Blessed Are Those Who Mourn (17 page)

 

Chapter 33

W
HEN WE LEAVE
the rectory, the black car is gone.

On the walk to Donovan's car, I call the hospital. Aunt Lucia answers the phone. My mother is the same. They haven't decided whether to take her out of the induced coma. If only I had warned
her
about the beach and my dream.

Instead of starting his car, Donovan clears his throat, staring at the stretch of road before us. “Any reason you didn't tell me about the whale and the dream?” His voice is low.

“I didn't think it was important,” I say.

“You are claiming to have prophetic dreams and you don't think that's important enough to share with me?” At his words, my cheeks feel hot and my pulse races. “I thought we were years past this shit, Gabriella. I thought we had learned how to talk to one another and share our lives. I thought that years of therapy might have helped you overcome this tendency to keep shit that involves me to yourself.”

“What does it matter? It was just a dream.” I'm starting to get angry. Why is he acting like this?

“It's not the goddamn dream that I'm talking about. It's you thinking you had a dream predicting the kidnapping of our daughter. In all honestly, it makes me wonder whether I need to take you in for a psych eval.”

For a few seconds I'm speechless, wide-­eyed, and my mouth hangs open. He's never spoken to me this way before. My hand clutches the door handle. I turn and face him. I wait until his eyes meet mine.

My fury and grief combine, and I lash out at the person I love, the man beside me.

“You're the one who told me I didn't have to take the day off work to be with Grace and my mom. You're the one who said she'd be fine. Maybe all of this is your fault. I wish I'd never met you.” Without waiting for his reaction, I'm out of the car and running toward Lake Merritt, blinded by my tears. I hear the screech of rubber on pavement as he leaves.

I swipe at my tears, which are brief and replaced by white-­hot blinding fury as I head away from the church toward downtown Oakland. I don't make eye contact with the ­people I pass as I race-­walk down the paved lakeshore path: a man break-­dancing on the grass with his ghetto blaster blaring. A mother in spandex pushing a jogging stroller. An elderly man breaking bits of bread off for the dozens of geese flocking to him.

Instead, I chant an angry monologue in my head.

Fuck you, Donovan. It's your fault
Grace was taken. I wanted to take off work and stay with her, but I was worried you'd think I was overreacting. It's your fault that I'd almost rather kill myself now than feel this pain another day. You promised me that what happened to Caterina wouldn't happen to Grace. You were wrong.

Even as I say this, I know how ridiculous it is. And I don't care. Nobody warned me what it was like to be a mother—­the emotional roller coaster that begins the minute you find out you are pregnant. The emotional whiplash that plummets you into anxiety and worry when you have spotting during your pregnancy or when your baby has croup and a high fever and is struggling to breathe in the middle of the night and you are certain she is dying. And then the soaring emotional highs the first time your child belly laughs or the first time she says she loves you. Nobody warns you about these highs and lows. And if anyone had told me that motherhood leads to this—­your heart ripped to shreds while you are willing to beg the devil to take your soul in exchange for the safety of your child—­if I had been magically given a glimpse of my life right now by the Ghost of the Future, I would've said, “Fuck that.”

B
Y THE TIME
I make it around the lake to the boat launch, where the gondolas are lined up, bobbing in the waves, all my anger is gone. Instead I feel like collapsing in a heap on the grass and never getting up. But then a surge of anxiety blazes through me. I left my phone in Donovan's car. Someone could be calling to tell me they found Grace, and here I am storming along the shores of Lake Merritt, stewing in my own foul and bitter emotions.

I look around me both ways. I don't know what to do. Do I race back to the church and ask Father Liam to call Donovan, or do I go into the boathouse and see if I can use their phone and then pray Donovan's not too angry to pick up?

I'm suddenly pissed at The Saint. He had his goon follow us to the church and then bail? What kind of protection is that? If he had followed us, he'd have been here right now and I wouldn't be stranded at Lake Merritt because of my temper tantrum.

