Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [63]
I look down at Etta, who gazes out the window with an expression of wonder. I’ve seen that expression before, on her father’s face. God, she looks just like him. Even if I wanted to leave Jack Mac behind in the mountains of Virginia, I can’t. As long as she is with me, her father is here too. She is so much like Jack, even though my friends say she is just like me. She is so steady and true. Even if you hurt her feelings, she forgives you and doesn’t seem to store up grudges. That’s not to say she doesn’t suffer; she does. She feels things deeply. But like her father, she doesn’t like to linger too long on things that hurt her. There is no victim in my daughter. She is wide open and yet very private. I fold my arms across my chest and lean back, placing my legs on the seat across from us. I look down at my long legs; I could work a farm here.
A man passes by our glass-enclosed car and peeks in. He drinks me in from the tip of my toes to the top of my head and then looks into my eyes. His brown hair and mustache make him seem young, but he is around fifty. He winks at me. I smile politely, quickly look away, and sit up. I grip my knees with my hands, wedding-ring-side up. He couldn’t care less about the ring; I shoot him a look that he should move on. He does.
As our train chugs into Bergamo, Etta stands in awe. I have told her the story of my honeymoon many times, and how I felt when I first saw this place, my mother’s hometown in all its detail: the carved wooden bench at the train station, the fountain of angels, and my first ride on cobblestone streets. How the air smells like clean straw and lemongrass.
Etta presses her face against the window, knowing that in seconds she will be with Nonno; at last she will meet her great-grandmother (to whom she has written letters since she could write); all her cousins; and of course my mother’s people, the divine Vilminores of Bergamo. I have shown her pictures of them many times, and she starts rattling off things she remembers. Some of the first words she learned were their names from the “flash cards” we made of our honeymoon pictures. Etta wants to visit the magical Alta Città and see the priests in their wide-brimmed black hats and cassocks, and the post where my grandfather used to hook his donkey named Cipi and his old wooden wagon before he made deliveries up into the Alps. I want to stand and jump up and down like she is, but suddenly, I see Joe’s face as he lay dying, and I cannot be happy. Quickly, I erase the picture. I’m a terrible mother. I don’t focus. Focus on Etta. She’s alive and well and thrilled to see Italy. Don’t think about all the things you didn’t do for Joe. Don’t think about how he would love this train. Don’t think about how you made him frozen waffles in the toaster instead of fresh pancakes on the stove. He’s gone. Etta is here. Focus on Etta.
Carefully, I pull our luggage off of the wooden rack above our seats as Etta smoothes her hair. Even the luggage racks in the Italian train cars are works of art. The lush cherry wood is curved and polished smooth. Etta runs for the steps to the platform and stops short of hopping off, turning around to wait for me. My father greets us at the foot of the stairs. He pulls Etta off the steps like he’s gathered a bunch of flowers and swings her around the platform. How youthful and strong he is, though his hair has more white in it now. His eyes, a clear, dark brown, dazzle against his golden skin. I feel instantly safe around him. He wears black pants (the cuffs hit his gray suede loafers in a perfect crease) and a gray cashmere pullover sweater. Papa puts Etta down and embraces me.
“How was your trip?”
“Glorious.”
“You’re tired.”
“A little.”
“I want you to meet Giacomina.” My father turns to find the woman in his life. She is a few steps behind him, smiling, with her hands clasped in anticipation. Trim and small with clear gray eyes, she has a simple beauty and thick, straight brown hair that she wears in a ponytail.