Hope's Angel (20 page)

Gianna
spoke. “So, you adopted Angie?”

Papa
paused for a moment, then looked away from Mamma. “We told everyone they were
twins.” He glanced at Nonna. “Only your nonna knew this was not true.”

“Why?”
Connie asked. “Why would the LaCroixs give her up?”

“To
keep her safe.”

“From
what?”

Papa
glanced toward the door to the kitchen, as though he were afraid to say more
where Angie might hear. “That is a story for another day.” His face left no
doubt that the conversation was over.

A
stab of fear twisted Connie’s insides as she and Gianna exchanged glances.

“When
did you tell her?” Gianna asked Papa.

“When
Signora
LaCroix became sick in the summer. She wanted to see Angie.”

Gianna
slowly nodded. “That’s when she started crying. Why didn’t you tell us then?
Maybe we could have helped her.”

Papa’s
voice betrayed his sorrow. “She didn’t want you to know. She was afraid you
would no longer see her the same way.”

Gianna
met Connie’s gaze across the table. “That’s why Mr. LaCroix brings the meat,” Gianna
said.

And
why Angie was free to hang out with Francis LaCroix.
Connie turned to her father. “How did you know the
LaCroixs? They live far away.”

“Father
Ianelli.”

She
looked down the length of the table to where her mother sat dabbing her eyes
with a napkin. How astounding that after twenty years together, Connie was
still learning about people she thought she knew and understood. How difficult
it must have been for them to tell Angie she was not theirs. “Mammina, I’m so
sorry—“

Mamma
put up her hand to stop her. “There is nothing to be sorry for. She was a
blessing then, and she is a blessing now.”

Connie
looked at Gianna. It was time to go to Angie. The two of them rose to their
feet and left the table.

 Gianna
led the way down the hallway to the bedrooms at the back of the flat. The door
to Angie’s tiny room was open, and she was seated on the bed, her back to them,
facing the window that looked out over the backyard fence into the neighbor’s
yard.

“Angie?”
Connie said softly. “Can we come in?”

The
new short-haired Angie stood and faced them, a close-lipped smile on her pale
face. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, devoid of their usual liveliness.
Connie put out her arms, and Angie moved into them, wrapping her arms around Connie’s
torso. Connie held her tightly and kissed her on her wet cheek. When Gianna
stepped forward, Angie moved to her, and they hugged.

“We
love you, Angie.” Gianna’s voice was choked with tears.

“Nothing
changes, kiddo,” Connie said, watching them embrace. “We just wish we had known
a long time ago.”

Angie
stepped back, putting distance between herself and them. “I’m not your blood.” Her
voice wavered. “We’re not who we always thought we were.” Tears ran in rivulets
down her cheeks. “The two of you belong together, and now I don’t.”

“That’s
baloney,” Connie said. “How could you not belong when the three of us have been
together your whole life? It just explains why you’re cuter than we are.”

Angie
smiled in spite of her tears. Gianna pulled two tissues from a box on the
nearby nightstand and offered one to her youngest sister. The two blew their
noses in unison, and all three of them laughed.

“You
see?” Connie said. “Nurture is stronger than nature.”

Angie’s
smile faded.

“Does
this change everything for you?” Connie asked worriedly. “About us?”

Angie
rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes, then stared down at the floor. “It
did at first. It made me sick. Nothing was what I thought it was. I was angry
at Mamma and Papa. I was angry at you guys, even though they said you didn’t
know. Or maybe
because
you didn’t know. Your lives were going on just
the same as always.” She paused to take a breath. “I was jealous of you. In
some ways … I hated you. You still had what I didn’t have anymore.” Her voice
broke again, and she took a moment to compose herself, still avoiding their
eyes. “I have to learn all over again who I really am.”

Connie’s
heart ached and her mind scrambled to remember their interactions over the past
few months. Had she said or done things that made Angie’s pain worse? She
couldn’t remember.

“You’re
still you,” Gianna said. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“You
know who you are.” Angie’s tone was accusatory. “You know who you come from.
I’m still learning all that. I’m not at all who I thought I was. I’m not
Italian. I’m ….” She stopped and looked away from them, as though saying it was
too painful.

Connie
frowned. That wasn’t like Angie. “You’re French-Canadian, right?”

“That’s
not all of it.”

“What
do you mean?”

Angie
shook her head. “Never mind.”

Not
again
. Connie’s temper flared. “Come on,
Angie, are we going there again—more secrets? Because that’s where all this
pain comes from—too many secrets and no trust! We love you, Angie, and that’s
not going to change, no matter what you tell us.”

Angie’s
defiant, angry glare took Connie completely by surprise. “I’m part Abenaki,”
she said, practically spitting out the words.

Connie
looked at Gianna, who seemed as confused as Connie. She looked back at Angie.
“I don’t know what that is. Indian?”

“Yeah.
Indian. American Indian. One you never heard of.”

Connie
didn’t understand. “That’s not so awful, is it?”

Angie
looked away once more. “It’s complicated. Not that being French-Canadian is a
whole lot better.”