I stand frozen in indecision and get the creepy-­crawly feeling that I'm being watched. I jerk my head around and then see him in the parking lot of the boat launch. Donovan.

He's parked facing my way, and he's leaning over the steering wheel with both arms folded on it. He holds up one hand. It holds my phone. I wilt in relief. I can't read the look on his face from here, but I run to the car, to the driver's side door. His window is down and I crouch beside it.

Before I can say a word, he reaches through it and grabs my hand. “I'm sorry,” he says.

“Me, too,” I say and lean in to hug him, feeling his breath on mine.

“It's just the—­”

“—­stress,” I finish for him. “I know.”

“It's too much,” he says in a ragged voice, breathing into my hair. And then I realize he is weeping. I hold him as he cries, while I stand awkwardly stooped half in and half out of the car window, clutching him around his shoulders like he is a lifeline that I don't ever want to let go.

 

Chapter 34

Saturday

G
RACE HAS BEEN
gone four days.

I wake, blurry-­eyed, and empty two pills into my palm, swallowing them down with some water. I close my eyes so I'll go back to sleep.

Last night, for the first time since she was taken, I slept in bed. By myself. I don't know if Donovan stayed up manning the phones or smoking or what.

Around midnight, I finally gave in and took the little sleeping pills that my brother slipped me at my grandmother's. All I wanted was oblivion. Scrunching my eyes closed, I hope the pills kick in as quickly this morning as they did last night.

A
ROUND NOON,
D
ONOVAN
comes and gently wakes me. I feel groggy and resentful that he woke me. I want to go back into the land of darkness where I don't feel or think or even dream. I roll over onto my stomach and close my eyes.

“Let's go visit your mother,” Donovan says, rubbing my back. “Officer Craig is here to watch the phones for a few hours.”

He leaves. It takes enormous effort to finally convince myself to get out of bed. I sluggishly pull on the same wrinkled dress I wore the day before and slip on some ballet flats. I brush my teeth but not my hair.

Driving to the hospital, I'm numb, but Donovan is scowling and shaking his head, mumbling under his breath. He catches me watching and gives a wry half smile. “Sorry, I'm just so pissed at myself for taking everything out on you yesterday.”

I reach over and weave my fingers through his hand on the steering wheel.

“I've got an idea,” I say. “Let's make it a rule that anything we say right now doesn't count. Whatever we say, we automatically forget and forgive, okay?”

He nods and smirks. “Thanks for that. But that is a Get Out of Jail Free card I probably shouldn't have. If I allow myself to say anything in the heat of my anger and worry about Grace, then I'll never forgive myself, even if you do. Grace needs to come back to us being as close to the parents she left as we can be.”

I nod, but inside I'm thinking,
That's impossible
.

I'll never, ever, be the same after this.

I
N THE HOSPITAL,
Donovan comes and goes, but I sit for three hours holding my mother's hand and reading her the newspaper cover to cover.
The New York Times
. I haven't touched a local paper since Grace was taken.

Donovan periodically checks in on us. He's often on the phone in the hall. He periodically gives me updates. There are no leads. There is nothing new.

Three o'clock comes and goes. Three. Zero. Zero.

For the first few hours I feel like barfing, as if I have a hangover.

Toward dinnertime, my stomach settles, and I force myself to eat a sandwich Donovan brings up from the hospital cafeteria. It tastes like cardboard, but I manage to swallow it and keep it down.

At dusk, Donovan drives us home. I take two more pills and fall back into bed without taking off my dress.

 

Chapter 35

Sunday

T
ODAY IS
E
ASTER.

Tomorrow marks the sixth day of Grace being gone. On the sixth day of my sister's disappearance, some off-­road bikers found Caterina's body. But Grace is not Caterina. I remind myself, even though I woke from nightmares all night long with the two faces interchanged.

