begging you to stay. If you have to go, I'll try to understand. If you have to go and if Grace is there, too, please tell her I love her and will never ever forget her. Please tell her that for me, Mama—­if you have to, go. You don't have to be strong anymore.”

A movement out of the corner of my eye makes me jerk my head around.

Donovan is standing in the doorway, motionless, holding a cup of coffee. I see Marco's form in the hall talking to someone else. He sounds agitated. Donovan must have told him that Frank Anderson is dead.

Instead of saying anything, Donovan lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, meeting my eyes over the rim. His eyes are hard.

I
N THE CAR,
Donovan pulls away when I reach for his hand.

“You've given up?” He bites out the words. “I heard you talking to your mom. You've given up on both of them?”

“No!” I nearly shout the word, and it surprises both of us. “No, I haven't given up, but I'm also trying to face the facts, Donovan. You and I both know the odds after forty-­eight hours . . .”

“Fuck the odds,” he says, punching the steering wheel. “Our daughter is not a goddamn statistic, Ella. She can't be.”

But we both know he's wrong. Anyone can be a statistic. No one is exempt.

We are not special, privileged ­people. Just because we have seen evil firsthand does not give us some special protection against it. Just because my family has been torn apart by a child killer once before in our history does not grant us immunity from that now.

Nobody gets a free pass in this life.

 

Chapter 29

I
T IS NEARLY
three o'clock when we take the exit for my grandmother's house.

Grace has been gone for forty-­eight hours. I watch the numbers 3-­0-­0 on the car's digital clock come and go.

Visiting the volunteer center for Grace an hour ago reinforced the fact that I'm living a nightmare. I've been to volunteer centers for missing kids over the years as a reporter. It is incomprehensible that one has been set up for my own child.

We spent about an hour at the volunteer center, which is basically an empty storefront in a Noe Valley strip mall, just south of downtown San Francisco. I tried to smile and be polite to the row of volunteers sitting in front of phones and printing off fliers to pass out, but I still ended up rushing outside and vomiting up the club sandwich Donovan had bought for me at the hospital. I had been so hungry I'd wolfed it down on the car on the way to the volunteer center, not knowing it was going to come right back up, but there will be lots of food at my grandmother's. I will try again there.

It must be forty degrees warmer here in the East Bay than in San Francisco today. I strip off my jacket and fling it in the backseat. Donovan stares straight ahead, knuckles clutching the steering wheel, jaw set, leaning slightly forward, as if that will get us there faster. Usually a careful driver, he speeds down the freeway, zipping in and out of traffic and gunning it on the straights as if we are late. The speed feels good, as if we are actually doing something to help find Grace, even though part of me feels like the farther we drive into the East Bay suburbs, the more distance we are putting between us and Grace. I know this is irrational—­she's not at that beach or anywhere near it. Or is she? I feel so helpless. The police and FBI are working on finding Anderson's son, but I feel as if I should be doing something, as well.

A fresh, earthy scent filters in through our open car windows as we pull into the long winding driveway to my grandmother's house, nestled in rolling hills covered with grapevines.

My grandmother's circle drive is already full of cars by the time we pull in. ­People have started parking in a small cleared area used for overflow parking.

Most of the cars I recognize, but there is a big black town car that unreasonably makes my stomach clench in fear.

A memory from twenty years ago rushes into my head. It was right after Caterina's kidnapping and the day after my father's death.

M
Y UNCLE
S
AL
picked up my mother and me at our house. My mother had dark circles under her eyes, but her sleek black hair was pulled back and she had on a pressed navy dress and red lipstick. She usually wore a pinky beige color. I remember staring at the red lipstick for a long time, wondering how she could put it on the day after her husband died while her daughter was still missing. The only other times I had seen her wear lipstick that red was when she and my father went to a fancy wedding or restaurant and Nana came to stay the night and watch us four kids. But on that day, my mother was wearing the lipstick to go to my grandmother's house in the afternoon.

On that day a big black car was pulled up front and center at my grandmother's house when we arrived and two men in black suits stood outside the front door, smoking.

My mother ignored them as we walked inside.

She told us to stay out of the kitchen and put us in front of the TV. But I couldn't help it and peeked inside the kitchen. Three men in black suits sat at the table with my grandmother, mother, and two of my uncles. One of my uncles was talking in a low voice, nearly under his breath, but he seemed angry and was pounding the table.

