I hadn’t meant to put my hands on the glass when I leaned in for a closer look. I didn’t even realize I’d done so until my mother turned and saw me standing there. One hand went to her mouth while the other desperately clutched the big man beside her. Then, the door was suddenly thrust open, and I was staring into a familiar face, older but so much like my own.
“Evangelica?” the woman whispered, reaching out to touch me as if to see if I was real.
“Hi, Mama.”
My mother made the sign of the cross, looked up toward the heavens, and cried out in Italian. Then, she clasped her hands together in fervent thanks. In the next moment, I was swallowed up in her fierce embrace, the scents of yeast and flour and butter filling my lungs. I hugged her back just as fiercely. When I opened my eyes again, my father was there, tears in his eyes.
I was pulled into his arms next, doing a bit of crying myself as the familiar feel of my dad’s bear hug swallowed me. Instantly, I felt as if I’d been transported back in time.
“Come,” my mother commanded, ushering us inside toward one of the café-style tables near the counter. “Sit. I’m going to get us some espresso. And then you will tell us why you have stayed away so long.”
~ * ~
Some things looked bigger than I remembered them, like the apple trees out back. I used to climb them and sit in the branches, giggling, while my father pretended to look for me. Every fall, I had been tasked with gathering apples for the strudel and turnovers that were so popular at the bakery.
Other things appeared smaller than I remembered, like the house and the yard. Of course, after living in a five-bedroom expanse overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a narrow, two-story clapboard house with one bathroom would.
But above all else, it felt like home.
When I’d left so long ago, it had been with the belief that I would return a success. That I would finally be able to prove to my parents that my passion for music was more than just a passing interest or hobby. That I was destined for more than just meeting a nice boy, settling down, and having babies.
Well, you already know how that worked out for me. In less than a year, I had been pregnant and alone. I’d become one of “those girls,” the ones my mother and her friends would speak of in quiet tones and shaking heads after Mass. They were old country with deep-rooted beliefs and a strict sense of right and wrong rooted in the church. If I had come home an unwed mother, I would have cast as much shame on them as I had myself.
More importantly than that, it would have affected Brian and Tommy. I hadn’t wanted them growing up in an environment where they would forever be branded because of what I had done.
Had I made a mistake in waiting so long to come home? I didn’t know, honestly. Looking back, the only thing I could say for sure was that things would have turned out much differently. That didn’t mean they would have been better.
What I did regret, was not reaching out to my parents sooner, especially once I’d learned to stand on my own two feet. Would they still have been disappointed in me? Sure, but we would have worked through it. Life was hard. People made mistakes. Those who really loved you didn’t stop just because you messed up, but they could make your life miserable.
I told them everything, holding nothing back. How I’d left because I felt like I had no other choice. How I’d truly believed that Ian and I would ride off into the sunset on a tour bus and live happily ever after, only to quickly learn that Ian had a completely different vision, one that did not include commitments or children.
My father had a lot to say about Ian.
Then, I told them about Ross and how he’d stepped up, making sure I had a job and a place to live when the boys came.
“He loves you, this Ross?” my mother asked.
“Yes, but not like you think,” I admitted, trying my best to describe our relationship without going into excruciating detail. “He’s more like a big brother.”
I showed them pictures of the boys. My mother gushed over them while at the same time chastising me for denying her and my father their grandparental rights during their formative years.
“They are so handsome,” my mother said with tears in her eyes.
They absolutely were, and that wasn’t just my biased opinion. They’d inherited the dark golden-honey skin and jet-black hair of my Italian heritage along with the clear light-blue eyes of Ian’s Irish ancestry. The resulting effect was striking.
“They are good boys?”
“Very good boys, Mama. But more men than boys now, I’m afraid.”
“I want to meet my grandsons. Why did you not bring them with you?”
I explained that they were on tour with their father for the summer, how it was a chance for them to finally get to know one another. My father had much to say about that, too, but when I quietly explained why I’d allowed it, he grew silent once again.
We talked well into the night, and when they asked me to stick around for a few days, I accepted. We still had much to catch up on, and I was in no hurry to return to LA.
It had been an emotional day all around. We’d laughed, we’d cried, we’d raised our voices. Yet, all in all, it had been a good day. Cathartic even.
Sitting in the family room that hadn’t changed in twenty years with a hand-crocheted afghan over my lap and a tiny cup of espresso laced with anise, I realized that I wasn’t the only one altered by my long absence. My parents had changed too. Either that or they were far more open-minded than I’d given them credit for.
By the time I said my good nights, I felt emotionally drained but pleased with how things had gone. I’d grown so used to having the weight of guilt on my shoulders that I hadn’t realized just how heavy it had become. The hardest part at least was over. We’d taken the first steps, and I couldn’t help but think it would only get easier from here.
And speaking of facing my demons, I knew I had a few more to deal with before calling it a night. I retrieved my phone from the bottom of my purse, knowing a bunch of messages had probably accumulated.
It was out of charge, granting me a temporary reprieve. I plugged it in and then went downstairs to make some tea and indulge in my mother’s chocolate pistachio biscotti. I figured I’d earned it.
My parents had already retired for the night, so I had the kitchen to myself. Not much had changed. I sat there for a while, sipping my tea, letting the memories wash over me.
When I went back upstairs, I checked my phone. I had to blink several times when I saw the number of unread messages and missed calls.
“One hundred and forty-two?” I murmured in disbelief.
I tapped the icon and scrolled through the list. There were the usual check-ins from Ross, Brian, and Tommy as well as some from an unknown number, probably Ian. My heart pounded when I saw how many were from Jace.
My finger hovered over his name, but I didn’t open any of them.
Cowardly? Yeah, maybe. But I was the equivalent of an emotional dishrag at that point. It would have to wait.
I quickly thumbed through the ones from Brian, Tommy, and Ross, answering each individually. Then, I turned my phone off and went to bed.
Chapter 20
Dear Ida,
I screwed up, big time. I let the woman I love walk away believing she wasn’t the most important thing in the world to me. I’ve got to make this right, but I don’t know how. Please help. – Devastated Rocker