Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [151]
“Yes?” said Lucrezia’s daughter, opening the door slightly.
“Buon giorno. You must be Claudia. I am Giovanna, an old friend of your mother. I was hoping I could see her.” Claudia looked exactly like Lucrezia and was just as stately.
“Come in, signora,” greeted Claudia, opening the door and looking at Giovanna’s work clothes. “Please have a seat.”
Catching Claudia’s glance, Giovanna mentioned, “Your mother and I used to deliver babies together.”
“Oh, yes. I remember her talking about you.”
“How is she?”
“Not well. The doctors think it is only a matter of days.”
“I’m so sorry, Claudia. Can I see her?”
“She’s resting. She gets so little sleep that I would appreciate it if you could return at another time.”
Giovanna stood, ready to bolt out the door, embarrassed that she had come. “I’m sorry, I understand…”
“Claudia, who are you talking to?” Lucrezia’s thin voice drifted from the bedroom.
“An old friend of yours, Mamma.” Turning to Giovanna, Claudia said, “She’s awake. Would you like to see her?”
Giovanna was waving her hand in an attempt to say, “No, I’ll go,” but Lucrezia’s daughter was leading her by the arm to the doorway of the bedroom.
Lucrezia turned her head, and Giovanna felt like her shoulders fell to her knees. Lucrezia’s face and body were skeletal. Her body barely dented the bed.
Lucrezia stared back at Giovanna and smiled. “Sit down next to me.”
Giovanna looked to Lucrezia’s daughter’s face for permission, and when Claudia nodded and left the room, Giovanna did as she was instructed. Awkwardly, and without speaking, she took Lucrezia’s hands, which lay on top of the bedcovers, and held them in her own.
“I bet you heard from Teresa,” kidded Lucrezia in a voice that sounded like it only fluttered over her vocal cords.
In seconds, Lucrezia had cleared the air. Giovanna laughed hard and remembered why it was so easy to love this woman. “Yes, you’re right! She told me this morning.”
“I’m glad you came, Giovanna.”
Hearing Lucrezia say her name unleashed a torrent of emotion. Cupping and kissing Lucrezia’s hands, Giovanna said over and over, tears streaming down her face, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lucrezia.”
“Giovanna.” Lucrezia lifted her bony hand to Giovanna’s face and caught a tear. “I knew,” she said.
Giovanna was not at all surprised but wept harder. “I couldn’t tell you.”
“I wanted to help.”
“I was afraid.”
“Were you afraid of me?”
“I was afraid of everyone. I was even afraid of myself.”
Giovanna’s head collapsed onto Lucrezia’s chest, and Lucrezia entwined her fingers in her hair.
“I don’t want to lose you again, Lucrezia,” moaned Giovanna.
“You never lost me. And with the way you pray, you never will.”
Giovanna’s laugh became a snort through her tears, and it brought Lucrezia’s daughter into the room.
Claudia looked at them, surprised and concerned. “Perhaps you should rest, Mamma?”
“Yes. Lie with me a while, Giovanna?” asked Lucrezia.
Giovanna got up and rearranged the blankets around her friend and then went to the other side of the bed and lay on top of the covers next to her. Lucrezia reached for her hand, and Giovanna held it tighter than she should have.
Giovanna left that evening after Lucrezia had fallen asleep. She returned the next day as she had promised, but Lucrezia had died that morning with her husband and daughter by her side.
“She asked that I give you this,” said Lucrezia’s daughter, holding out her hand and crying. Giovanna took the small medal of Saint Anthony from Claudia’s palm. “It’s odd, because my mother wasn’t religious. But she said this would be meaningful to you. She also said to tell you that when people love each other, they always find each other in the end.”
That night, Giovanna closed the store near nine o’clock but didn’t get upstairs until after ten. Not yet ready for bed, she leaned out her first-floor window into the late summer heat.
The store looked so quiet, yet only a few hours