My mother was listening to what one of the men was saying and nodding her head.

Then one of the men noticed me. All conversation stopped, and everyone turned to look at me.

I held my breath. I waited for my mother to scream at me, but she didn't say anything, only looked at the man.

“Come here, little one.” He smiled, showing teeth so white and gleamingly perfect that I couldn't stop staring at his mouth. “It's okay.”

The man had a thick accent, sort of like my grandmother's, but harsher.

I looked at my mother, and she gave the slightest nod.

I walked in, tucking my hands behind my dress. These men wore shiny shoes and shirts so white they almost hurt to look at. I came up to the table before the man and stared at his hands, which were holding a cigarette with gold writing on it. His fingernails were the cleanest I'd ever seen. They looked polished and pink.

He took his hand and put it under my chin, lifting my head so my eyes met his. The first thing I thought was that his hands were girlie. My father's hands were always rough and often stained from his work as a plumber.

“
Come ti chiami
?”

I looked at my mother, and she gave another slight nod.

“Gabriella.”

“Ah, Gabriella.
Facia bella,
” he said. “Would you like a
sfogliatella
? We brought some for your
nonna
.”

“Yes, please.”

My grandmother stood up and rushed over to the counter.

“Ella, take these outside in the back with your brothers. I will bring you out some
aranciata
to drink. Go now.”

“It's okay, Marcella,” the man said to my grandmother. “She is fine.”

“
Andiamo
!” My grandmother's tone left no room for argument.

The man was nice, but something about the way my mother and grandmother acted around him sent a pulse of both fear and excitement through me. I skipped out into the living room and taunted my brothers with my plate of pastries until they chased me outside. I was less concerned with what my mother and grandmother were doing with that man and more interested in how they knew him. I knew he was there to bring Caterina back home, so I was glad he was there, but I couldn't figure out who he was. Was he the president? I didn't think so. He didn't look like the guy on TV. But he was somebody important, though. I could tell by the way everyone acted around him. I had never heard anyone call my grandmother by her first name.
Marcella
. I said the name to myself as I skipped around outside in my grandmother's garden. She wasn't just Nana. She was
Marcella
. I let the name roll around my tongue until it sounded even more foreign and strange than I had first thought.

The men left shortly after, but my mother and grandmother and uncles stayed in the kitchen drinking wine and talking until late in the night, while I had fallen asleep in front of
The Dukes of Hazzard
.

 

Chapter 30

S
EEING THIS BLACK
car in my grandmother's driveway brought back a memory I didn't even know I had. So much of my childhood is lost in the tangled web of memory that I've tried to block out.

“What the hell?” Donovan looks at me and gestures to the cars and the two men in suits standing sentry out front.

“Let me handle this.” We park. Even from afar I can see the telltale bulge of guns under their black blazers. Bodyguards. What I didn't know as a child became so clear now. At the front door, I walk past the two men, ignoring them as my mother had once so long ago.

I'm channeling my mother as I pull back my shoulders and enter the house.
I am a Giovanni and I will act like one
.

With Donovan following me, scowling, I stride through the living room, past the cluster of children playing video games and straight into the kitchen, where the three men in suits wait with my grandmother. Instead of my uncles, my two brothers sit opposite the men at the big wooden table. Two seats are left.

The man from my memory has silver hair now, swept back elegantly, and seems short to me now, instead of towering. But he is still exceedingly good looking even though he must be in his seventies. As I walk in, he rises and sticks out his hand. “Gabriella.” This time I meet him as an equal, holding my hand out and shaking his firmly.

I cock my head and raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to introduce himself.

“I am Vincenzo Santangelo.”

The name makes my throat dry. The Saint. I've heard about him at Sunday dinners at my grandmother's house. That's who this man was years ago? The adults always shush us away when his name is brought up. My cousins and I used to play
La Cosa Nostra
in Nana's garden, the boys using their hands pointed like guns and the girls joining right along, even though my cousin Lorenzo said that girls couldn't be in the Mafia.

“Your father was my childhood friend at Sacred Heart,” he says. “We lost touch over the years, went into different directions with our businesses. When your sister disappeared, he called me. Sadly, he passed before we were able to reconnect.”