Her
attitude made no sense to Connie. “Better than what? What are you talking
about?”

Angie
turned her back to them, her head down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really
tired, and I can’t talk about this anymore. I really need to be alone.”

Chapter Fifteen

Monday

Connie
was tired and cranky on Monday morning. She hadn’t slept well, perpetually on
the verge of wakefulness, aware of Gianna tossing and turning, having a bad
night of her own. They had talked themselves out after leaving Angie’s room,
and afterwards there had been nothing left to say to help either of them settle
into sleep. Things had changed in ways they could never entirely reconcile;
their family dynamic would never be the same. Suddenly nothing felt right.

Greg
was quiet when he came to pick her up, and that was fine with her. She was in
no mood to carry on a conversation. They rode for close to half an hour before
he spoke for the first time. “Are you okay?”

She
kept her eyes on the road ahead. “Not really.”

“Rough
weekend?”

“Yeah.”

“Paul?”

Connie
shook her head. Funny, she hadn’t even thought about Paul since her
conversation with Gianna about why he hadn’t come to dinner.

“Is
it something you want to talk about?”

“Not
really.” She glanced at him as he drove. “You’re pretty quiet yourself.”

He
shrugged, keeping his profile to her.

“I’m
sorry if I hurt your feelings on Friday,” she said. “I didn’t mean what I said
about it meaning nothing that we were together. I was angry.”

“I
was out of line.”

She
wanted him to know he had been right about Paul’s companions.“That
was
his boss, and the lady owns the house they were working on.”

“Good.
I’m glad everything’s okay.” He had totally misunderstood her point.

Connie
turned away from him to stare out the windshield once more. Everything wasn’t
okay. It might never be okay again. “I just found out that Angie’s adopted.”

The
statement apparently took him by surprise, for he took a long time to respond.
Finally, he said, “Were you the only one who didn’t know?”

“Gianna
didn’t know, either. Angie’s only known for a couple months. She’s pretty
upset. We all are.”

Greg
kept his eyes on the road. “Isn’t it unusual to wait so long to tell someone
they’re adopted? My cousin’s adopted, and his parents told him as soon as he
was old enough to understand what it meant.”

“I
don’t know.”

Greg
thought for a moment. “So, that means she wasn’t a twin? Was there even a baby
that died?”

“Yes.
I guess that’s what made my parents adopt. My mother found out she couldn’t
have any more of her own.”

Greg
made a “humph” sound. “So then, that dream you told me about—that an angel
brought Angie—maybe that wasn’t so far-fetched. That’s how you saw it as a
little kid.”

The
novelty of his idea intrigued her. “Do you think so? That somehow I knew she
wasn’t born to us? That someone gave her to us?”

“What
else happened in your dream?”

Connie
closed her eyes to concentrate. She could feel the icy night air. “We were in a
car—just me and Gianna—and I was cold, really cold. And the angel was outside
the car, looking in at us. And then I think my parents got in the car and the
angel went away, like they weren’t supposed to see it, but it left a baby there,
on the carseat.”

“That’s
what it sounds like to me. Do you still want to go see that angel in daylight?”

She
wasn’t willing to tell him she had already gone with Paul. “No. You’re right.
It was just a dream.” She opened her eyes to look out the windshield. “Has your
cousin ever tried to find his birth parents?”

“Not
that I know of. Does Angie want to find hers?”

“She
already has. She visits them.”

Greg
looked pensive.“That was fast. Is that why you’re upset? She has another
family?”

She
hadn’t really thought about it that way, but he was right. Part of what hurt
was Angie pulling away, building a relationship with the LaCroixs that did not
include Connie. Connie was no longer as important to her as she had been; she was
sharing Angie now, and Angie had new people that she cared about.

“Maybe
that’s it.” She smiled at him. “Thanks. That helps.”

Greg’s
face showed cautious disbelief as he returned her smile. “It does?”

“Yeah.
It helps me put it all in perspective. It’s not really anything to be sad
about. It’s just an adjustment. She’s still part of our family, too. Nothing’s
really changed.”

“Hmmm.
Maybe I should change my major,” he said with a grin. “I’ve always liked
psych.”

“You
might be a natural.”

Greg
laughed, and the sound made her smile.

“I
sort of broke up with Paul,” she said, suddenly wanting him to know.

“Sort
of?”

“He
doesn’t like that Gianna’s going out with a black guy.”

“I
can understand that.”

Disappointment 
immediately reversed her improving mood. “You can? So, that’s how you feel,
too?”

“No.
But I can understand guys who do.”

“Really.”
Connie made no effort to disguise her skepticism.

“Men
are territorial. And protective of their women. Even the ones that aren’t
technically theirs. It’s a mating thing.” He glanced sideways at her. “Do you
know what I mean? Black guys aren’t from our tribe. They’re a threat. We’re a
threat to them and their women.”

“That’s
sort of what Paul said.”

The
mention of Paul’s name changed his tone from friendly to brusque. “The
difference is,
some
of us can learn to recognize it for what it is and
get past it. We don’t live in caves anymore, and it’s okay to cross racial
lines.”

