Ask Mariah (6 page)

She raised her head, and his gaze drifted across her face, as if he were memorizing each line. Comparing her to his wife, probably. There was far too much intimacy in his look for two strangers to share.

She cleared her throat. "Perhaps the girls should have another teacher. I'm not sure it's good for them to be with me every day."

Lily and Rose immediately disagreed with the plan. "No! No!" they cried, abandoning their uncle Tony for Joanna. They threw their arms around her waist, holding on with stubborn determination.

"Girls, it's okay," Joanna said, trying to ease their distress. "The other teachers are good."

"We want you," they chorused.

Michael put a hand on each of their heads, bringing him into even closer proximity to Joanna. His expression was clearly troubled as he looked into her eyes. "I don't think the girls will stay with another teacher."

"But is this good for them?"

"They've had a lot of counseling since their mother died. Time seems to be the only answer. If they stay in school, I think they'll realize that you're not their mother, but if I take them away now, I'm afraid they'll think I'm taking them away from their mother."

"I can't look that much like her," she said, wanting him to contradict her.

Michael exchanged a glance with Tony. "You could be her sister," he said, his gaze returning to her.

"My sister," Tony added, "This is weird."

She thought so, too. Nothing in her experience had taught her how to deal with a situation like this. She took in a breath and let it out. But she would deal with it, as she'd dealt with everything else in her life in the past year. Her father's illness had given her strength, his legacy to her.

"All right, we'll let things stay like this for now," she said.

The girls cheered, and she couldn't help smiling. It was nice to be loved. She just wished it could be for herself.

* * *

Sophia De Luca carefully ironed out the wrinkles in her husband's monogrammed handkerchief. When it was perfectly flat and creaseless, she folded it in neat squares and set it on the couch next to her. Then she picked up the embroidered linen cloth that had graced the top of Angela's dresser since her birth and set to ironing it with the same sense of purpose and determination. It didn't matter that Angela would never again see the cloth. It didn't matter that no one went into Angela's bedroom anymore.

She couldn't stand to take the room apart, to put Angela's things away, to change the bedspread or the curtains. Angela hadn't lived in that bedroom since she was eighteen years old, but Sophia had kept it exactly the same so that her daughter would have a room to come home to, just in case.

Angela had never come home, and like so many things Sophia kept "just in case," Angela's bedroom went unused.

Picking up the starched linen cloth, Sophia climbed up the stairs from her sewing room on the first floor to Angela's bedroom on the second. She carefully placed the cloth on the dresser and put the silver brush and mirror and Angela's favorite music box on top.

As she looked around the room, she was assaulted with a longing that grew stronger with each passing day, a desire to go back in time or at least to stop the clock from moving forward. She couldn't believe it had been twenty-seven years since she had brought Angela home from the hospital, since she had sat in the rocking chair by the window and sung lullabies to her baby, some in Italian, some in English, all filled with love and promises. How quickly the time had passed.

Sitting down in the rocker, she ran her hands along the smooth wood. Her husband, Vincent, had built the rocking chair for her just before the birth of their oldest son, Frank. Every night, after a long day in the restaurant, Vincent would go down to the basement and work on the rocker, shining it, polishing it. They had been so in love then, dreaming of the family they would have. There were so many memories in this chair, hours alone with her babies, in the dark of the night, when the world slept. That's when she had felt the closest to them. That's when she had cried. A tear ran down her face as she rocked, thinking about her life, about how silent the house was now.

Frank, his wife Linda, and their four children lived a few blocks away. Frank had made a good marriage, and at thirty-seven he was ready to take over De Luca's when Vincent retired at the end of the year. Frank would continue their traditions. He would bring honor to the family, because he knew no other way to live. She had been in awe of her oldest son's principles since he was six years old, when Frank had decided that he would not be friends with anyone who lied, called him names, or didn't do their homework. Needless to say, Frank didn't have a lot of friends as a child. But he was a good man despite his rigid ways. And he adored his mother, held her up on a pedestal.

He didn't know her at all
.

Tony, at thirty-three, was the complete opposite of Frank: emotional, unpredictable, sensitive, passionate. Tony took after her. Frank took after his father. Maybe that's why she worried more about Tony. Sophia knew how much trouble he could get himself into if he wasn't careful. And Tony was never careful.

Oh, how she missed him. He'd taken off after Angela died, sailing his way around the world, picking up odd jobs, dropping the occasional note home. She knew Vincent was disappointed in Tony, that her husband very much wanted his youngest son to come home and run De Luca's with Frank. Then Vincent could retire, knowing that his sons' futures were secure.

But Tony didn't want security. He wanted more than that. Sophia remembered feeling that way a very long time ago.

Now she could feel nothing but pain. As she glanced around Angela's bedroom, as she saw the remnants of her daughter's life, the posters of pop stars on the wall, the school yearbooks in the bookcase, the clothes in the closet, the pain filled her stomach like too much pasta. It got worse every day. She could barely eat anymore. Not even her favorite chianti eased the pressure rising within her. She felt that she might burst at any moment.

But she couldn't let the words out. She had to stay silent. She had to keep going for the sake of her family, for Vincent and Frank and Tony -- for Michael and the girls.  It had always been that way. No real time for her. No moment when she could cut loose, when she could scream at the injustice of life.

Not that it would matter. Angela was gone. Sophia pulled out the simple gold cross she wore around her neck and fingered the four points, silently asking again why God had taken her baby away. The answer was always the same -- because she had sinned.

