I, Emma Freke (9 page)

“Hellllooo? Is that you, Emma?” Donatella called from the bathroom. The door was cracked slightly, and I could see the colors of her clothes blinking across the small space.

“Listen! I have an early date with Antonio, and by the way, he's a dreamboat!”

Nonno was awake now and staring at me.

“You wet?”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

“You sick?” he asked.

Eggplant lifted her head and stared at me too.

I shook my head no.

“So what wrong, Emma-roni?”

I looked past him and over at the bathroom.

“Everything,” I said.

“Oh no-no-no-no,” he groaned and lifted Eggplant down to the floor. “You got the woman
problema
, we walk.”

He shoved the leash over his dog's head, picked up his cane, and grabbed an umbrella. I was pushed out of their way as they hurried through the door and down the stairs.

“AACK!” Donatella shrieked. “What are you doing getting water and muck all over my virtual Persian rug?”

She pulled at her hair with both hands, then ran back into the bathroom to get a towel.

“Here!” she yelled throwing it at me. “Go change your clothes. Then clean up this mess. I gotta run!”

But I didn't move.

She whipped around and crossed her arms.

“Earth to Emma! Did you hear me?”

“I need to talk to you, Donatella.”

“And by the way—” she said as she rushed over to the gold mirror to make some last-minute corrections to her hair, “Nonno is going to want to eat when he gets back, so boil some penne for the two of you. There's white sauce in the cabinet. And make him an arugula salad with the canned prunes. I think he's plugged up again.”

I gently lowered myself down on to the sofa.

“I have to talk to you now, Donatella.”

“Well, it'll just have to wait!”

I raised my voice.

“It. Can't. Wait.”

My mother slowly spun around. I finally had her attention. She didn't seem to notice now that my wet pants were soaking through her precious couch cushions.

“What do you mean? Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Did you shoplift? Trespass? Smoke?”

“Nothing like that.”

I folded my hands in my lap.

“Then what is it?” she cried throwing her arms up in the air.

“It's something I should have discussed with you a long time ago.”

“Good goddess, Emma, I have a date with a gorgeous, thirty-nine-year-old lobsterman in six minutes!
Out with it!
”

For the first time in my life, I studied her puffy, pouty lips and her pudgy button nose and those large, glittering eyes gathered at the center of her full face that reflected nothing—absolutely nothing—of me.

“Am I adopted?”

At first she was still and completely silent.

Then she collapsed over the back of the couch bursting into deep laughter, laughing harder than I had ever heard her laugh. She was even snorting. Finally, she ran to the bathroom because she thought she might “explode.”

A minute later, the toilet flushed and Donatella reappeared, wiping away laughing tears from her face with a tissue.

“Oh look at me,” she said, still hiccupping with the giggles, “my face is a mess.”

“So?” I asked waiting for an answer. “Am I?”

Donatella wandered over to the rocking chair and sat on the edge.

“Are you kidding? Is that what this is all about? Do you really think I adopted you and never told you?”

That's when I confessed everything that proved it: the physical differences, the total lack of affection or motherly interest, the daughter denial to her boyfriends, the endless chores and work hours, the overall neglect . . . and above all, my hideous, humiliating, horrifying name.

Her giggles quickly faded into a single, bewildered expression as I informed her of everything she had ever done wrong. I had never seen Donatella look so sad and realized I had said more than I meant to say. Immediately, I worried she would lock herself up for three days again. Or maybe longer.

But instead, she scooted the rocking chair close to me and took my hand. Something she hadn't done in a long, long time.

“All these years, I thought I was treating you like an equal, Emma. I wanted to give you lots and lots of space to be your own person and to always be able to take care of yourself. And I wanted you to feel you could be whoever
you
wanted to be. Something I yearned for growing up but never had. My own mother was so suffocating and overprotective and judgmental and paranoid and strict that I was absolutely miserable!”

Donatella pounded her chest with her fist as if she were a teenager again trying to explain her feelings to the whole world.

“WHY do you think I ran off and got married at sixteen?”

“But you make me do so much around here,” I protested.

“Because you seem to enjoy it!” she practically shrieked. “The only time I see you smile is when you're working down in the store!”

“Well, what about my name?”

“What about it? I love the name Emma. Everyone does! It's the most popular name in America.”

“That's not what I mean!”

“Honestly,” she said as she scrunched up her face, “you're not making any sense.”

I gave up. It was like talking to a yo-yo.

“So you're saying that I'm really and truly
not
adopted?”

She squeezed my hand and shook her head no.

“You're
really
my mother? And the Salvonis are
really
my family?”

“Sorry, kid.”

How could this be possible? Especially when everything Penelope had said made so much sense. Now my life seemed even worse than before.

All of a sudden, Donatella jumped up and snapped her fingers.

“Hold your horoscope, Emma! I do have something that just might interest you. I forgot all about it.”

She crossed over to the giant basket in the kitchen where we stored bills and began rifling through the thick pile of papers. Then she found it—a large white envelope—and handed it to me.

“This came special delivery this morning. Funny coincidence now that I think about it.”

I studied the fancy handwriting. It looked like it might have been written with an old-fashioned quill pen. The envelope was addressed to
The Descendants of Boris Horace Freke
.