Nana makes the sign of the cross at the word “passed” and mumbles something in Italian. My father died three days after my sister was taken. The doctor said it was a heart attack. But I now know better. I was the one who found him when my mother sent me down to the basement to fetch him for dinner. The basement smelled like alcohol, and there were shards of glass and spilled booze everywhere. His head was at an odd angle. Now, as an adult, flashing back to that day, I think he had drunk too much and fallen down the stairs, breaking his neck. When I didn't come to my mother's calls, she rushed down the stairs and found us there. We stayed there, curled up against my father's body, until my aunt Lucia found us the next morning.

Even so, Mr. Big Shot didn't find Caterina in time and has never hunted down her killer. My eyes narrow at him. I don't care if he's movie star handsome. I don't care if he's The Saint.

“What makes you think you can find my daughter? You've had thirty years to find Caterina's killer, yet I'm the one who just found his grave.”

“Gabriella.” My grandmother's voice holds a stern warning. I don't care. I'm not going to waste my time on some thug who dresses in Armani and acts like he's going to swoop in and rescue my daughter and our family.

Vincenzo Santangelo waits for a minute, then meets my eyes.

“With all due respect. Your father asked me to bring your sister home safe. I failed. You are right. I have to live with that until the end of eternity. But I was never tasked with finding her killer. If you or your mother had only once turned to me and asked me, shared with me your need for revenge, it would have been a different scenario.”

For a split second, I am angry. Why didn't my mother turn to him? And now I can't ask her. As if reading my mind, The Saint says, “I'm very sorry about your mother's injury. She is an extraordinary woman. I pray that she heals quickly. Meanwhile, I would like to station some of my friends at and near the hospital to make sure she is safe. With your permission?”

I nod my assent and The Saint jerks his head at one of his men, who grabs a cell phone and walks into the living room. “I will make sure whoever hurt her never touches another woman again.”

He says it in such a low voice that I stare at him. Extraordinary woman? Does this guy have a thing for my
mom
?

“We aren't seeking revenge,” my brother Marco says. “That is not how our family operates.”

Marco is a lawyer. After being called a “Wop” and “Dago” in elementary school, he has spent his life trying to distance himself from any Italian thug mentality. His way of dealing with it was to become a star football player, earning the respect of everyone in the school. He is a wine connoisseur and enjoys eating his gourmet meals in his fancy house in the suburbs, where he is lord of his own fiefdom. He also takes being a “gentleman” to a fine art, refusing to curse and making every gesture chivalrous. But despite all his efforts to do so, he can't change his DNA. Because just like me, I know he would kill to protect his family.

“We are a God-­fearing family,” my grandmother says, her chin wobbling. She wipes her palms on her dress. Her cheeks are flushed.

“I know, Marcella,” The Saint says. There it is again.
Marcella.
The only person I know who dares to call my grandmother by her name. Now that I'm an adult, this suddenly seems a bit disrespectful. I can tell by the crease between Marco's brows that he thinks the same thing.

Dante angrily pushes back his chair a few inches, the scraping sound overly loud. He scowls and is about to speak when Marco gives him a look.

Dante's way of dealing with discrimination against Italians was to throw punches. My uncle Dominic channeled that, and Dante became a boxer. Once he became homecoming king, he didn't need to fight to prove his worth anymore. He still boxes occasionally, but I think nowadays he's more worried about marring his good looks than anything else. A few years ago, when I began training at the Oakland dojo, I talked him into doing so, as well. He's taken it a bit further than me, though, and now claims he can kill someone with his bare hands. I believe him. Unlike Marco, Dante has no problem seeking revenge. In fact, I'm pretty sure he'll insist on it. And that's good. I need one ally in this room.

I wait until the room settles down. It is as silent as death before I speak.

“We don't know who took Grace. We thought we did, but as I said, that man is dead.”

My grandmother makes the sign of the cross. My brothers exchange looks.

“Whoever has my daughter, I want him found. And I want him dead.”

At my words, The Saint meets my eyes and nods solemnly.

“I want revenge,” I say, not meeting Marco's eyes. “But more than that, I want my daughter home safe.” I don't drop my gaze from The Saint's. “If you can do that, bring her safe to me, I will be in your debt for life.”