* * *

"I don't think you should tell Sophia about Joanna," Michael said as he parked the car in front of the De Lucas' house in North Beach. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the girls were paying attention, but they were playing with their dolls in the backseat. "It might upset her."

Tony stared straight ahead for a moment, then turned to Michael with a troubled expression. "I feel like we're in the Twilight Zone."

"I've been feeling that way all day."

"Who is this woman? How could she look so much like Angela? It's crazy."

"Maybe she's a distant relative."

Tony drummed his fingers restlessly against his thigh. "Do you think it's good for the girls to be with her?"

"You saw how they reacted to the thought of leaving. It's not like she's Angela's twin. Her hair is much longer. And she doesn't dress the same. There's a resemblance, but I think after awhile they'll begin to see differences between Joanna and Angela."
We all will
, he added silently.

"I hope you're right. Because if you're not, I think your problem with the girls just got bigger." Tony turned to the girls. "Hey, midgets, shall we go surprise Grandma?" The girls eagerly agreed, and the four of them made their way into the house.

The De Luca home was a two-story Victorian with hardwood floors and throw rugs in the entryway, living room, dining room, and hall. The stairs were carpeted in dark blue, with the walls painted a lighter shade of blue. It was a warm, colorful house, filled with antiques and knick knacks that Sophia collected during her weekly trips to secondhand stores and flea markets. Like the De Luca restaurant a few blocks away, the family home invited guests. There were comfortable chairs and sofas to sit on, paintings from Italy, and Sophia's collection of music boxes from around the world.

"The place looks the same," Tony said. "Home sweet home."

"Can we get some cookies, Uncle Tony?" Lily asked.

"Michael?" Tony asked.

Lily and Rose looked at him inquiringly, but didn't speak. He nodded. For a while he had tried denying them anything they wanted unless they asked for it with words, but that maneuver had turned out to be as big a failure as the rest. Now it seemed pointless to encourage a full- fledged temper tantrum over a few cookies.

Tony watched the interaction with a troubled eye. "I don't get it, man," he said as the girls ran into the kitchen.

"Neither do I."

"How do you stand it?"

"I tell myself that some day it will end. Some day they'll look me straight in the eye and say they love me, and that will probably be the happiest day of my life." He cleared his throat, suddenly choked up by that thought. "Of course, then they'll probably start arguing with me over every little thing, and I'll wish they would just shut up."

Tony smiled. "Probably. And just wait until they start talking on the phone all the time."

He held up a hand. "I don't want to think about it. Raising the girls alone -- sometimes, it scares the hell out of me. I think it would be different if they were boys. I know how boys think. But the female mind is a complete mystery to me."

"Speaking of females, I wonder if Mama is home. It's so quiet." Tony tilted his head to one side. "Certainly not like it used to be. Whenever I came home from school, Mama would be in the kitchen cooking. Usually one of her sisters, Aunt Carlotta or Aunt Elena, would be here, and sometimes a couple of my cousins. We never had to bring someone home from school to play with, because there were always a few extra kids hanging around here. Now there's no one."

"Everyone grew up."

"Too bad, huh? We used to have some good times, until you got all responsible on me." He slugged Michael on the arm.

"I didn't have a choice. I had a wife to support, kids." He sounded defensive, and he knew it, but dammit, he'd worked his butt off for Angela and the girls.

"You were good for Angie," Tony said. "I mean that."

"Yeah, well, I don't think Angela would have agreed with you. Anyway, it's all in the past." Or it had been until today, until he'd come face-to-face with a ghost. He tipped his head toward the stairs. "Sophia is probably upstairs. Why don't you go see her?"

"All right. Hopefully, she'll be happy to see me."

"Isn't she always?"

* * *

As Tony walked up the stairs, a thousand memories flashed through his mind. He hadn't lived in this house for a couple of years. But coming back now, he felt like a kid again, and he hated that feeling. Maybe that's why he had stayed away, hoping that somewhere in the world he'd find a place where he felt like a grown-up.

His parents' bedroom was empty. Angela's door was partly open. He hesitated, then knocked.

"Come in," Sophia said.

He pushed opened the door. "Hi, Mama."

Her face lit up like the morning sky after a winter storm. She held out her arms to him, and he went into her embrace as if he were ten years old again. She smelled like Chanel No. 5, with a lingering trace of garlic. She smelled like home.

"Tony, my darling Tony," Sophia whispered, cupping his face with her hands. "You've come back."

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

"Are you really?" He searched her dark eyes for the truth, then looked away, not sure he wanted to find it. He wanted her to be the strong woman he remembered from his youth, not the shattered woman he'd seen at Angela's funeral.

"I -- yes." Her voice turned brisk as if she'd seen his need and decided to fulfill it.

She stood up and tucked her black hair into place. That's when he noticed the new streaks of gray at her temples, the lines around her eyes, the paleness of her olive skin.

"You look tired. Mama," he said quietly.

She touched her hand to the side of his face with a loving smile. "Your father snores so loudly, who can sleep?"

He accepted her answer because he wanted to, because it was easy.

"You must be hungry. I'll fix you something to eat. And you'll stay in your old room, of course. You are staying, aren't you?"

"For a while. I bought a boat. Mama. She's gorgeous."

"A boat? Oh, my." Sophia put a hand to her heart.

"She needs a little work, of course, but wait until you see her."

"I'm sure it's a beautiful boat, Tony. But how long is a while?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. A week or two."

"That's all?"