The sun is brilliant coming over the Oakland Hills. All traces of normal early-­morning San Francisco fog have disappeared. It is as if the whole world is rejoicing.

It doesn't seem like the nightmare I'm living could exist in a world this beautiful.

But it does.

I try not to think too much about the Easter basket, stuffed animals, and candy I have hidden on a high shelf in my bedroom closet. This year the Easter bunny will come a few days late for Grace, I tell myself.

Standing in front of my vanity mirror, I apply black eyeliner with a steady hand, making the line curve into a slight cat's eye at the corners. Now my hand is shaking, so it takes me a few tries. The eye makeup is my insurance. Its main job is to keep me from crying at Easter mass this morning.

I can't bear to walk past Grace's room, where her little pink dress hangs in her closet, along with the matching sunbonnet and white Mary Janes that we picked out last month for her Easter outfit.

She wanted her outfit to match mine. She can wear it when she comes home. I'll put my pink dress on and we'll walk to mass, no matter what day of the week it is, and have our own Easter celebration.

In the bathroom, I take the mascara wand and, with trembling hands, apply strokes of black to my eyelashes. When I'm done, I stare in the mirror at my hollow eyes. I am a dead woman walking this earth. I yank and pull and tug at the brush, jerking it through my hair until the dark tresses gleam and stray hairs coat the bathroom sink.

My petal-­pink linen shift is crisp and cool, and I try not to wrinkle it as I sit on the bed and slip on some nude slingback sandals. At the last second, I grab a shimmery, floaty, pink-­and-­ivory scarf for my bare shoulders.

Donovan waits for me in the living room, pacing in his dark suit. He does not meet my eyes as I take his offered hand and we close the door to our deathly quiet condo behind us.

It is only when I take the first step into St. Joan of Arc Church that I collapse.

The scent of incense, the sight of Jesus hanging on the cross, and the ethereal voices of the choir overcome me. I slump to my knees, stopping the river of worshippers trying to get in the double doors behind me.

Instead of yanking me up by the arm as he would a child, Donovan kneels beside me and takes me in his arms, gently wiping the tears that streak down my face.

Later, in the church bathroom, I stare at the dark rivulets trailing down my cheeks and debate whether to walk around for the rest of my life marked by this black kohl trail of grief.

F
ROM THE FRONT
of my grandmother's stone cottage, I can hear the squeals and giggles of all my nieces and nephews racing around the backyard looking for bright-­colored Easter eggs. It stops me in my tracks.

Donovan has my elbow. “Do you think we should . . .” He looks back toward his car parked in the empty lot among a dozen other vehicles. I close my eyes for a second. I could leave. We could flee back to the city, and nobody would be any wiser. In fact, they would all understand. But the thought of sitting in that empty apartment waiting for a call is more than I can bear.

And when I woke this morning feeling hungover from the sleeping pills again, I vowed not to take anymore.

Right now, an officer sits at our house, manning the phones. Sergeant Jackson promised that the officer has orders to call us immediately if there is any news.

I open my eyes and rest my head on Donovan's chest for a second.

“I need my family.”

Inside the darker living room, I blink to adjust my vision and see my brothers sitting around the TV, watching golf.

Marco and Dante unfold themselves from the couch and come over to greet us with kisses on our cheeks. They seem happier than they should be on a holiday when my daughter should be beside me and is instead missing and maybe dead. I pull back with irritation and head toward Donovan, who is shaking hands with my uncles, insisting they don't rise. They exchange words in low voices before we head to the kitchen.

Marco takes my elbow and leads me into one of the bedrooms.

“The Saint and his men are out following leads today. I saw Santangelo at the cathedral this morning. He said he will be in touch if anything comes up. Now, go see Nana, she has something to tell you.” He says this with a smile I don't understand. How can he smile on the worst Easter of my life?

It's only when I see my grandmother and cousins and sisters-­in-­law busy cooking and stirring in the kitchen that I realize I'm empty-­handed. They all give me a smile I don't understand. Like my brothers, they are brimming with some sort of happiness, when all I feel is deep, dark despair. I try to smile back but want to scream instead.