“But we're not descendants of Boris Horace anybody,” I said, adding, “was he really named Boris Horace?”

Donatella nudged me. “Just open it already.”

Inside was a piece of mint-colored stationery lined in tiny clumps of trees.

 

Please join us
for the 59th Annual
FREKE FAMILY REUNION
Friday, June 27th—Monday, June 30th
Paul Bunyan State Park and Campground
NEW THULE, Wisconsin

I was confused.

“What has this got to do with me other than the fact that I am forced to share Walter's horrible last name because it's good for business?”

“This happens to be the clan you're looking for,” she said casually as she lifted her pocketbook from the coat rack and did one last makeup check in the mirror.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you take after his side of the family. I think you should go and see for yourself.”

“But you said I wasn't related to
him
!”

She threw her shawl dramatically across her shoulders and pursed her ruby red lips.

“I never actually
said
that, Emma—I told you we got divorced a year before you were born. You decided to draw your own conclusions.”

I stood up, shook the invitation at her, and yelled louder than I ever had in my whole life.

“So what exactly are you telling me, Donatella?!”

My mother paused at the door before she left for her date with the lobsterman. Then she melted into one huge smile as if she were giving me the best news of my life.

“That whether you like it or not, the truth is
honey . . .
you really are a Freke.”

When she slammed the door shut, a small burst of wind blew through the apartment. I remained standing and allowed the breeze to swirl around me and through the room.

It's difficult to describe what I was feeling. Other than totally stunned.

I wasn't exactly pleased about this shocking confession (twelve years later than it should have been). But after letting the news sink in, I did feel, I don't know,
lighter
. Everything appeared more focused. The furniture looked less drab, and the room smelled faintly sweeter. Even the grinding noise of our old refrigerator sounded kind of comforting, no longer annoying.

And then it occurred to me. For once in my life, I had hope . . . . hope that I might fit in somewhere and “belong.” Even if it was to a bunch of Frekes.

The next week was a whirlwind of preparations. I had just ten days to get ready for the reunion.

Donatella actually helped out by calling the family headquarters listed at the bottom of the letter informing them I would be traveling alone as an “unaccompanied minor.” By the end of that day, I had a reservation to fly to Milwaukee, where I would be met by the Welcome Hosts, Jim and Nancy Freke, at the baggage claim area. Already I was excited—these people were organized!

Later, when I asked Donatella if she knew any of the Freke relatives, my mother threw her head back and chuckled extra loudly.

“Are you kidding?” she yapped.

Apparently, she had never met any of Walter's family, other than a sister who stood as a witness at their quickie wedding (but of course, she couldn't remember the sister's name). When I pushed for more ancestral information, Donatella slipped back to her old ways of avoiding the subject. But she did reassure me that Jim and Nancy had to be, at the very least, second or third cousins. She explained that the Frekes were a very tight tribe.

“Believe me, they take care of their own kind. You'll be just fine.”

I had one last question I had to ask.

“Will he be there? Walter? My father?”

Donatella shook her head no.

“Even before he divorced me, he had divorced himself from the entire clan. Except for that one strange sister— what's her name? I think it started with an
M
or was it a
V
?”

I wondered if it was truly possible to divorce your family. Maybe someday my mother would tell me the whole story. But for now, discovering the other half of my genetic tree was wonderful enough.

The extremely organized reunion committee had also faxed over a very specific list of supplies I would need for the weekend, which included my own tent and other camping gear.

“But we don't have any of this equipment,” I complained to Penelope. She was sitting at our crowded crafts table in the corner, making a beaded ring to sell in the display case. She had finished school the day before, but all of her summer activities didn't get going until the following week.

“Let me see that,” she said grabbing the invitation and list of supplies.

Penelope had been even more dumbfounded than I was to discover my nonadoption. In fact, she was so certain that Donatella wasn't telling the truth that she insisted I demand a blood test to prove our genetic connection.

But then I showed her the invitation.

“
To the descendants of Boris Horace Freke
,” she read out loud. “So Walter Freke really is your biological dad?”

“Looks like it.”

“I wasn't born yesterday, Emma,” she said, hands on her hips. “If the man left a full year before Donatella gave birth to you, then how can he be your father?”

My cheeks began to flush. I didn't like talking about any gross sex stuff. “Donatella said he
visited
once after they broke up. But she never told him she had a baby after.”

“Why not?!”

“She said she didn't want to complicate things, especially since they were already divorced. She needed to move on.”

Penelope wasn't too happy with that answer, but for my sake, she decided to accept defeat. And believe me, she wasn't used to being wrong.

I, on the other hand, was now strangely calm about the whole discovery. I could always tell when Donatella was making up facts or exaggerating a story, but her biological father explanation felt authentic. And the truth was, this boring version of events fit my life. I knew I didn't have exotic roots like Penelope did. It made sense that I was related to people who had annual reunions in a campground in Wisconsin. And I was ready to feel connected to anyone, no matter who they were.

“Hey!” Penelope jumped out of her seat over at the crafts table. “Didn't Stevie say she liked to go camping?”

I had forgotten all about that conversation a few days earlier in the Anchor Café. It seemed a million miles behind me.

“Yep,” I said, “in Maine.”