Forgotten (10 page)

What the shit was going on?

Fear now
knotted my gut.
I grabbed Lia and spun
her to face me, repeated my question about Alice. This time, Lia
appeared startled, fearful herself. “Go and see Nonno,” was her
shaky, but abrupt reply. “I need to talk to your Papa.”

What?

All of a
sudden, my well-sized cup of trained, faithful acceptance had
reached its brim a
nd frothed up anger
took over. “No,” I hissed. “I want someone to tell me what is going
on in this family. And I trust
you,
Lia,
to be that person.”

Lia cringed
until deep lines arched the corners of her tightened mouth. She
cupped my face with her small hands and said in a soft, gentle
voice, “Claudia, there is nothing going on. We are all just
concerned for you. And if people are asking it’s because they’re
surprised that Alice Polinski knew you.”

I wanted to believe her but my churning gut
was warning me differently.

“
Just go
talk to Nonno. He’s been asking about you.”

“Please, Lia….”

But Lia remained adamant.

I should’ve
retaliated; I knew that. With my Papa, Milo and my own cautioning
feelings, I hungered for answers. But twenty-eight years of family
conditioning had taught me otherwise; that any such act, would
prove completely unproductive. I let Lia go with great reluctance.
Her rapid bodily swing from me was unpleasantly
conclusive.

Irritation
prickled my skin, irritation with myself for not being more
assertive. I went in search of wine. I secured two glasses of what
I knew to be my grandfather’s favorite fruity Italian elixir. I
soon relocated myself alongside him.

Nonno
was smartly dressed in a crisp, aqua shirt and
cotton shorts. Wisps of white hair were combed back off his
forehead. His long face had more lines than a road map and far more
character.

He once told me, many years ago, that every
line on his face was a story and that every story was a solid brick
in the beautiful construction of his life. I had believed him.

What made my
heart now crumble was that Nonno had Alzheimer’s. I cherished those
fragile times when he could remember even the simplest things. It
took several topics before he displayed one of those lucid moments.
I brought the wine glass to his thinned lips. He took a few sips
before reclining back into his wheelchair.

“
Ah,
Claudia.” His soulful eyes twinkled with heartfelt recognition. He
placed his withered hand over mine. “
Mi spiace
, [I’m sorry].
You’re in some trouble.”

Trouble
indeed
.
“
Sto benissimo,
Nonna
. [I’m okay].”

“
No,
Claudia, I don’t think you are.” His bony fingers squeezed my hand
with some force. “You do not understand. That woman, you must stay
away from her. You must not talk to her.”

My smile
collapsed. “Nonno? Who are you talking about?”

He blinked
wildly. I repeated the question. But Nonno had regressed again,
began babbling about Bebo, his fifteen-year old dog from years
ago.

I remained
kneeling beside Nonno, as I tried to lure him back with soft,
soothing words, with gentle strokes of his cheek. And to my
surprise, he did return. His smile was brief as he whispered my
name. I helped Nonno to another small sip of wine. I then
questioned him about the woman he had mentioned earlier, praying
that he hadn’t forgotten her. He hadn’t.

Additional
lines crinkled his forehead. “The one who came to your home,
uninvited.”

What?

My hands
became quite damp and shaky, and I fast put down his glass.
“What
are you saying? Are you talking
about?” I stopped, too frightened to ask if he had meant Alice
Polinski.

But I had to know.

In a
scratchy, uneven voice, I blurted out her name. For a second, the
words dangled in the balmy night air like a noxious fume, spreading
slowly. When they finally reached Nonno’s ears, his expression
became barely recognizable. His fiery eyes shriveled, his wrinkly
upper lip curled into a vicious snarl. “I spit on this woman,” he
hissed.

My hand ripped to my mouth.

“
We
don’t
want her here.”

We?

Something squeezed the last of the oxygen
from my lungs. I gasped and shot to my feet, then took strength
from a nearby wall.