“Nana, I forgot to bring something.”

“Shhhh,
mia cara,
come here,” she says and presses me close to her soft body. She pulls back and hands me a basket of rolls, loads Donovan up with three bottles of wine, and nudges us toward the patio with a wink. “Go. There is somebody here to see you.”

For a split second I think they have found Grace and brought her here to surprise me. That would explain all this secretive happiness and smiles. But as soon as I walk out the French doors, I see who it is and nearly drop the basket of rolls.

My mother.

Without taking my eyes off her, I drop the basket on a table and rush to her. She looks so small sitting in a cushioned chair.

Before I know it, I'm kneeling at her feet, my head buried in her lap, and she runs her fingers through my hair. Finally, I look up.

“I don't understand . . . the last time I saw you . . .”

“I woke last night. They did an MRI. The bleeding is gone. Like a miracle. In time for Easter. The doctor came in especially this morning on his day off to release me so I could be here today. To surprise you.”

“Are you sure it's okay you are home? It seems so sudden.” I squeeze her hand tightly.

“At first the doctor didn't want to release me, but Marco somehow talked him into it as long as we hired a nurse to sit with me for the next few days.” She looks over her shoulder, and there are Marco and Dante and my nana and sisters-­in-­law, all grinning. In the corner I see a young woman I don't know sitting on a chair nearby. She smiles. “They said the brain bleed wasn't as bad as they thought,” my mother says. “It was only a grade one. Besides, I promised if anything seemed off I would call nine-­one-­one.”

“Are you sure it's safe? I mean, I'm so happy you're here, but . . .”
Yesterday I thought you might die
.

When I look back at my mother, a shadow seems to flit across her face.

She releases my hand, and for the first time, I take her in. She looks as polished as ever, embodying
la bella figura
like Jackie O. Her black hair is swept back in a sleek ponytail, and her white slacks and navy blue blazer make her look like she's about to go out on a yacht.

But the look in her eyes says it all. I stare into her black eyes, so like Caterina's and Grace's. Eyes whose black depths well with pools of emotion, guilt, and sorrow. It does me in. Burying my face in her shoulder, I can barely hold back the tears. I will not cry. I need to be strong for Grace. I need to be strong for my mother. The last thing she needs is me blubbering snot and tears all over her shoulder. Finally, she pulls away a few inches. That's when I notice the three small black stitches still there on her forehead, marring her beautiful face.

“That bastard.” I gingerly reach up, my hand hovering over the wound. “I will kill him for hurting you and taking Grace.” My words are barely audible, said under my breath. I am a killer, and I won't fight it any longer.

“I will kill him first,” my mother says, just as quietly.

A
ROUND 3:00 P.M.
my grandmother gathers up the troops. Time to bring out the food.

I glance at the clock, with the little hand on the three and the big hand on the twelve. I will never, ever look at three o'clock the same way again. Grace has been gone exactly five days. My aunts and cousins and sisters-­in-­law stream in waves out of the kitchen, bearing huge platters of food: slices of ham, giant bowls of mashed potatoes, trays of fruits and vegetables. Plates of deviled eggs and green salads. An entire small table quickly fills with Easter pastries. More bottles of wine and Pellegrino are brought out.

Like he has the past few years, my oldest brother, Marco, says grace. Dante whistles shrilly to get everyone's attention. The children drop their kickballs and jump ropes and race to the cobblestone patio. We gather under the vines draped upon the grape arbor and hold hands in a giant circle. I stand between Donovan and my mother.

Marco makes the sign of the cross. “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. Amen.”

Everyone murmurs in unison.

“Thank you, dear God, for all the blessings in our lives. We thank you for bringing Nana Maria home safe.” I squeeze my mother's hand as he says this. “We thank you for our health and our family and our friends and neighbors and coworkers. We thank you for all the blessings you have bestowed on us. Today we open our hearts to you, Lord, and plead with you, we call on you and the Virgin Mary and all angels and saints to hear our prayer. We pray Lord that you bring Grace home to us.”

