Forgotten (9 page)

Papa sat his large framed body against the
back of the seat and crossed his solid legs. The seat creaked and
wobbled. “Are you sure of that?” he said, examining me more
closely. “You look a little pale.”

I groaned
inwardly. So much for my diversionary tactics of
color. “Papa,
I’m okay.”
I answered in my best happy voice. But Papa knew
me too well.

“
My little
Carino….” And he cast a slow, sorrowful gaze over me. Carino was my
Papa’s pet name for me, one that he had used for as long as I could
recall. It was Italian for
cute
.

A
significant upgrade, I noted, on
crippled
.

For a short
time, we watched our loud, high-spirited family revel in much
eating, much drinking and much laughter. I semi-grinned at some of
their typical idiosyncratic behaviors.
And at the knowledge that the bonds in the Cabriati family
were truly strong.

“
Would you
not reconsider returning home if only for a short time, until
things settle a little?” Papa asked.

I noticed
the growing disquiet on his face, the heavy frown, the downturn of
his now lack-luster eyes, and it troubled me. At times, I honestly
believed his only purpose for existing was to brood over me. And
sadly, in light of recent events, that wasn’t about to change
anytime soon.

“
I
know you’re worried,” I began, “but you must let
me deal with this in my own way.”

However, I
was fast questioning my ability to do that. Particularly in light
of my last conversation with one very miffed Mel.

“
Damn it, Claudia,” she scolds, after discovering I had
pulled out of the meeting with Saul Reardon. “This isn’t some game
you’re playing here. Or worse, something you can just lock away
inside your head and pretend never happened. This woman knew you.
And although I understand why you didn
’t explain everything to the police, you need to
explain it to someone. Someone who knows what they’re
doing.”

She is right.

“
I just wish all of this would go away.” But of course, I am
being naïve, unrealistic.

“
I know.” Mel’s voice is gentler now. “Listen,” she says.
“How about we just get through Christmas first. After that, if the
police still have no answers, we go to someone. Whether that
someone is Saul Reardon or not, we just do it… okay?”

It is a fair trade off.

My father
cleared his throat and I turned to him. His eyes are like a
gunmetal blue, strong, full of authority and they were shrewdly
watching me. “Are you sure you did not know this woman?”

I found the
question odd. Papa had already asked it on two other occasions. I
shifted uneasily. Trying not to avoid his sharp gaze, I answered.
“Like I’ve told you, she somehow knew me. But I’ve no idea from
where or when and definitely not who she is…
was
.”

I felt
immediate guilt at my lie. But Papa didn’t need any further
anxiety. He watched me some more. Soon the deep ruts on his brow
smoothed away and a more relaxed shine returned to his
eyes.

“
You’re
looking well, Papa.” My assessment was two-fold, not merely to
change the subject but because he did have a distinct glow of
wellness about him. And it gave me much comfort.

Crinkles
fanned from his smiling eyes. He ran the back of his large hand
against my cheek. “Who is worrying, now,” he said. “My heart attack
was seven years ago. Your Papa’s doctors say I am strong like… like
a bear.” He flexed both his arms. And then he laughed.

I laughed
with him, but I knew I could never forget that horrendous era when
we had nearly lost him. “How about I stay the night,” I said,
“seeing it’s Christmas.”

He gave me a tight squeeze. “You should
spend some time with your Mama too.”

I thought it
a curious request. As much as my mother loved me, we weren’t that
close. I turned to see her short, fine frame swirling in soft hues
of greens and blues, sturdily balancing on her much-loved, red
high-heels. I didn’t know how she coped with such an elaborate
production each year. But there she was, directing several of the
female tribe, who helped taxi plump platters of food.

“Of course,” I assured Papa.

“
Hey, you
two!” My youngest brother, Marcus appeared carrying a white,
plastic chair and a sizeable plate stuffed with food. I instantly
recognized the delicious smells of freshly homemade antipasto and
focaccia, baked honey ham and apple encrusted roast
pork.

“Looks good,” Papa said. “Your Mama has
really outdone herself this year.” He stood up. “Want some?” he
asked me.

Um
, yeah!

“Far out,” Marcus said, as our father strode
away, “you have him totally wrapped around your little
fingers.”

“
You’re just
jealous,” I teased. “So where’s the true favorite of this
family?”

“
Milo?”
Marcus was referring to our oldest sibling. He grunted. “He’s
having lunch with some so-called pals. Can you imagine if any of us
even suggested not having Christmas with the olds?” He mimicked a
rugged, blunt knife slicing his throat.

“Nothing short of sacrilegious.” I
laughed.

It was during the late afternoon, while I
was hanging out with my two brothers, that Milo made his
long-awaited entrance.

Nate nudged
me. “Our prodigal brother has arrived. Stand back and watch the
spectacle.”

A small
commotion began bubbling where Milo had entered. He was balancing a
tower of colorfully wrapped gifts that he fast laid on the table.
Family swarmed to him with eager, beaming faces. Milo greeted them
in his typically cool, semi-detached manner. I watched with a mild
sense of awe. It was always the same.

Milo was the flame and the moths were
hovering.

Deciding
that this particular moth would have ample time later to warm her
wings, I instead stayed with my brothers. Before long, Milo stepped
up to us. We hugged, superficial hugs like usual, made meek
attempts at small talk. Until Milo asked if he could speak to me
privately. I couldn
’t remember the last
time I had a private conversation with Milo and it triggered my
freaking out sirens.

However, I tried not to show it, unlike Nate
and Marcus with their comically shot-up eyebrows and gaping
mouths.