Who
could
we
possibly be?

My
Nonno and who else?

I caught my
parents engrossed in a heavy conversation with
Lia. Did the
we
include any of them? I studied
Marcus and Nate occupied in a light-hearted tussle on the lawn as
they so often did. Could they? Or for that matter, could Milo? Was
that what he was trying to tell me in his maze-like
manner?

Surely
not. Surely, the idea that
there existed people in my own family who knew Alice, was simply
too ridiculous to take seriously. Surely, this was nothing more
than just the ramblings of an old, sick man.

Regardless,
it was becoming more and more difficult to shake off the thought.
But nothing compared to the next solitary word from my
Nonno.

“
Cordy-bear….”

And my
world, as I knew it,
abruptly stood
still.

Christmas Day

1987

“
OUCH, ALICE, THAT
hurts,” the little girl squealed, holding a fistful of her
hair.

She was sitting on a velvety
-cushioned stool facing a large, oval mirror. It had an
off-white, timber frame and sat slightly sloped above its similarly
colored dresser. A pair of pink lamps sat on opposite ends of the
dresser, along with two plush ‘Care Bears’ and a merry-go-round
music box.

Alice stood directly behind her. In her hand, was a long
handled hairbrush. “Sit still, little one,” Alice said. Her voice
was soft and gentle. “Your hair is thick and long; it takes several
good brushes to rid the knots.”

“
I like the knots better,” the girl
grumbled. She dropped her face and pouted her small, bottom
lip.

Alice laughed. “No one likes knots. Besides,
it’s Christmas Day and you will want to look your best for your
Papa. He’s going to be there with all his friends.”

The girl’s face immediately brightened and
she giggled loudly. “Yes and he will bring presents.”

Alice began re-grooming her hair. When the
brush hit another tangled bump, the little girl squeezed her eyes
tight until the moment passed.

“
Christmas isn’t just about presents, you
know
,” Alice said.

“
I know. It’s about giving and being with the people you
love.” The girl said this in a very matter-of-fact
manner.

Alice began to braid the now knot-free
locks.

“
Alice, does my Papa love me?”

Alice’s hands froze mid-braid. Her own eyes
captured the wide, questioning ones reflected in the mirror. A
fretful grimace had now replaced the girl’s previous delight.

“
Of course, he does,” Alice answered,
feeling a little fretful herself. “He loves you more than life.
Don’t ever believe any differently.” She went back to the
braiding.

“
He looks so sad all the time,” the girl
said. “Do I make him sad?”

“
What makes you say such a thing? You make him happy, very
happy.” Alice completed her plaiting, and then tossed the long
tress over the girl’s shoulder. “Now, enough of this gloomy
chatter.” She lifted her from the stool. “Let’s have a good look at
you, instead.”

The girl stood straight with her rounded chin pointed
upwards. Alice dropped to one knee and checked the buckles on the
girl’s white, patent shoes. She next grabbed the hem of her blue
gingham dress and pulled it gently, straightening out any crinkles.
Alice leaned back and gave her one last look. “You are simply
lovely,” she whispered.

The girl beamed.

Alice stood and took hold of her hand. “Come on,” she said
in more upbeat tones. “Let’s go and make your Papa really
happy.”

December 26, 2010

6:35 am

BOXING DAY
MORNING
at Reardon’s home was like any
other.

Except for
the billowing smoke. Its black tail oozed out of the kitchen,
launching several frenzied alarms and Shirley Svenson into direct
battle. Using the largest tea towel she could find, she madly
fanned the fixtures, an almost impossible task for someone of such
short stature, while throwing hostile glares at Ethan Sloane. Soon,
the bitter air faded into nothing more than a whitish, wispy haze.
The alarms then stilled.

Ethan, on the other hand, was salvaging the
remains of his French toast; the blackened vestiges revealing that
his optimism would be short lived.