Connie
smiled.

“What
are you smiling at?” He sounded irritated.

 “I
was just thinking how much I enjoy talking to you.”

“Humph.
That’s better than nothing, I guess.” He glanced at her once more. “So, what
does it mean to be
sort of
 broken up with Paul?”

“I
haven’t heard from him since we argued about David.”

“Then
you’re free this weekend?”

Connie
gave him an encouraging smile. “As far as I know.”

“What
would you like to do?”

That was easy. “See
La Boheme
at the Flynn.”

“You’re on.”

Connie’s smile broadened. “So, you’re an opera buff as
well as a Bogart fan?”

Greg shook his head. “Hell, no. I can’t stand opera.
But for you, I’ll tough it out.”

***

Connie
spent her free period in the library, looking up Abenaki Indians in the
encyclopedia. When she found nothing, she approached the gray-haired reference
librarian sitting behind an ornate mahogany desk.

The
librarian rose to her feet and led Connie toward the rows of cabinets
comprising the card catalog. “They’re a small band native to the area around
Lake Champlain and the Connecticut River valley in Vermont and New Hampshire,” she
said. “Basket-makers. Their language is a form of Algonquin.” Her thin fingers
flipped through the cards inside the little wooden drawer she had chosen. “They
don’t have their own reservation like the Indians in Maine. I don’t believe
they’re a recognized tribe.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m not finding
anything specific to the Abenaki.”

She
moved to the far end of the row, and Connie followed her.

“Wabanaki
is the general name for the nation that includes the tribes in Maine, like the
Passamaquoddy and the Penobscot, as well as the Eastern and Western Abenaki.”
She flipped through cards as she spoke. “Of course, some people say there never
really was a native population here, just nomads passing through. Gypsies, they
called them. Or Pirates, if they lived on the lake.”

“That
sounds derogatory.”

“It
was. Still is. Typical Caucasian attitude toward any native population. Yankees
are still fighting the French and Indian Wars.” The librarian shook her head
again as she pushed the drawer shut. “I’m sorry. I’m not finding anything. If
you want, I can look into resources in the state library system, or maybe even
borrow something from Dartmouth College. They have an extensive collection of
material on American Indians. Is this for a class?”

“No,
it’s personal.”

“I
see.” The librarian studied Connie’s face as though it might explain the source
of her interest in the topic. “Then, as you probably know, the Abenaki have
pretty much gone underground in Vermont.”

Gone
underground?
“What do you mean?”

The
woman gave her a quizzical look. “The Eugenics Survey?” She apparently expected
the phrase to have significance for Connie.

She
had heard the term before, but where? In genetics class? If so, she had
completely spaced during that lecture. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Oh.”
The librarian’s face closed off; her interest in the topic had dissolved.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She looked past Connie toward her desk. “I
have others waiting for me. Good luck with your research.”

“Thank
you.” Connie watched her walk away, then glanced at the clock. Her next class
would start in ten minutes, and she needed to move on. She would have to come
back later to find information on eugenics surveys.

***

Tuesday
was election day. Stoneham’s polling place opened at eight a.m., too late for
Greg to vote and still get to his first class. Connie drove, and she teased
that she was going to make sure they were late that evening. That way he couldn’t
reach the polls in time to cast his ballot for Richard Nixon.

“You’re
just sore because you can’t offset my vote with one of your own, little girl,”
he said.

“Gianna
will. She’s going at eight on the dot to vote for Humphrey.” Connie glanced at
him. “You know, being the old fart you are, why aren’t you a year ahead of me
in school? What did you do— goof off for a year?”

He
smiled. “I stayed back in fifth grade.”

“Really?
How come?” 

“Rheumatic
fever. I missed a lot of school.”

Connie
thought about that for a moment. “That’s why you have a heart murmur?”

“Yup.”

A
wave of maternal affection washed over her; he had been a child with a potentially
fatal disease. “Did you live in Stoneham then?”

“No.
We moved here when I was fourteen.”

Connie
considered this new information. “So then, we graduated the same year. Why
didn’t I know you in high school?”

“I
went to a private school.”

“Oh.”
She had never known anyone who went to a private school. “Where?”

“Massachusetts.”

Connie
couldn’t imagine such a thing. “You lived there? Wasn’t that hard, being away
from your family?”

Greg
shrugged, his gaze on the road straight ahead. “We all did it.”

“Your
sister, too?”

“Yup.
My brothers went to military school. I would have, except for my heart
condition.”

Just
thinking about boarding school made Connie feel uncomfortable. “I could never
have done that. I’d have died being away from my family.”

“Your
family’s different than mine.” His words were devoid of emotion.

Connie
wasn’t sure if he inferred something good or bad. “How’s that?”

“They
just are. I could see the affection in your family, the way you get along with
your sisters and your parents. I don’t have that.”

“Why
not?”

“My
parents are old-money Yankees—born and bred to be stuffy.”

Her
thoughts traveled to her conversation with the librarian the previous day.
“Someone told me that Yankees are still fighting the French and Indian Wars.
What did she mean?”