Home Again

  “… Old Mrs. Fiorelli. She’s not doing well.”

  Madelaine squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry to hear that, Francis. I know how much you care about her.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to go see her.”

  Madelaine turned to him, and saw with surprise that he looked sad. She reached out, grazed her knuckles along his cheek. “What is it, Francis?’

  He plunged a hand through his blond hair. She waited for him to laugh, say it was nothing, but he remained uncharacteristically quiet, looking at her now with an unsettling intensity.

  “Francis?”

  He leaned forward. Their gazes held. The moment spilled out, lengthened in an odd way that made her heartbeat speed up.

  Before she could say something, it was over. “It’s nothing, Maddy-girl. Nothing at all.”

  She felt—crazily—as if she’d just let him down. “I’m always here for you, Francis. You know that.”

  “Yes,” he said, giving her a sad, gentle smile. “I know you are.”

  Lina climbed off the hard plastic seat of her ten-speed and set the kickstand. The lightweight bike slid to the left and locked in place. She whipped the helmet off her head and shook out her boy-cut hair, plunging her fingers through the damp, sweaty mass to make it look as spiky and unkempt as possible.

  Her mother had hated the haircut, of course. Like Billy Idol, Lina. Do you really want to look like Billy Idol?

  The truth was, her mother couldn’t have paid her a higher compliment and, besides, today was the perfect day to look like Billy Idol.

  It was Lina’s sixteenth birthday, and she was ready to make some trouble. Heck, she was itching for it.

  Because there was only one present she wanted to receive—and when she asked for it, a truckload of turds was gonna hit the fan.

  She reached inside her leather biker jacket and pulled out a crushed pack of Marlboro Lights. She lit one, then took a long drag. Her lungs burned and she coughed, but it was worth it.

  Mom hated it when she smoked.

  Smiling, she sauntered up the brick pathway, through the Martha Stewart-perfect front yard, toward the white farmhouse with the huge wraparound porch. It stood alone at the end of the street, this house that had once been in the middle of a hundred acres of farmland. Now it was the only old-fashioned home on a street of cookie-cutter tract houses. As always, every bush and tree was precisely trimmed, and the grass was a carpet of shaved green. Pots of autumn color lined the steps up to the porch.

  The only thing that looked out of place in this picture postcard of suburban domesticity was Father Francis’s scruffy yellow Volkswagen bug sitting in the driveway. She noticed a new dent in the rusted front fender and wondered briefly who he’d nailed this time.

  On the porch she paused, running a hand through her hair again. She knew she looked especially bad today—cheap and sleazy and in trouble—exactly the way she wanted to look. Three earrings in her right ear, four in her left. Blood-black lipstick and blue mascara. Skintight black Levi’s with a dozen fraying holes and a stained white men’s T-shirt.

  She knew it was immature to dress this way just to irritate her perfect mother, but she didn’t care. It was a good enough reason. Everything she did was designed to get her mother’s attention. Doctor Hillyard, the Virgin Mary of medicine, who looked gorgeous after a ten-hour shift at the hospital and never seemed to do anything wrong. Every time Lina looked at her mother, she felt small and stupid and inept. It used to bother her, used to make her cry herself to sleep, wondering why she wasn’t more like her flawless mother.

  But it had gotten so boring, all that crying and wanting and needing. This year she’d realized that she’d never be like her mom, and the realization had freed her. Lina stopped trying to get good grades and make good friends and do everything well. She had flourished in her rebellion, reveled in it.

  After a while, though, even that wasn’t enough. And finally she had begun to understand what was wrong.

  Daddy.

  It was ridiculous that she thought of him in such childish terminology, but she couldn’t help herself. She remembered to the very day when she’d first started missing her father. Not in a vague I-wish-he-were-here way, but with a serious gnawing-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach sense of loss.

  It had been in the sixth grade, a year before she started her period. She’d finally found the nerve to ask her mother about him, and Madelaine had looked startled at first, then she’d gotten a sad, faraway look in her eyes and said that he had left them long ago. That he wasn’t ready to be a father. But it had nothing to do with Lina, Madelaine said fiercely. Nothing at all.

