Stella Mia Page 5

“Si. But you want me to keep the cat boarded here with the other animals I have. I cannot afford to have the other animals come down with fleas. I cannot have people adopt them if they have fleas. Mi dispiace. I am very sorry. I wish I could help.” Dr. Lombardi shrugs his shoulders.

  He then looks us over from head to toe. He slightly shakes his head as he takes in our clothes and appearance. And in that moment, I realize he has seen through my lie about my mother’s being allergic to Tina. My cheeks flush hot as shame fills me. It is as if Enzo and I also have fleas. Dr. Lombardi must think we’re too poor to care for our cat or possibly he suspects it is one of our parents who has forced us to give the cat away.

  I hear Enzo utter an almost inaudible “thank you” as Dr. Lombardi hands Tina back to him. I don’t bother expressing my gratitude since he wasn’t able to help us. Clenching my hands into fists, I say to Enzo, “Let’s go.” We walk quickly out of the exam room. We pass by Bianca’s desk, and she doesn’t even look up to say good-bye. No doubt she must have been eavesdropping and heard everything.

  We step outside. The sun feels even more brutal. My spirits sink as I realize where we must go now. There is no other choice.

  I try telling myself that this is life. Sacrifices must be made. At sixteen, I had learned this lesson young in my family. My father’s wishes were the only ones that counted in my household, and while we lived under his roof, we did not and could not make the decisions—even where a beloved family pet was concerned, a pet who had lived with us for two years and who had known no other owners besides us. True, our father did not tell us we had to give her away, but neither Enzo nor I trusted him. If it weren’t this time, there would surely be another instance when he would hurt Tina and possibly even kill her. He’d almost drowned me that night at the beach. If he could do that to his own child, why would he spare the life of a cat that he saw as nothing more than an animal without a soul and not worth saving?

  Enzo continued to hold Tina as I got my bicycle. He was about to put Tina in the basket, but I stopped him.

  “We’re going to the piazza. We can walk from here. Just hold her unless you’re getting too tired.”

  “No, she’s light.”

  “Good.” I pat his head.

  “We can’t go back home with her, Sarina.”

  “I know, Enzo. That’s why we’re going to the piazza.”

  “We’re going to leave her there all alone?” Enzo looks at Tina. He’s stroking her head. This was a mistake. I should have insisted he not come. What had I been thinking?

  “She won’t be alone. Look at all these people. Someone will see her and how different she is from most other cats, and he or she will take Tina home. People often feed the stray cats and dogs. I’ve seen them do it when we’ve come here with Mama and Papá.”

  “You have?” Enzo asks a little too quickly.

  “She will be all right. I know it.” I reassure Enzo, but can’t help feeling as if I’m the one who needs to be reassured.

  We walk over to the piazza and sit down on one of the benches. It is around four in the afternoon now. The piazza is still quite empty except for a few vagrants. Most people are still taking their siestas or just awakening from them. I see a few of the shop owners returning to their businesses. We could leave Tina now under a bench, and no one would notice. But I’m not ready to leave her just yet. Enzo doesn’t question me as to what we’re waiting for. I know he is savoring what little time we have left with her.

  Tina is examining her surroundings, curiosity getting the better of her as she squirms to wrest herself free from Enzo’s grip. Finally, he lets her jump onto the bench. She sniffs the vines that are reaching toward us from the garden that’s situated behind the piazza’s benches. Her eyes then fix on a red-breasted robin that’s just flown over to the branch of a palm tree. Her pupils dilate as she continues staring at the bird. Now would be a good time for us to slowly walk away before she notices. I try to will my feet to move, but they remain cemented to the ground.

  Taking a deep breath, I look once more toward the shops across the piazza’s way. I see a plump woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of a butcher shop. She wears a white apron. Her face looks kind. She turns around and goes inside. I can make out her form behind the meat counter. I glance to the side of the butcher shop and see a door that must lead to their kitchen.

  “Let’s go!” I all but shout to Enzo as I quickly pick up Tina and scramble across the street, making my way to the butcher shop.