My grandmother gasps. I'm afraid to look over at Donovan. But I mean every word I say. Vincenzo Santangelo waits for me to look up at him, then gives me a very slight nod, appraising me.

Something my mother told me long ago comes back. If anyone grants you a favor, whether it's your kindergarten best friend or the pope himself, you are obligated to that person. The bigger the favor, the bigger the obligation. This may apply double to the man before me. I don't care.

“You owe me no debt,” Vincenzo Santangelo says. “My offer of help is to repay a debt I owe your father. I will help you find your daughter and bring her home safe, and my debt to your family will be paid.”

He starts to stand, but I hold out my palm. “I'm not done.”

At my words, he sinks back into his chair.

Now I stand.

“I value and appreciate your offer of help, but I need to make one thing clear. Grace is my daughter, so everything that is done in your investigation into her disappearance needs to be run by me. I'm in charge of this search. I want in on every move. Every step.”

I lean down, putting my palms flat on the table and meeting Vincenzo Santangelo's eyes. Out of the corner of my eye I see my grandmother slowly shaking her head and making the sign of the cross again.

“If there is a valid lead on her whereabouts, I want to be the first one to know. I want to be the first phone call you make. Before the police, before your men, before your family. If you are home asleep in bed, I want to know before you tell your wife. If you get information, I am the first one you call.”

I don't blink as I stare into Vincenzo Santangelo's eyes. He meets my stare with eyes that widen in something that might be a mixture of amusement and respect.

“You are your mother's daughter,” he says and stands so we are at equal height. For a second, I question why he didn't call me my
father's daughter,
since he is a traditional Italian man, but I let it go. He still hasn't addressed my demands, so I hand him my phone.

“Put your cell number in here and I will set up a special ringtone just for you. I will answer any time, day or night. If we can agree that I'm the first one to know anything, then I'm ready to get started.”

He takes my phone and sits back down, adding in his number.

I sink into my chair and dare a glance at Donovan. He's chewing on his inner cheek. I can't tell if he's furious or nervous, and right now it doesn't matter. Marco is dramatically sighing and shaking his head. Only Dante is looking at me. His eyes narrow, and a small glint of light comes from them. He knows. He knows how I feel. He gives me the slightest nod.

When it comes to finding Grace, I'm going to do whatever it takes at whatever cost.

Vincenzo Santangelo hands my phone back and gives a slow nod, his chin nearly reaching his chest as he watches me.

“Let's do this,” I say.

We spend the next hour filling the men in on everything we know about Grace's disappearance.

“Donovan thinks we need to check out this reporter at the weekly,” I say. “I'll let him fill you in.”

Donovan clears his throat for a second, and everyone looks his way. “This kid called and told Gabriella about Frank Anderson's grave. The FBI has been looking for Anderson for years, and some kid finds his grave and knows his alias? It doesn't make sense. We need to find out more about him. His name's Michael Dillman.”

Dillman didn't have a card when I asked for one. Didn't have a reporter's notebook, either.

Then something he said comes back: “
 . . . you got to be careful nowadays. You never know who is okay and who is a creep. Sometimes the nicest guys end up being sickos and nobody who knows them even knew it.
”

And I told him about being freaked out when we went to Ocean Beach. If I'm wrong about him, I might even have led him to where he could find Grace.

In the back of my mind, I remember him staring at me at the press conference and then, later, not meeting my eyes. One thing I know about killers is that they often like to show up at funerals and vigils and press conferences about their victims because they get some sick thrill out of it.

“What do you think, Ella?” Donovan asks.

“Do it.”

Throughout our conversation, The Saint's friend, who is never introduced, makes a series of phone calls, speaking quietly in Italian. I raise an eyebrow when he makes the first call.

Vincenzo Santangelo sees it and says, “Sam the Goat is good at getting the ball rolling, as they say.”

I don't ask why they call him Sam the Goat. I don't care, but I suspect it has to do with his goofy-­looking goatee.

When Vincenzo Santangelo stands to leave, he grasps both of my hands in his and leans down to speak quietly in my ear. “I can't guarantee anything except that we will do everything in my power to find her. And if we do find her kidnapper, if you like, he will no longer be your problem.”

“I'll let you know,” I say.