Seeking Carolina (4 page)

No one misses the funeral of a Sig’lian’. We make mean ghosts.

Gram always said Italians loved a funeral; it brought family home, and brooked no excuse.

In the dark silence beyond midnight, listening to her belly gurgle along with the creaks and groans of the old farmhouse she grew up in, Johanna was wishing she’d taken her chances with the ghost. The sensation of being only a guest in her sister’s home, in her sisters’ lives descended. Being in Bitterly forced her to acknowledge all the good things she was missing to avoid the bad. Until coming home, she’d been happy in Cape May, in her bakery at the beach, with the hundreds of friendly strangers who populated her life.

Johanna groaned upright, and moved to the window. Outside, the moon shined brightly on the snow and the world existed only in shades of blue. Snow, snow, everywhere—snow. A cathedral of trees. A holy realm of ice. The only church she had ever needed.

She used to imagine her mother playing in the yard, building snow castles or chasing fireflies. But Mommy had never lived in Bitterly, a fact Johanna didn’t know until Emmaline and Julietta came to live with them too.

Johanna turned away from the window, those thoughts. She moved about Gram’s room by moonlight. It never changed, but for the buttercream yellow paint that had replaced Gram’s more sensible white back when she and her sisters were small, and grieving. The dresser, oiled and smooth as honey, always scented with the lavender sachets kept in every drawer. Johanna opened the top one and breathed in, struck suddenly by the notion of getting rid of all the clothes. Who would have the heart to scoop the nightgowns from the drawers, the dresses from the closet, and haul them off to some charity? Johanna shuddered. She could not do it. She would rather burn everything, and that made her shudder again.

On top of the dresser sat Gram’s jewelry box. Adelina Coco was Sicilian, but she was also a New Englander. One good dress and a pair of sensible heels was all she needed. The plain box Poppy had made for her one Christmas, when they were newly married and quite poor, was mostly empty. Johanna lifted the lid.

The ribboned lock of Carolina’s dark hair.

The crumbling letter Johanna knew by heart.

The gold Virgin Mary medal Gram never took off, along with her wedding rings and Pop’s.

And the locket.

Johanna’s breath caught in her throat. She had forgotten about this talisman, this magical thing. Picking it up by the chain, she let it twirl in the moonlight.

“It belonged first to Poppy’s grandmother,” Gram had told her. “Her own
nona
gave it to her when she left Sicily for America to be married. See the initials? FMC. That is for Florentina Coco.”

“What does the M stand for?”

“Maddelena, I think. Do you want to hear the story or ask questions?”

“Hear the story. Please.”

“Good girl. Back then, when someone left the old country, those left behind knew it was for good. Florentina’s grandmother had already lost many sons and many grandchildren to America. But Florentina was her favorite, I am told, and so she put something very special inside the locket before waving good-bye. Can you guess what it was?”

“A picture?”

“No, not a picture. She put a wish inside.”

“Sure, Gram.”

“You don’t believe me? You doubt it can be true? There was a time, Johanna, when we women still had our magic. It was a simple matter of course, and nothing at all extraordinary. That old woman put a wish into this locket as certainly as I am standing here telling you this tale. The locket has passed from daughter-in-law to daughter-in-law, from Florentina’s down to me. The wish is still there, waiting to be used, because a wish can be scary to actually make, and no one has yet had the courage.”

“Not even you?”

“Not even me. But you do, my Johanna. I have no daughters-in-law, so when I am gone, I give this to you. The wish will be yours to make.”

The clarity of memory left Johanna trembling. She had been seven, and so fragile, always fantasizing about the fiery death she deserved, one that would have spared her all the pain that came after. Gram found her in a closet, curled into a ball and weeping. It was all her fault. If not for her, she and Nina would still be living happily in the woods of New Hampshire with Mommy and Daddy. Words would not come, not then and not ever, because they would have made Gram think Johanna didn’t love her and Poppy, wasn’t glad to be in school, relieved to wear clothes that were not stolen out of a drop-box she’d been lowered into because she was the smallest.

Johanna shuddered. To be so young and so confused, so full of grief and relief—tears started back then continued into the present. They had always been her way of coping. Cry enough and weariness overwhelmed the confusion, put it into perspective of a kind. The older she got, the better Johanna understood how the evasion of tears became the evasion permeating her life. She simply didn’t know how to change it. Or if she wanted to.

