Season of Salt and Honey (29 page)

“She never liked me, Daniel.”

“No.” He clears his throat. “I never understood it before. Then today she mentioned the French . . . woman.”

I think of standing on the lawn with her that long-ago day when I had first met his parents. The cold glass in my hand and the way she had asked where my family was from.

“She once said I reminded her of someone.”

Daniel nods and looks uncomfortable.

“Her father had an affair. She was French. She might have
been a nanny. I'm not sure of all the details, but I know it broke Mom's family apart. It changed the way people thought of them all. I'm so sorry, Frankie, I never knew you reminded her of that woman.”

“I never had a chance,” I mumble.

Daniel continues, almost to himself, “I think she was messed up from what happened. She gets these ideas in her head about the way things need to be. They don't always make sense. Half the time I can't guess what the rules are, but when they're not the way they should be she can get pretty mad. It's been like that since we were little. Everything has to be a certain way.”

I nod. That just about sums up my idea of Mrs. Gardner—everything has to be a certain way. The house, the yard, and, most of all, her boys. Especially her Alex.

“It makes life bearable, I guess,” Daniel adds. “Safe. She can cope when she's in control. When things are exactly the way she likes them.”

“I was never what she planned for Alex, was I?”

Daniel shakes his head. “But
nothing
is how she planned, Frankie. Or hoped. Just about everything is a mess and she doesn't know what to do about it. Alex's . . . death”—the word makes him take a breath—“she can't do anything about it and that makes her crazy.”

I place my hand on his shoulder and he half smiles. I notice the violet half moons under his tired eyes. Looking down at his half-packed bag reminds me that he's the only son left. He will have to make everything better for his mom all on his own.

“I'm sorry,” I say again.

“It's a mess—but, Frankie, it's not your fault. It's not about the cabin. It's just Mom and how she is. And right now she's in a lot of pain.”

I nod. That I understand. For the first time in years I feel some empathy for Mrs. Gardner, knowing that her pain must ache and burn just like mine does. I always imagined that she was angry with me for somehow stealing her son away from her, and that she would make me pay for it. When she saw me, she saw a threat, a thief. When she saw me, she saw the French woman who had broken everything, robbed her of her happy family and changed her entire world. But now her son truly has been stolen. From both of us.

The two of us left so very empty-handed.

*  *  *

Daniel whispers a good-bye to Bella and we wave as his car disappears. Aunty Rosa kisses me on each cheek before she too gets into her car. Uncle Roberto gives a little nod from behind the steering wheel.

“Now,” Aunty Rosa says, leaning out of the window, “you ignore the things that . . . woman said. It's not true. You're a good girl, Francesca.
Brava Carusa
.”

“Thank you, Zia.”

She nods. “We'll see you at Mass next week.”

I look over to Bella, who is now standing at the window of Vinnie's pickup truck. She pats the window frame twice. Vinnie gives me a quick glance as he turns over the engine; his bottom lip is swollen from the fight. I glare at him.
You are not forgiven
.

The pickup truck trails the car up the driveway. Bella and I watch them go.

Papa clears his throat behind us. We both turn to him. There's still some light in the sky but it's becoming violet. Papa has put on a thick, cream woolen sweater with wooden toggles at the neck, which he's had for years. There are patches on the elbows. He has a bottle of homemade rosolio and a couple of glasses.

“Zia Connie need some more help in there?” Bella asks.

“She's just packing up the last of her dishes, then I'll drive her home,” Papa replies.

Bella nods and goes inside, and Papa gestures towards the two Adirondack chairs. We sit and he smiles at me.

“Did Mama make you that sweater?”

He glances down at it. “
Sì
. You didn't know?”

I shake my head.

“She made it when she was pregnant with you.”

He passes me a glass. The citrus and herb smell is sweet and strong.

“Thank you.”

Papa sips from his glass. “She was tired of making all those little shoes—what do you call them?”

“Booties?”

He smiles. “Yes, booties. And hats. She made so many that you got too big before you could wear them all. She was so excited.”