His voice cracks on Grace's name, and Donovan squeezes my hand tightly on one side, while my mother's nails dig into my palm on the other. “We ask that you send your angels down to watch her and protect her and give her strength until we find her. Keep her safe and comfort her as she . . .”

I can't take any more. I fling my mother and Donovan's hands aside and rush into the house. I collapse on the floor in a bedroom and gulp for air, but nothing is there. My throat has closed and I can't breathe. My eyes feel like they are about to pop out of my head. There is a buzzing sound in my ears that drowns out everything else. It is only when I feel a hand on my back that I realize Donovan and my mother are there. I see their mouths move, but I can't make out what they are saying.

My mom starts crying, and it does me in. The last time I saw her cry like this, this weeping and wailing, was when she was lying on Caterina's grave. She is not a woman who cries. When we found my father dead in the basement, she didn't cry. She curled up with his dead body overnight, but her eyes were dry.

At Caterina's funeral mass inside the church, she wore dark sunglasses, but I don't think she cried. She only cried that one time when she thought she was alone at the grave, but I was there crouched behind an angel headstone, spying on her. Horrified at what I was witnessing. I was supposed to have been taking a walk around the cemetery with my brothers, but I had slipped away and run back to my sister's grave.

Donovan has slipped out, missing this astonishing display of grief.

My mother is down on her hands and knees beside me on the carpeted floor, wailing, pulling her hair out of its bun. My grandmother is beside her, shrieking in Italian, mumbling about the
malocchio
and the Virgin Mary and the saints and angels and the devil.

I stand there, petrified, watching them.

It's like those Italian funerals I've seen in films where the women dressed in black weep and gnash their teeth as the casket is lowered into the ground. Except this is the spare bedroom in my grandmother's suburban California home, the bedroom we called the “Shell Room” as kids. We fought to sleep here in this room instead of in the red room down the hall. The red room sort of scared us. It had a red-­and-­black embroidered bedspread and red lampshades on the nightstand lamps.

Instead, we kids argued over who would sleep in the Shell Room during our sleepovers. We liked all the shell decorations. The base of the lamp made of seashells. The little creatures sitting on the dresser made of seashells glued together. I remember playing with them as a little girl—­very, very carefully, so they wouldn't break. The pictures of the beach above the bed and the palest pink bedspread covered in a seashell pattern.

In this 1960s-­decorated bedroom in suburban America, my grandmother and mother wail like peasants in the old country, cursing the evil spirits that took Grace.

It is like the entire world has stopped as I sit, stunned, watching my mother and grandmother. A small stab of fear courses through me, seeing my mother tugging at her black hair near the stitches. What if she starts bleeding on the brain again? But I push that thought aside.

I want to join them, I want to weep and wail and tear at my clothes and yank at my hair, but I'm immobile with fear. I sit back against a dresser, my chest heaving, watching in amazement. My eyes are dry. I cannot cry. If a knife was to my throat, I don't think I could squeeze out a drop. Instead, a holy terror fills every cavity in my body. A fear that makes my entire body tingle.

While my mother and grandmother continue their litany of praying and cursing, I close my eyes, leaning back against the dresser, and pray one thing over and over.
Let Grace be alive. Let Grace be alive.

L
ATER, WHEN WE
emerge from the bedroom, nobody even glances our way, although I'm sure the keening could be heard the next valley over. Instead, when we come out, my sister-­in-­law hands me a dishtowel and tells me to start drying dishes.

Everyone is trying as hard as they can to act normal. For our sake or for the children's? I don't know, but I'm okay with it. If anyone else around me broke down, I'd be done for.

After the dishes are dried, my nana takes my hand, clucks in my ear, and takes me aside to a corner in the den.