  Lina could still remember how that had felt, the loneliness of it.

  Now, every time she looked in the mirror, she saw a stranger’s eyes, a stranger’s smile. With every day, she felt lonelier and lonelier, more lost.

  It was then, that cold December of her sixth-grade year, when Lina realized she was alone in wanting her daddy, alone in thinking that something was wrong with her family. That was when things started to change with her mother. Lina had taken her questions to her bedroom, huddled with them, embraced them as she’d once snuggled with her teddy bear. A cold wariness settled between her and her mother, a watchful distance that seemed designed to deflect more questions.

  Lina had cried herself to sleep so many nights. It felt as if she’d wept for him forever, this mysterious father who had never come for her, never asked about her, never called on her birthday.

  She’d grieved until there was no grief left inside her, and then slowly, insidiously, she’d begun to think. Maybe he didn’t know about her.

  Once the thought was planted, it took root. Lina fed it daily with the water of possibility, until one day she believed it. Wholly, completely. Her father didn’t know about her If he did, he’d be here, beside her, loving her, taking her places, buying her all the things Mom wouldn’t allow.

  He wouldn’t demand so much of her, wouldn’t shake his head and cluck his tongue in disapproval when she asked for a tattoo. He’d answer her questions and comfort her. He’d let her stay at her boyfriend’s house all night.

  Maybe he’d even hold her after a bad dream and let her just cry….

  Clamping the cigarette between her teeth, she yanked the front door open and went inside. She tossed her coat on the rack and wandered down the airy hallway, turning in to the kitchen.

  It was empty.

  She took another burning drag off the cigarette and looked around, uncertain suddenly of what she should do. The kitchen table was draped in color and piled with packages wrapped in bright foil paper. In their midst was a white cake in the shape of a Harley-Davidson Low Rider. Balloons filled the small kitchen, winked at her from a dozen different locations—the backs of chairs, the chrome handle on the front of the stove, the refrigerator door. Big Mylar balloons that all read Happy Birthday.

  There were sixteen candles on the cake—those silly pink twisty candles that came thirty to a box at Safeway.

  Tears stung her eyes, blurring the cake and tablecloth into a white-and-red-checked smear. Angry with herself, she wiped at the moisture with the back of her hand and spun away from the table.

  What was wrong with her? Who looked at a stupid old cake and wanted to cry?

  But she knew what it was. Her mother had tried to put up the right balloons, buy the right cake. Lina had no doubt that her mom had agonized over every present.

  She also knew that each gift would be wrong: too young, too old, too late, too soon. It was just the way it was between her and her mom. They never got anything right

  Not like the old days, back when “You and Me Against the World,” by Helen Reddy, had been her and Mom’s song. When they’d sung it all the time, laughing, dancing, hugging.

  Now she looked at a stupid store-bought cake and she missed it, missed the nights she used to snuggle in her mom’s bed, the mornings they used to make pancakes together and sing dopey songs. Jeez, it was embarrassing how much she missed i
t….

  “Happy Birthday, honey!” Her mother’s throaty voice rang through the kitchen.

  Lina’s head snapped up. She saw her mother, standing in the open archway that separated the kitchen from the living room. Father Francis was beside her. They were both grinning.

  Lina couldn’t believe she was crying. Crying.

  She threw her shoulders back and sniffed hard, then slumped lazily against the wall. She felt herself sinking into the image she’d created, the rebel in the black leather jacket. Back to a place where no one expected anything of her except a sharp mouth and a snotty look. A place where things like loneliness and missing your mom didn’t exist. She drew on the cigarette, inhaling deeply, then smiled—just a twitch of the lips like Elvis—and mumbled, “Thanks, guys.”

  Madelaine stared at the cigarette. Her bright smile faded, and disappointment darkened her hazel eyes. “I’ve asked you not to smoke in the house.”

  Then make me stop. Lina stared at her, unblinking. Almost smiling, she strolled forward, her motorcycle boots clicking on the hardwood floor. When she was directly in front of her mother, she took another drag. “Really?”