  We walk by the entrance door, which is open. Going to the side of the butcher shop, I pray that the door is unlocked. The metal latch is scorching hot from the sun’s rays, and I almost burn my hand. Ignoring the sensation, I pull down on the latch. It opens!

  Pulling the door slightly ajar lest anyone see me, I peek inside. Slabs of meat hang from the ceiling. I see the back of a rather portly man who is sharpening his cleavers. Crouching down, I drop Tina into the kitchen. She looks at me with a surprised expression, but then notices a piece of raw meat on the ground near her and picks it up with her mouth, chewing ravenously. The butcher is still sharpening his cleavers. I take one last look at Tina. Enzo is peeking over my shoulder. Our eyes meet. I nod my head, signaling that it’s time we leave. He returns my nod. Quietly, I close the door. Enzo and I hurry away, keeping our gazes down. I look over my shoulder once we’re close to the corner, and I see the woman who was sweeping in front of the meat shop earlier making her way over to the side entrance. She has to be the butcher’s wife. I wish she hadn’t come out just yet. I wanted to wait for a little while to see if the butcher would toss Tina back out once he noticed her. At least the butcher’s wife didn’t see us. I pray they keep her. At least we weren’t leaving her out in the piazza.

  We make our way back to where I left my bicycle. I wasn’t even afraid that it would be stolen. My thoughts were focused on getting Tina inside that butcher shop. I struggle to keep away the pain that is trying to inch itself into my heart by repeating to myself that it was something we had to do. No choice. We had no other choice whatsoever. But it’s no use. The pain fills every pore in my body, and the tears I’ve been fighting back are now swimming fiercely down my face. I can’t glance at Enzo. I can’t bear to see the hurt that must surely be on his face.

  When we reach the spot where I left my bicycle, I’m relieved to see it’s still there. The weight of all that we had to do is too much for me. I all but collapse on a nearby bench and place my face in my hands and sob uncontrollably.

  “Sarina, she’ll be fine. That man and lady in the butcher shop will feed her and take care of her. Did you see how she went for that piece of meat on the floor? She’s in cat heaven now.” Enzo puts his arm around my shoulders. Once again, I’m amazed at the maturity he has displayed today. Someday, he will make a fine man and husband. I pray my father’s evil nature never touches his pure heart.

  I hug Enzo. “You are so funny! But yes, you are right. Tina is in cat heaven, or should we say meat paradise?!” I pull away from Enzo, and his cheeks are also stained with tears now. But he manages to laugh. I hug him once more, placing a kiss on his forehead.

  “We’d better get going. Mama will be worried.”

  “Papá is going to be really mad.”

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  We get on the bicycle. Enzo’s grip around my waist feels tighter on the way back home. I pedal much slower than I did when we set out for Barcellona. My energy has been spent.

  When we finally get home, it is dinnertime. My pulse quickens at the thought of what will await us when we step inside. Holding hands, we walk through the threshold. The front door was left open. My parents and Carlotta are eating dinner. Pietro is in the bassinet near my mother, who’s rocking it with one hand while eating with her other. No one looks over at us. I know it is only moments before my father lashes out.

  I take Enzo to the bathroom and wash his face for him even though he is capable of doing it for himself. I then quickly splash water on my f
ace. Enzo waits for me, too fearful to go to the dinner table alone.

  We take our places at the table. Still, no one says a word. Our minestrone has gotten cold, but Enzo and I eat it hungrily, oblivious to its temperature.

  “Where is Tina? I can’t find her.” Carlotta tugs at my dress. Coldness washes over me. I had forgotten about Carlotta and what we would say to her about Tina.

  I struggle to think of a plausible excuse that will satisfy Carlotta’s curiosity, but then my father says, “She’s gone.”

  I look at him, horrified. Carlotta is too young to hear the truth. Then again, Enzo was also too young to be my accomplice in abandoning Tina.

  “Gone? At the beach?” Carlotta looks at me for an explanation.

  “Your sister and brother had to abandon her. She attacked me. We could not trust her anymore. She could have hurt you or the baby.” My father gestures with his head toward Pietro, who is still sleeping soundly. My mother’s face appears grim, and her eyes look sadder than usual.