***

Privately
for Milo turned out to be his old bedroom. As I entered, I felt as
I always did, like one walking into a long, forgotten tomb, cold,
dismal, ‘shadow-less’. Sparsely furnished with just the bare
necessities, the narrow windows and queen-size bed were dressed in
what Mama protectively claimed was midnight blue. My brothers and I
saw it for what it was, a few shades from depressive
black.

I shivered
off the macabre thoughts and swung to face my brother. His stony,
Papa-like eyes were staring straight at me. “How are you going, you
know, with what happened?”

I was astounded. It wasn’t as if my brother
wouldn’t care; it was just uncommon for him to show it. “As fine as
one can be,” I quipped, “after some poor lady has been shot in
front of you.”

Milo grimaced, quite noticeably. “Did you
know her?”

Why does everyone keep asking that?
“No, I didn’t.” Yet another lie, but I wasn’t about to
trust Milo with my absurd ideas about Alice.

His bottom
lip dropped away as if readying to say something, but then it
stilled. His thick fingers scraped his ashen
-colored hair, causing my own fingers to jitter and knot.
He was really freaking me out now.

“Your fingers,” he whispered.

I shot a glance at them. “Yes, Milo, I’ve
ten of them.” Milo glossed right over the joke. A sense of humor
was never one of his strong points.

“It’s a mannerism of yours that you’ve
always had… quite distinctive.”

“Yes, it is, I guess.”

“But you’re not aware that you do it.”

“Not always.”

He appeared a little spaced out. “Milo? What
is it?”

There was
another uncomfortable pause and then, “Are you certain that you
have no memory of that woman?” His voice had become strangely
urgent. And the out-of-place use of the word
memory
disturbed me.
Was I supposed to have known Alice? Of course, I had some
impression of her but not in the real sense that Milo was
suggesting. I asked him.

He wiped his hand across his now moistening
brow but said nothing. I stepped forward, closing the small gap
between us. “Please, talk to me,” I said. Fresh alarm bells were
chanting a different, more pressing tune.

He pulled at the pointed collar of his black
shirt, staring… thinking.

I glared at him without blinking and pleaded
once more.

Milo sighed then turned. In two large
strides, he reached the bedroom door. For a second, I believed I
had failed and he was leaving. His hands held alternate doorjambs.
He stretched his neck and looked in both directions, then returned
to me.

He grabbed
my shoulders. “I don’t want to be right, Claudia,” he whispered to
the point I could scarcely hear him, “but if I am, then I’m worried
for you.”

My heart
plunged several inches and I asked him why.

But again, Milo went quiet.

“Milo, you’re scaring me.”

“
Don’t be.
I’ll sort it out, I promise.” He said the words far too quickly and
with an unmistakable fear I’d never heard from him
before.

But fear of what?

Or more to
the point
… who?

“Listen to me,” he went on. “If any of this
gets seriously out of hand, if you want to know stuff or have
questions, come and talk to me.”

I could’ve
easily planted Alice Polinski’s death, as well Milo’s cryptic
behavior under the ‘seriously out of hand’ banner. “What do you
mean?”

“There are things, Claudia.”

“Things?”

Things!

It hung in
the air like Pandora’s Box, with its forbidden, burning mysteries,
its cautionary, hidden secrets
, best
ignored, best left unopened.

And
somewhere from the cavernous pits of bolted memories, one of
those
things
was trying to call to me, reach out to me. I
sensed its inscrutable pain, its lustful urge to surface and I
immediately banished it away.

I gripped
Milo’s hand. “Tell me. I want to know, now.” My body began
trembling and I swallowed hard.

But Milo shook his head. “Not here.”

Not here? Why?

“
Tomorrow
, my place… okay?” he
added, with a clear sense of finality.

I felt temporarily dumbstruck.

He began to pull me from the room. “Come
on,” he said. “We better join everyone or they’ll be wondering
what’s going on.”

Well, they wouldn’t be the only ones
.

We walked out of the house and into the
outdoor throng of irrepressible relatives. Milo gave me one last
hug.

“
Tomorrow
then,” I managed to say to him, if I could last that
long.

His warm
look, his lopsided smile was strange, foreign to his face.
“Tomorrow, Claudia.” He then slowly maneuvered amongst the
crowds.

“
What was
that all about?” I turned to see my Papa’s sister, Lia. She
appeared, as she always did, like someone extracted from the
seventies. She was all blonde waves, high cheekbones and bright,
cerulean eyes that quietly reflected the kindly, carefree spirit
that she was. Her sleeveless dress was a palate of dazzling colors
and hung loosely against her slender figure. A glass of white wine
lay entwined in her short, narrow fingers.

“
I don’t
know,” I said. And that was no lie.

“How have you been since we last
talked?”

I shrugged.
“Um… not sure, you know?” Apart from the rest of my disturbingly
screwed up life, I still felt rattled from Milo.

Lia’s thin,
fair brows joined and she gave me a small hug. “
Forza di d’animo mia esoro
.
[Strength of mind, my
darling].” Words she had mouthed plentifully during my life; words
she would undoubtedly mouth again. “You will survive this; trust
yourself. More importantly, trust your heart.”

Lia was
special to me, very special, and I always took comfort in her
advice. “Can I ask you something?” I felt unsatisfied, edgy, just
wanting answers.

She collected both my hands in hers. “Of
course.”

I had so many troubling questions but I
asked the most vital one. “Why do people keep asking if I knew
Alice Polinski?”

It was as if
I had just hit Lia with a giant bucket of Alaskan snow. She
stiffened instantly, her unreadable face staring straight at me.
Any residual ‘rattleness’ I had from Milo just raised several more
layers.

I shook her
by the elbow.
“Lia?” She blinked, then
cut her gaze from me. She searched the crowds, until she latched
her eyes on one particular person.

Papa
.

Unspoken
words played out between them, their expressions looking more and
more somber with each breath.