  For a heady second she thought her mother was going to actually do something, say something. Lina leaned forward, waiting.

  Madelaine gave a helpless little shrug. “It’s your birthday…. Let’s not fight.”

  “Lina, put out the cigarette or I’ll make you eat Communion wafers,” Father Francis said.

  “Jeez, have a cow about it, why don’tcha?” Twirling, she strode to the kitchen sink and doused the cigarette under running water.

  When she turned back around, no one had moved. Father Francis and Mom looked like a pair from Madame Tussaud’s wax museum. They were standing side by side, together, as always. Best friends.

  Today Francis looked even more handsome than usual. He was tall and thin, built like a dancer, and though he always looked slightly out of place in his clerical clothing, he looked positively fine in civilian clothes. Like now, he was wearing a pair of faded blue Levi’s and an oversized Gap sweatshirt, and there were sixteen-year-old girls across the country who would faint at his killer smile.

  Francis shoved a hand through his thick, unruly blond hair and grinned. “So, Lina-ballerina, how does it feel to be sixteen?”

  Lina shrugged. “Fine.”

  Mom gave her a rather sad smile. “I remember sixteen.”

  Francis looked at her mother, and Lina saw the same sadness reflected in his blue eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It was just about this time of year.”

  They were doing it again, leaving her out. “Hel-lo,” Lina interjected with a snort. “It is my birthday here, not old folks’ memory day.”

  Mom laughed. “You’re right. What do you say we open presents?”

  Lina’s gaze darted to the pile of packages on the table. Big, bright, beautifully wrapped boxes that didn’t contain what she wanted. Couldn’t contain what she wanted.

  She looked back at her mom, and suddenly she was afraid of what she’d planned to do today. Her mother had worked so hard … always worked so hard, and this would break her heart….

  Mom took a step toward her, hand outstretched. “Baby, what is it?”

  Lina stiffened and jerked back, away from the comforting sadness of her mother’s touch. “Don’t call me baby.” Horrifyingly, her voice broke.

  “Honey—”

  “What’s his name?” The question shot from her lips before she was ready, and it sounded harsh and ugly. She cringed. But it was there, hanging between them, and there was no going back.

  Her mother stopped. A frown pulled her thick, winged brows together. “Whose name?”

  Lina felt herself losing control. It started as a shaking in her fingers that she couldn’t stop. She wished she had a cigarette, or a glass of water. Something, anything to hold on to, to stare at. Any place to look except into her mother’s confused gray-green eyes.

  And that damned song kept going through her mind. You and me against the world.

  It would change everything, her next question. Take what little she and her mother had left and rip it apart.

  He doesn’t know about you. He’d love you if he did.

  Lina seized the comforting thought until her fingers stopped shaking and the lump in her throat melted away. Slowly, drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes, unable to look at her mother when she asked the question. “What’s his name, Mom? That’s all I want for my birthday. Just a name.”

  For a second, everything went quiet and still.

  “Whose name?” Mom said at last, her voice soft. So soft, as if she knew, knew and was afraid.

  Lina opened her eyes and met her mother’s gaze. She felt a little sting of conscience, knew how much her next words would hurt her mother, but she pushed the feelings aside. “My father.”

  “Oh my God,” Francis whispered.

  Lina didn’t spare him a glance, just stared at her mother, who was so motionless, it looked as if she weren’t even breathing. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, her honey-brown hair curled gently away from her face, her clear, pale skin flushed. The bright red silk of her blouse was a jarring smear of color against her throat.

  “Well?” Lina prompted.

  Color crept up her mother’s long, slim neck. She brought a shaking hand to her forehead and pushed away a nonexistent lock of hair. “Your father…” She stopped, threw an uncertain look at Father Francis.

  Lina had a sudden, horrifying thought. “Is it him? Father Francis and the Virgin Mary of medicine?” She laughed sharply, almost hysterically, but it wasn’t funny. How was it that she’d never considered this possibility? Her middle name was Francesca. Oh, God, it was hysterical, really it was. Who better for her perfect mother than a man of the cloth? “How many Hail Marys would they give you for that one?”