Trembling fingers clicked open the locket. She saw the same faded photo, but not even a sparkle that could pass for a wish. Johanna touched the picture of Carolina Coco, young and smiling, her head thrown back. Just beyond the round of her mother’s cheek was what Johanna always believed was her father’s shoulder. Looking at it now, adult eyes focusing beyond the illusions of childhood, it was probably a wall.

“If there is a wish in here, Gram, why didn’t you use it to make Mom well? Why didn’t you use it to get her back?”

Johanna closed it, kissed it, and slipped it over her head again. Emma would want the medal. Julietta and Nina could decide on who got what rings. But the locket was hers.

Gram said.

* * * *

The letter is old and crumbling, and a lie. It speaks of love ferocious, one undefeated by time and distance—or locked doors and walls and razor wire that cuts deeply. Leaves scars that do not heal. It speaks of happiness, that false thing made of chemicals rushing through the brain and can be altered by more chemicals crushed and stirred into orange juice. It made promises that were lies before the ink dried on the page.

But I didn’t know then. I did not know. If you ever believed all the other lies, please believe this one truth I was never able to speak.

Eleven Pipers Piping

Gunner was already on his way out the door by the time Johanna found her way to the kitchen. Dashing about, stuffing things into his duffle, yanking his cell phone charger from the wall-socket, he called out to her as he hurried past.

“Nice seeing you, Jo. Keep Nina out of trouble. Ha, look who I’m asking. I’ll see you at Christmas, right? We’ll celebrate.”

And out he went, snatching a kiss from Nina as he blew through the door. She watched him, her arms crossed against the cold coming in. Johanna went to stand behind her, rested a cheek to her sister’s arm.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Johanna asked.

Nina stepped back and closed the door. “If what you think is that the gallery sold? Yes. They made us an offer we’d be insane to refuse.”

“Woohoo!” Johanna grabbed her sister’s hands, bounced up and down. “How fantastic.”

“I suppose.”

“Nina, you’re rich.”

“I had plenty of money without selling it.”

Johanna let go her hands. “I thought this is what you wanted.”

“I did. I do.”

“Then?”

Nina sighed, pulled a chair away from the table, and flopped into it. Johanna sat opposite her.

“I feel this…loss.” Nina’s lip trembled. She would not cry. Tears were Johanna’s thing. Her elder sister had no patience for them.

“Is it Gram?”

“Sure. Of course. But it’s more. We’ve sacrificed everything but one another to this dream of ours, and now it’s gone. Poof. I think this must kind of be like what a mother feels when her kid goes out into the world.”

“But like kids, you can still visit.”

“It just won’t be mine anymore.” She shrugged, and like that, it was settled. “Gunner’s happy, that’s for sure. He’s already planning what comes next.”

“Of course he is.”

“The man is perpetual motion.”

“You married him.” Johanna reached for her sister’s hand. “Congratulations, Nina. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

“We should go out tonight and celebrate, just the four of us.”

“I’d like that.” Nina squeezed Johanna’s hand, and let it go. “My treat. I’ll ask Emma what’s good in town these days.”

“D’Angelo’s.” Julietta swept into the room. Hair piled on top of her head, two crossed pencils holding it in place and glasses slightly askew, she poured herself a cup of coffee. “Why?”

“The gallery sold,” Nina answered. “We’re going out to celebrate tonight. And pizza isn’t appropriate celebration food unless it’s for a winning soccer season.”

“Pizza is always appropriate.”

“Only in your world, Jules.”

“I live in the same world you do, and pizza is the perfect food.”

“What makes me think that now Gram’s gone, you are going to live on D’Angelo’s pizza?”

Julietta only sipped her coffee. The fear was not a new one. Johanna had been thinking thoughts along those lines since she got the call that Gram was gone. Old as she had been, none of them expected her to die. Ever. She, Nina and Emmaline had lives outside of the old house, outside of Gram. Julietta worked from home, via the internet, as a freelance researcher. Gram cooked, cleaned, laundered, made sure her youngest granddaughter actually got dressed on occasion. It had been a running joke among them for as long as she could remember—without Gram, Julietta would be another Howard Hughes, toenails and all.