The aunties have told me what a miracle it was for Mama to get pregnant with one baby, let alone two. I think Aunty Connie
fancied she'd played a part with her constant prayers. Perhaps she did, although prayers couldn't save Mama in the end.

“It's getting cool,” Papa says, glancing around.

“Hmmm.”

“I didn't think you would stay out here so long.”

“It's not been that long.”

“I thought you would move in with me.”

I don't reply. I'm now even less sure where I will live.

Papa sips more of his rosolio and sighs. “I should be with trees more often. So much forest in Washington. I never noticed. You know?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Merriem says there are many hiking trails. Some near our neighborhood.”

I glance down at Papa's leather shoes, his neatly pressed pants. I can't imagine him hiking, although if anyone could convince him it would be Merriem. My gaze lifts back up to his sweater. The knitting is thick and complicated. It's a timeless style; he could probably keep wearing it till the wool gave out completely. I'm surprised the color has held, hasn't grayed over time, but then that's Papa's care. He would wash it with Mama in mind, making sure to look after it just so. Perhaps even thinking of Mama while his hands are in the water; remembering her rounded, pregnant shape curled over the knitting needles, lit by the glow of the television, her dark hair falling down her slight back.

“Do you still miss her? Mama. After all this time?”

Papa looks at me. He hesitates. “
Sì.
I miss her still.”

“I've been trying to do the right thing, Papa,” I whisper.

“I know. Of course you have.”

“I don't remember Mama much.” There is guilt in my voice.

“You were so small, Francesca. You're not supposed to remember.” He tips his head to look up at the darkening sky. “She knows you love her.”

I wonder what she would think of me now. I take another sip and watch Papa roll his glass in his hands.

“People talk about closure,” I say.

He frowns. “What is this?”

“When you get over something, I guess. When it doesn't hurt so much.”

“I don't understand.”

“Did you have a time when it . . .” I can't think how to put it.

“Went away?” he asks.

I nod slowly.

Papa shuffles closer to me and puts an arm around my back. I can feel the thickness of the wool of his sweater, smell the slight damp in it from the chill air. Like Hudson's Bay blankets and winter coats.
“Life becomes better. Things become better. But it remains. It always remains. I never had this closure.” He gives me a kind look. “I'm sorry,
cara mia
. I would never wish this for you. It will get better. But, probably, it will never go away.”

I nod. I know as much, within myself, but hearing him say it makes it real. Alex is gone. He will always be gone. Mama is gone. She will always be gone. Perhaps Alex and Mama are in the same place. Looking down on me.

“Darling?”

I look into Papa's face.

“You don't have to come back home. You don't have to do anything. But don't stay here too long.” He reaches into his pocket and unfolds an envelope. “Giulia asked me to give you this.”

“What is it?”

“A letter. From your travel insurance.”

I take it but don't open it.

“Giulia explained to them what happened. They've given you a refund. A voucher. You can use it for other travel.”

“Other travel?” I repeat.

Papa nods. “Life will be better,
duci
. But you have to . . . live it. You see?”

He squeezes me against him.

“Yes, Papa. I see.”

Wishing that I did.

*  *  *

As Papa and Aunty Connie are leaving, it starts to rain for the first time since I arrived at the cabin. The rain smells different in the forest. In town, it smells warm, of steaming concrete, wet clothes, and wet hair. Here, I realize, you can almost smell it before it falls, as if the ground is opening itself up in anticipation. It's warm and mushroomy—loamy. And then the rain slowly patters down through layers of leaves and branches and whatever else lives far above our heads. Mosses, lichens, parasitic plants, microcosms nestled in protected crevices where branches reach out from trunks like arms.

Bella and I are struck dumb for a moment, then we run into
the cabin. Inside we lie, rain-splashed and a bit breathless, on top of the bed, listening to the drops.