  “No,” Francis said. “I wish I were your father, Lina, but I’m not.”

  Lina’s breath exploded in a sigh of relief. He wasn’t her father, hadn’t lived beside her for all these years a hidden liar, a father who wouldn’t admit it. He was still her friend, the uncle she’d never had, the only extended family she’d ever known. All at once she remembered a hundred moments in her past when he had been there for her, washing a scraped knee, playing Candy Land, taking her to the father-daughter luncheons. She moved woodenly toward him, her eyes fixed on his face. Embarrassingly, tears filled her eyes, but she couldn’t will them away. “But you know who he is, don’t you? You know.” Francis paled. He shot a confused look at her mother. “Mad—”

  “Don’t ask her.” Tears spilled down Lina’s face. She grabbed Francis’s hand and squeezed it. “Please…”

  “Francis won’t tell you,” Madelaine said in a tired voice.

  Lina saw the truth in Francis’s pale blue eyes. He might love Lina, but not enough to go against her mother’s wishes. Never enough to cross the great and perfect Madelaine.

  Lina felt a sudden, blinding rush of anger. How dare her mother keep this information from her? How dare she?

  She spun around, surged toward her mother. “Tell me.”

  Her mother reached out and placed her ice-cold hand against Lina’s cheek. “Let’s talk about this, baby. This isn’t the way to do it, not so—”

  Lina slapped her hand away. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want an answer.” Her voice broke, tears fell. “You always talk and I’m sick of it. I’m tired of being loud and different.” She stared up at her mother, blinded by tears, sick with confusion.

  “I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t know.” Mom’s voice slid into a whisper. “I should have told you years ago.”

  Lina grabbed her by the shoulders. Fear and panic were coursing through her, obliterating everything except the need to finally have an answer. “Tell me.”

  “Your father didn’t want…” Mom looked at Francis, gave a watery laugh. “Oh, God, Francis, how can this still hurt so badly?”

  Lina went cold all over. Sh
e could feel the answer, swirling around her. She wanted to cry, wanted it so badly, her mouth felt dry and her throat swelled. But suddenly the tears were gone. “He didn’t want me.”

  “No, that’s not it.” Madelaine moved forward, her gaze fixed on Lina’s face. “He … didn’t want me, baby. Me.” She gave a brittle laugh. “It was me he left.”

  Lina jerked back. “What did you do to him? What?” She looked at Francis, then at her mother again, feeling panic rising in her blood, making her sick and dizzy and angry. “You shoved him away, didn’t you? Made him sick with all your Goody Two-shoes perfection.” Her voice shattered and she started to cry harder. “You made him leave us.”

  “Lina, listen to me. Please, I love you so much, honey. Please, let’s—”

  “No!” Lina didn’t even realize she’d screamed. She backed up, her hands clamped over her ears. “I don’t want to listen anymore.” She turned and ran for the door, yanking it open. As she stepped through, into the bright sunlight of the day—her sixteenth birthday—she felt a strange calm descend. Her tears dried into a hard, cold knot in her stomach. Slowly she turned to her mother. “Am I like him?”

  For the first time, Lina would have sworn she saw the sheen of tears in her mother’s eyes. But of course, that was impossible. She’d never seen her mother cry. “Lina—”

  “Am I like my father?”

  Madelaine stared at her for a long moment, then turned slightly. Her gaze softened. “You’re exactly like him.”

  At first the look in her mother’s eyes confused Lina. Then realization washed through her in a chilling wave.

  Her mother was remembering him.

  Memories that ought to belong to the family, ought to be stored in Lina’s heart, in that place where there was nothing but a dark hole marked Daddy. Lina had tried so hard to fill that void in her life, to conjure images of a man who’d walked away a long, long time ago and never looked back. And all she had to do was ask a simple question, and her mother remembered a million things about him. How he looked, how he smiled, what his hand felt like when it held yours. Everything Lina ached to know and could never find out.