“How about Moose Tracks?” Julietta suggested. “It’s a new place in Great Barrington. Opened up where the Thai place used to be. Remember it?”

“Vaguely,” Johanna answered. “What kind of food?”

“Americany-bistroish.”

“How do you know the place?” Nina asked. “Did you go with Gram?”

“Gram?” Julietta snorted. “No.”

Johanna leapt off her chair to grasp her sister by the arms. “Did you go on a date?”

“Jo! You made me spill coffee on my sweatshirt.”

“It’s a sweatshirt, and it looks like it should have been washed ages ago. Come on, Jules. Spill it.”

“You spilled.”

“Don’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about.”

Her youngest sister dabbed at the coffee on her shirt with a dishtowel. Red splotches spread across her cheeks.

“I’m not that hideous,” she murmured. “I’m thirty-two. A date was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are beauti—”

“I’m not.” Julietta’s unblinking eyes met hers. “I’m smart. I’m occasionally funny. I’m weird. I am not beautiful.”

Silence fell. Johanna knew better than to argue. So did Nina. Their youngest sister never understood the social niceties that required people to lie, even if it was to be kind. It made no sense and thus, she had no patience for it.

“So he took you to this Moose Tracks place?” Nina asked. “And you liked it?”

Julietta blinked, releasing Johanna from that piercing blue stare, and turned instead to Nina. “They have really good pizza.”

* * * *

Moose Tracks was exactly the sort of place Johanna expected. Upscale, spare but with a nod to the outdoors—a pair of antique snowshoes on the wall, duck decoys on the rafters, a collection of hunting horns hanging over the bar. The food was of the artisanal variety, plow to plate and local. It gratified her to see Julietta’s pizza was thin-crusted, oil drizzled, and loaded with arugula and goat cheese.

At least it was real vegetable matter and dairy.

“No, that’s where Efan works,” Julietta was pointing to the castle-like building across the street. “He’s a teacher at the prep-school, not a waiter.”

“I didn’t mean to imply Evan is a waiter,” Emma answered. “If you would tell us something about him—”

“It’s not Evan. It’s Efan. With an F.”

“Okay. So what does he teach?”

“History, but he’s an expert on Welsh folklore.”

“Kind of a narrow expertise, isn’t it?” Nina sipped her wine. “How did you meet him?”

“Why do you need to know all this?”

“We’re curious,” Johanna intervened. “Sisters are allowed to be. Required to be, in fact. Let’s hear it.”

Julietta put down her pizza. “Fine. You want details? I came up here because I needed a series of books I could only find available in the academy’s library and ran into this guy. Efan. He saw the books I was pulling out and we started talking and got into a big discussion about
The Children of Dôn
and it got late and there are no visitors allowed on campus after seven so Efan suggested we come here and finish. He paid for dinner, even though I told him I could get it covered on my expense report. He laughed and said my candor was refreshing but he hasn’t contacted me since so I suspect he got over it quick. Okay? Enough? Can I eat in peace now?”

Johanna exchanged glances with Nina, then Emma.

“Darling.” Nina touched her sister’s hand.

Julietta frowned but did not look up.

“Jules, does he even know your full name?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I think so.”

“Do you know his?” Johanna asked.

Julietta shook her head.

“So you are both Cinderellas waiting for someone to show up with a shoe.” Emma picked up a piece of Julietta’s pizza, took a bite. “Oh, Jules.”

Julietta’s shoulders slumped, and the red splotches of her cheeks deepened. She was shutting down to process troubling information. It might be days before she spoke to any of them again.

Johanna, at least, no longer tasted the food. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. No one eat my food.”

She checked her watch. Almost seven. She had ten minutes. Hurrying past the ladies room and out the delivery entrance, Johanna braced herself for the cold. She ran along the back of the businesses, past dumpsters and skids and a couple of guys smoking. She crossed the street at the corner and kept running straight through the wrought-iron gates of the castle-like academy. Leaning against the directory, she caught her breath.

Dining Hall? Or Library? Johanna took her chances with the library. It was closer, close enough for her to see the image of George Washington carved into the grey stone over the great doors. She made a shivering dash for it.