  “Tina would never hurt Pietro or me. She loves us!” Carlotta says. Her voice is starting to crack. “Where did you take her, Sarina?”

  “She’s with an old man and woman. Don’t worry. They will take good care of her.” I try to stroke Carlotta’s head, but she pushes my arm away.

  “No! She’s my cat! How could you have done that? How could you? She was my baby.” Carlotta is now bawling.

  “We had to, Carlotta. She hurt Papá, and he’s right; we don’t know if she would have done that again, or to you or the baby or even Enzo. Please, Carlotta. Don’t be upset.”

  “No! Tina loved me. She would have never hurt me.” Carlotta then turns to my father. “She hated you! You were mean to her. That’s why she hurt you.” Carlotta is pointing her chubby, little index finger at Papá, whose face looks ashen. He places his hands on his belt and begins unfastening it.

  I rise out of my chair and pick up Carlotta, heading quickly to our bedroom before Papá can get to her. He is now following us.

  “Let me go, Sarina! I don’t want you anymore. You took Tina away from me.” Carlotta is kicking me and hitting me with her tiny fists.

  Entering our bedroom, I throw Carlotta onto the bed and quickly run out, slamming the door shut behind me. I then block the door with my body.

  “Move, Sarina. Carlotta must learn not to disrespect her father.”

  “She is only four years old, Papá. Beat me. Not her.”

  “She is learning from you.” My father strikes me across the face with his belt. My body slumps down, yet I still refuse to get out of his way. But it doesn’t matter. For now he has settled on taking his anger out on me instead of Carlotta.

  A couple of hours later, everyone has gone to bed. I have not gotten up from the floor. My father pushed me into the corner of our kitchen so that Enzo could go to sleep. I’m in too much pain to get up. I’m surprised Papá didn’t force me to stand and go to bed.

  I hear my mother come out of her bedroom and go into the bathroom. The sound of rushing water reaches my ears. I don’t even notice when she’s kneeling beside me. Mama unties the strings of my sundress and lowers it. She places a wet washcloth to the welts on my back that have sprung from the repeated lashings Papá gave me. I cringe every time she dabs them with the washcloth. She then applies a natural healing salve I made from a combination of chamomile, calendula, comfrey, plantain leaves, olive oil, lavender oil, honey, and beeswax. I keep it stored in a jar for whenever we need it, which tends to be often in this household. After Mama is done, she helps me sit up and gives me a glass of water.

  “I hate him, Mama. I hate him.” I’m crying as I say this.

  “Shhh. You have to stop standing up to him.”

  “And let him beat Carlotta? Never!”

  My mother helps me to my feet and walks me to the bed. She taps Enzo on the shoulder and whispers to him. He gets up, taking his pillow with him, and sleeps on the floor.

  “Enzo, you don’t need to do that.”

  “You need more room or your body will stiffen and you’ll be in even more pain tomorrow,” Mama whispers.

  I decide not to argue with my mother. I’m exhausted. She pushes Carlotta to the side of the bed, making even more room for me. Carlotta does not stir. My heart still aches at how upset she was about Tina.

  Mama pulls the sheet over me and kisses me on my cheek before walking out. I close my eyes but, although I’m so fatigued, I can’t fall asleep. Will Carlotta ever forgive me for abandoning Tina? Will I ever forgive myself? I had to do it. The alternative would have been worse. At least now, Tina is alive and has a chance with the butcher and his wife. But in my sister’s eyes, I was every bit as abominable as my father, since I was the one who committed the crime of abandoning our beloved cat. I was the one who took Tina away from Carlotta.

  Soon, I fall asleep and dream of Tina. She has found her way home to me. I hug Tina, asking her to kiss me with her nose as I had trained her to do. I am ecstatic that she’s back in my arms until I open my eyes and realize it was all just a dream and Tina is never coming back home again.

