The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(105)
He smiled down at the baby. “She is happy right here, aren’t you, Josephina?”
The car sped off with a squeal. The belt of dread around my belly, the one I’d been trying my hardest to ignore, tightened another notch.
* * *
Alberto lived in a sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment above a butcher shop. He held Joh tightly to his chest as his wife inspected the drafty place that smelled of blood and raw meat. A tiny wall of cupboards created a kitchen, along with a filthy range and dented refrigerator. I could almost hear my sister’s thoughts. Where was the beautiful home he had promised? Where was the machine that washed clothes?
“You will sleep here,” Alberto told me, tipping his head toward a ratty sofa in the main room. I glanced at him, sheepishly. Surely he’d rather have his wife all to himself. But to his credit, he gave me a welcoming smile. “This is your home, too, Paolina. Until you and Ignacio become husband and wife.”
“But Alberto, I’m—”
“Hush,” Rosa said, silencing me. “We will talk of wedding plans later.”
Joh began to fuss. When I went to take her, Alberto swooped away. “It is okay. Mamma will change you.” He planted the baby in Rosa’s arms.
I stood, my mouth agape. Rosa giggled nervously, avoiding my eyes. Beside us, Alberto smiled, a dreamy look on his face. “La mia famiglia è qui, finalmente.”
My family is here, at last.
For years I’ve thought of that moment, cursing myself for not making it clear, in that instant, Johanna was mine. In part, it was the sorrow I felt for my sister. In part, the loyalty. For what she thought would be a brief moment, she allowed her husband a glimpse of fatherhood. She hadn’t considered how instantly he would fall in love. And once dispensed, she didn’t have the heart to steal that joy from him. How could she explain, when he was holding a beautiful healthy baby in his arms, that his own child had died months earlier?
And so the nightmare began. The following week, while Alberto worked in the store, Rosa and I spent ten hours a day alone with Johanna. I demanded she tell the truth. And every day she promised she would. But each night, when Alberto entered the apartment, he would kick off his shoes, scrub his hands at the kitchen sink, and go straight to Johanna. He sang songs to her, rocked her, whispered as he smoothed her downy hair. And another day passed with a hole in the truth.
Had something broken in my sister’s heart, when her body would not produce a healthy child? Was her fear of losing Alberto so overwhelming that she would do anything to keep him—even if it meant claiming her sister’s child as her own? Or did she truly believe she was doing what was best?
By the end of the week, my sister stopped making promises. She only looked at me with sadness. “La mia sorella testarda. How can you be so selfish? Do you not see? I am doing what is best for Josephina. She will have a good life now. She will have a mamma and a papà and a loving aunt.”
“She has a mother!”
“What can you give her, Paolina? You are so distraught you were willing to throw yourself off the boat!”
“That’s not true. I could never do that.”
“You are the second daughter. You were not meant to have a child; I was.”
That evening, I finally took charge. I was holding Johanna when Alberto arrived home. When he reached for her, I kept her firmly in my grip. “You need to hear the truth. This is my baby, Alberto. I am so sorry.”
He reared back, his face a heartbreaking mosaic of shock and confusion. “Rosa?” he called into the kitchen. “What is she talking about?”
It seemed to take hours for my sister to turn around from her place at the stove. She looked at Alberto, not me, when she finally spoke.
“Poor Paolina is struggling with grief. I told you this already, Alberto. Do not agitate her.”
“This has nothing to do with grief.” My heart was pumping wildly, but I forced myself to remain calm. I explained to him, clearly and concisely, my idea to pretend Rosa was Johanna’s mother. When I finished, he only looked at me sadly.
“No, Paolina. Rosa shared the good news many months ago. It was a letter I shall never forget. Our love has multiplied. You are going to be a father.”
I collapsed on the sofa, the gravity of the situation hitting me full force. The letter I’d dictated to Rico had been sent to Alberto—or at least, copied. Did Rico even know I was pregnant?
“Those were my words!” I screamed through my tears. “That letter was meant for Rico, not you.”
His voice boomed. “Enough, Paolina. I saw the name tag you wore at the Uffizi, pretending to be Rosa. But you are not her, do you understand? And Josephina is not your baby. This game is over, capisci?”
“Rosa miscarried,” I said softly. “You lost your baby. I am sorry, Alberto.”
“What proof do you have?” he said, his face bloated with rage. “If this child is yours, show me.”
A sinking feeling came over me. I thought of the bogus birth certificate, the ticket stub with Josephina Lucchesi’s name. Even my breasts had dried up. With the exception of slightly wider hips and a few faded stretch marks, my body had contracted as effortlessly as a rubber band. It was Rosa, with her flabby belly and pendulous breasts, who looked as if she’d just given birth.