“God be with you,” he says, moving to the next row, the thump, thump, thump echoing off the vaulted ceilings. On the verge of tears, I rush down the front steps to where I parked my Ford Explorer, the twilight dimmed further by a cool mist that kisses my cheeks like it knows they’ll soon be wet with my tears.
It’s grief I feel—not the paralyzing heartbreak that comes with the death of a loved one but a uniquely tragic sorrow, the loss of something still alive and yet wholly unavailable.
Total Intimacy.
That phrase runs through my mind again as I rush into my car and slam the door, breaking down as soon as I’m alone and the mist has stopped its gentle caresses. Sure, I’ll never have total intimacy with Hunter, but it’s possible that’s why I said yes to him three months ago. Because intimacy equals vulnerability, and vulnerability leaves me wide open for loss. That’s where I messed up with Father Patrick—I believed it was safe to let him in, to be vulnerable, intimate. But I was wrong. And as a result, I risked my heart, and I’m sure he feels he’s risked his soul.
I put the car into drive and pull away from the church on the hill, watching as it fades in the rearview mirror, the sound of tires over damp asphalt muting my troubled breathing. As much as it hurts to give up our friendship, he’s right. We must walk away now—before we get in too deep and lose more than we ever bargained for.
CHAPTER 26
Vivian
Saturday, June 12, 1943
Santini Home
“Wear the red,” Aria says, admiring the contraband lip color lined up on our shared dresser. Tom is due any moment.
“You should try it, Ari,” I say, uncapping the tube and holding her delicate chin in place.
“No, no. Papà will be mad.” She wiggles away from my attempted makeover, the fear in her eyes familiar and frustrating.
“We’ll take it off right away. He’ll never know.”
“He’ll know,” she says, sitting on the bed, her legs crossed like a pretzel and wearing mamma’s old brown gardening trousers.
“He won’t,” I say as I pin back a rogue curl that keeps falling onto my forehead.
“You don’t know that, and I’m stuck here with him, so . . .” She shrugs and disappears inside papà’s tattered old flannel. “I don’t want to rock the boat.”
“I’ll be home at ten at the latest; I swear. Tom has to be back on base by then anyway. It’s not forever.”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?” I spin around and look at my baby sister sitting on our neatly made double bed, the faded brass frame mamma and papà brought from Italy when they immigrated. It’s the bed we were both born in.
We used to sleep on a hard mattress papà found in an old, abandoned house on Vista Drive, but around my ninth birthday, mamma got it in her mind her girls should have a pretty bed with a white cast-iron frame and a soft-as-clouds feather mattress. So papà saved and saved till he could afford a mail-order one from the Sears catalog.
“Yeah, not yet but soon. I mean, you’re gonna leave one day.”
She picks at the scratch on the bar across the foot of the bed, part of the bronze finish dulled from the rub of bedding and my mother’s restless feet in the night. I plop down next to Aria and pull her to my side.
“I’m only going out for a few hours. I promise. Nothing will change.” I pet her hair and kiss the crown of her head, glad I’m not wearing any lip color yet.
“Things always change,” she says into my shoulder like she’s breaking bad news.
“Of course, but it’s not always bad.” I hold her out in front of me, her dark lashes framing eyes that look just like mamma’s. “Think about the seasons. Your garden brings many harvests for our family. Sweet strawberries in the spring. Watermelon, tomatoes, and beans in the summer. Pumpkins, corn, and sunflowers in the fall.”
“It’s not the same,” she says, touching her upside-down reflection in the bed frame.
Bronze, not white like the cute little frame papà ordered. When it was finally delivered, it was exactly what mamma wanted, ornate white iron posts and a soft-as-feathers mattress. But it was half the size she’d expected. To save money, papà had ordered the twin instead of the double, and he didn’t seem to understand her gasp of surprise.
“Our little birds have a little nest,” papà said as Aria and I squeezed our small bodies into the twin-sized bed. Mamma bounced Tony as he nursed. She smiled and said nothing about her secret disappointment, but I picked up on it. I’d seen that look on my mamma’s face before, but my father never seemed to notice.
Aria and I only spent a week in the pretty white bed before mamma was put away. Papà traded beds with us, saying his was too big without mamma there.
“There’re some changes we can’t stop, Ari. You’ll blossom soon enough, whether you like it or not.” I push her hair back, wild and unbrushed from her afternoon outdoors. I see the walls of the prison our parents have created for Aria more clearly than I see the walls of my own, I’m sure, but I wish she’d pound on those barriers, test them occasionally.
“You be a flower, and I’ll be a carrot. How about that?” Ari asks, giggling.
“With this hair, you sometimes look like the top of a carrot. Heavens!” I grab my horsehair brush and pull it through her tangled strands, finding two sticks, a blade of grass, and one unidentified bug that makes us both squeal.
By the time the doorbell buzzes, Aria is smiling again. She puts her hand on my cheek.
“Back at ten?” she asks like I’m her mother leaving for a glamorous night out.
“Back at ten.” I kiss her cheek before putting on a quick coat of red lipstick, knowing papà won’t say anything to cause a scene in front of Tom. I blot the color with a tissue, pin on my hat, then buckle the shoes Tom gave me, check my teeth for any stray smudges of lip color, and then pose for my sister.
“He’s gonna fall in love with you,” she says loud enough that Tom could possibly have heard.
“Aria!” I gasp, and toss a tissue across the room.
“What? Who doesn’t fall in love with you?” She laughs and rolls off the side of the bed onto her feet. “Now, get out there before papà takes out his pistol.”
“Oh, heavens. Don’t even joke.”
I blow Aria another kiss and rush out to the front room where papà stands, leaning on his cane, and Tom sits on the floral love seat. I know papà must be in immense pain standing upright, but I also know he’s showing his strong presence to the young soldier, letting him know that Anthony Santini is not to be messed with.
“I’ve been with the Eighty-Third Infantry since August last year.” Tom points to the black inverted triangle on his shoulder and then to the other patch with stripes and an embroidered T, signifying “technician fifth grade.”
“è a Camp Atterbury da agosto, papà,” I translate, surprising both men with my interruption. “Tecnico di quinto livello.”
My father has no way of knowing what any of this means.
“What does this even mean? Technician? I don’t care,” he says in Italian, and makes a face like he’s tasted something sour, which Tom misses as he rises and greets me with a small wave. He holds a bouquet of flowers and smells of a rich aftershave. After a quick search of his eyes and the color of his cheeks, I’m relieved to see he’s sober.