When we were small and it rained, we would take a big golf umbrella outside and sit underneath it together. We had to curl up tight to both fit, with as many toys as we could manage, too. A couple of dolls, a teddy bear, doll furniture. We could play under there a very long time. Why it was different to play under an umbrella in the rain as opposed to being inside by a window, for instance, I don't know. Luckily for us it rained a lot in Seattle so we had plenty of opportunities to dash outside with Papa's big green-and-red-striped umbrella and make up stories and games, worlds, and dynasties. And when Mama died, it felt like there were just the two of us against the world. We were as close as twins for a while. Papa was grieving, and the aunties were busy looking after the practical things—Aunty Rosa making meals; Aunty Connie giving us our baths. The hushed voices, careful footsteps.
Those poor girls.

Before Mama died, the house was always full of activity. When she wasn't sick, Mama was busier than a bee. She always had something to do and something to clean. In the summer, she made simple sauce and preserved lemons. In winter, she darned anything that needed mending and made lavender drawer pillows to keep insects at bay. Fall was for directing Papa to rake the leaves, and freezing meals for the winter. In spring, she harvested zucchini and kept the yard from going completely wild. In between the seasonal chores were the weekly chores for the family and the church. In between the weekly chores were the daily chores—meals, vacuuming, dusting, wiping things down,
chatting to friends on the phone, making espresso and more espresso and yet more espresso. Without Mama, our house was strangely, horribly silent and calm. It was better to be outside in a world of our own making, the sound of the rain ping-ping-pinging off our makeshift shelter.

On the cabin's bed, I lie closest to the wall with Bella laid out on my left. The rain drums the roof. Bella is staring up into the beams, where graying cobwebs stretch out like hammocks in corners and crevices.

“I saw you talking to Vinnie. He could barely look at me all day,” I say.

Bella sniggers. “Coward. He was supposed to apologize to you. Although that was before . . .”

I shake my head. “What a mess. Jack's properly hurt, you know. Trust Vinnie to be in among it all.”

“It wasn't just him. Luca was the worst. Vinnie was trying to break it up.”

I think of Vinnie's lip, puffy and sore looking, his guilty sideways look. It's true he didn't start the fight, but he always seems to be in the thick of things, always manages to find trouble. Then, whatever he's done, he gets away with it. The family treats him like he's a sweet and bumbling toddler.

“Why do you always defend him?”

Bella pauses. “We're a team, I guess.”

“A team? He's becoming a thug. First the party, then today.”

She shrugs. “We're the bad ones, you know? Besides, he's not actually bad. Not really.”

“You sound like Aunty Rosa.”

“
Mammina!
” she says, mimicking Vinnie, then laughs. “I'm not quite that blind. He's pretty naughty, I'll give you that, but he was trying to protect you today, in his own stupid way. If you needed him, Frankie, he'd be there for you.”

“I'm not sure about that.”

“No, he would be. He was there for me.”

I turn to look at her properly. “He helped you get the job in Portland.”

“He knew someone, a friend of a friend. . . . It's a long story. But yeah, he helped me. I'm not sure what I would have done otherwise.”

I remember, again, the night she left. How she sat on the end of my bed, how I wanted her to leave. How, when she had left, it had felt like a weight off of me. A burden lifted.

Bella rolls onto her side. Her face is close to mine; I can see the faint, sepia freckles across the tops of her cheeks. “You know why I left, don't you?”

I nod. I saw it, in the bathroom. The packet torn open, the foil ragged, the severe little expiry date punched in the side. I didn't have the courage to look at it straight on, just sort of slid my eyes towards it, past the cup from the kitchen, right over to the far side of the sink. Two blue lines.

I was cowardly. Being mad at Bella covered it up, made it simpler. But fear was underneath. I didn't know how to help. Didn't want to help.

“What . . .” I start, then stop.

“Happened?” she finishes. “Well, you can guess. There's no baby, right? Or kid . . . He or she would be a kid by now. I found
somewhere to get it done. Vinnie helped me with that too—I needed money. He told Aunty Rosa a story about a school outing. I don't know how he explained never going on the outing, but it was at the time Aunty Rosa was on that diet, remember?”