  5

  Vita da Sogno

  DREAM LIFE

  June 13, 1969

  It is the morning of my seventeenth birthday. As soon as I wake up, I kneel in front of my bed. Making the sign of the cross, I pray to God to give me strength, for today, I will be running away from home.

  The day after I abandoned Tina, I realized the time had come for me to finally leave home for good. Over the course of the weeks that followed, I began plotting the details of my escape. Every night, I sat at our kitchen table and carefully planned my vita da sogno—the dream life I had always fantasized about, but thought was not within reach.

  I cannot wait any longer. I will never have the courage to run away unless I act now. Tears fall down my face. I haven’t forgotten my promise to my mother that I would buy her another china set and take her and my siblings away from my father. But I am also not a fool. I know how difficult it will be, helping that many people to escape. I also know of the very real possibility that I will never see my mother alive again. And my siblings are so young that they will probably forget me even if we are reunited years from now when they’re adults. Insecurity takes hold of me, but then I look once more at the snail we still have in the jar, and in that moment all doubt vanishes.

  I chose to run away on my birthday, for I wanted my vita da sogno to start on a date that I would never forget. June 13 is also the feast day of St. Anthony of Padua—the patron saint of recovered items. People pray to him when they have lost a treasured possession, imploring the saint to help them find the missing object. St. Anthony is also the patron saint of travelers and for those who suddenly find their lives taking a new direction. I could not help but see the irony that I had chosen this particular saint’s day to make my escape and turn over a new leaf. But this is not the only reason I decided to run away from home on this day. My family and I will be going this evening to Barcellona, where festivities are held in honor of St. Anthony of Padua. The celebrations kick off tonight and last for a week. It will be easier for me to slip away during the feast with its large crowds and many distractions. The fact that it is the feast day of St. Anthony of Padua makes me feel all the more assured that the saint will be protecting me.

  Every week since I decided I would leave home, I have been stealing a few liras from my father’s secret box, which holds his savings. As my mother once told me, he has never even imparted to her where he keeps his money. But when I was a little girl, I used to love crawling under my parents’ bed whenever they weren’t looking. I discovered a loose floorboard that had not been pushed back completely into place. Beneath the loose floorboard, I found a large boot box and my father’s money. I had never before taken any of the liras in the box, for I was too afraid of my father’s finding out. Now it was a risk I was willing to take in order to make my dreams of escaping become a reality. I only took a few liras every week, but last night I took much m
ore. It was enough money for me to take a bus to the resort town of Taormina, where I planned on going door to door of the many hotels there and asking if they could use another maid. I placed a note in my father’s money box telling him I would repay him someday. Though he does not deserve any kindness on my part after the way he has mistreated my mother and me, my belief in God compels me to do what is right.

  I stayed up late at night, sewing by hand a large, voluminous skirt with plenty of ruffles to conceal the extra layers of clothes I’ll be wearing when I run away. It’s the only way to be able to take a few clothes with me without raising my father’s suspicions, since it would look strange for me to bring a bag larger than a pocketbook to the feast. I also sewed a few pockets in the lining of my underwear to hide my money. Except for my clothes and money, the only other possessions I am taking are my ruby red rosary, which my mother gave to me for my first Holy Communion, a small Bible, my diary, and a photograph of my family that was taken a few years back. Fortunately, my father was the one to take the photograph, so he’s missing from the portrait. My Bible is small enough to fit in my pocketbook, but I will have to place my diary in the waistband of the slip I’ll be wearing. I sewed additional elastic around my slip’s waistband to give it added reinforcement so that I won’t lose my diary.

  I woke up much earlier today so that I could complete all of my chores about an hour before we leave for the feast. But it’s as if my father suspects I have ulterior motives. Just when I think I’m done, he throws more work my way. I forgot that I not only need to iron his suit, but also my siblings’ dress clothes. Working at a frantic pace, I try to hurry so that I have enough time to get ready. The heat of the iron coupled with my anxiety makes me sweat profusely. Finally, with just twenty minutes to spare, I’m done ironing. I grab the bundle with my extra clothes and the few possessions I’m taking with me and am about to walk out of the room I share with the children when Carlotta calls me.