Reardon
leaned against the entrance, watching the entire spectacle. In his
hand, was a folded newspaper. “Is there a fire?” he calmly
questioned.

“
No, sir,”
Shirley declared. “I think we can assume all is safe, now.” She
pointed another deathly scowl at Ethan that Reardon knew only too
well.

Ethan
crossed his arms in mid-air. “Be careful, Danny. Remember, these
hands are lethal.” He instantly mimicked an over-dramatic karate
movement.

Reardon lowered his head and cringed.

“
Mr.
Reardon,” Shirley bellowed in a strong, severe pitch. “I cannot
possibly do my job here caretaking this household in… in….” She
stopped, hurled her thin, snarly lips at Ethan. “In his
presence.”

Reardon
strode in, tossed his newspaper onto the white breakfast bar, and
then faced Shirley. She stood like a dutiful soldier waiting for
Reardon’s reply. Her short, stubby fingers were laced together over
her rounded torso, her peppered hair slicked back as sternly as her
disposition, her chin stubbornly pointing up. Not that Reardon
agreed or encouraged it, but this overplayed comportment of
Shirley’s often reminded Ethan of Mrs. Danvers from the
movie
Rebecca.

“
He is
ill-mannered, incorrigible and….”

“
Devilishly
good-looking,” Ethan concluded.

Reardon chucked Ethan a warning look. Ethan
mimicked zipping his lips.

“
You must
speak to him about his continual, inappropriate behavior. Because I
cannot, will not tolerate it another moment.”

Reardon
sighed. He often found Shirley’s embroidered formalities a little
intense - not a thought he would ever share with Ethan. But her
genuine determination to do so, he found rather touching. He also
knew that Shirley would never leave him. Her loyalty was too
solid.

Reardon gave her his best encouraging smile.
“I will certainly speak to Ethan.”

She thanked him and then promptly left the
room.

“
Hmmm, a bit
touchy today.” Ethan was dipping fresh bread into a bowl of beaten
eggs, obviously trying for a French toast re-run.

“
You have
bloody issues,” Reardon said. He flicked on the reheat switch of
the coffee machine. It’s
rich, bubbling
aroma centered him.

“
Yeah, yeah,
serious mother ones. Heard it all before.”

At times,
Reardon truly wondered. “You know it’d make it easier if the two of
you just got along.”

“And miss all this pleasure?”

Reardon
poured the coffee into his favorite mug. It was gunmetal grey with
brass knuckledusters as a handle, a droll gift from Ethan. “So
why
are
you
here?” he asked. “I’d imagine there’s someone far more entertaining
in your own home right now.”

Ethan
flipped his successful breakfast onto a large plate and perched
himself on one of the barstools. “You would think, but sometimes
fate deals a nasty hand. Let’s just say she didn’t work
out.”

“So instead you came here, looking for fun
in a certain housekeeper.”

Ethan’s beaming eyes glinted with mischief,
and then he wolfed down his breakfast.

Reardon sat
next to him, took several mouthfuls of his coffee while it was
still hot. How he hated cold coffee. “Well then, seeing you’re
here, you can check out something interesting I’ve just
gotten.”

Ethan gave
him a prickly looking expression. “This isn’t to do with that
Cabriati chick?”

Was Reardon
that obvious? He didn't answer.

Ethan scoffed. “You’re kidding. She dumped
you, mate! Move on!”

“She didn’t dump me.”

“Stood you up… left you waiting... call it
whatever you like. That’s dumped, man!”

“
It was an
appointment, not some date!” Reardon cursed a rare, weak moment
where he felt the need to defend himself, and wondered why that
was. He begrudgingly unfolded his paper. “Only you could turn it
into something more.”

“
Don’t need
to. Have eyes; can see. And haven’t seen you this hung up on a
woman since….” Ethan paused. “Well,
haven’t
seen you this hung up on
a woman. It’s a good thing though. Means everything is functioning
the way it should.”