Chapter Two
from my unreleased novel “Melodies of the Moon”
Chapter Two.
Twenty one summers ago.
I didn’t know how anybody could sleep on an airplane. That was the first thought I had as we descended over the quilted patchwork of golden farms and green rolling hills, like a hot air balloon gently landing over a made-up world.
“Talia, get your face off the glass,” Mom chastised.
She was in the aisle seat, and six year old Carina sat between us. Dad had driven us to the airport in Boston, and I cried when we said goodbye. I had never been apart from him like this before.
This was my first time on an airplane, but I wasn’t scared.
Carina, on the other hand, had been paralyzed with fear for the eight hours we sat on the plane to Rome. Her big brown eyes were filled with anxiety. “It’s your last chance to use the bathroom,” Mom said as patiently as she could to my younger sister.
Carina just shook her head.
She refused to use the bathroom. One of my aunts had made a joke about how the flush of an airplane toilet was so strong it could suck you right out of the plane, and it was no joke to Carina.
“I swear to God,” Mom muttered under her breath, frustrated.
I turned back to the window, to the portal into this new magical world. Every Saturday, Carina and I attended Italian classes at the local Italian club in our town. Signora — that’s what we all called her — was the old red-headed lady who taught us for an hour each weekend.
All of my grandparents spoke Italian, of course, but Mom and Dad didn’t like speaking it at home. “We’re in the United States,” Mom always said in a conversation-ending tone. “We speak English.” And that was that. I was confused why she sent us to Italian school, but I didn’t argue it.
I loved Italian class.
Signora taught us the basics of speaking, most of which I already knew from my family, but more importantly she taught us culture. I had this image of Italy in my mind, a whole other world that could only exist in books and movies. Blue seas of the Mediterranean that sparkled like a chest of treasure, mountains that touched the sky and sloped down to kiss the lakes and farms, and rolling hills lined with rows of tall trees.
My favorite thing that Signora taught us was La Befana, the Italian Christmas witch. Italian children were not visited by Santa Claus, she told us one Saturday morning. Gasps echoed in the room.
“B-but…” one boy nearly cried.
“They get visited by La Befana instead,” she cooed, like a magician waving her scarf to reveal her trick. Italian boys and girls were visited much more modestly, we learned. They didn’t wake up on Christmas Day to dozens of wrapped presents from Santa and his elves. Instead on the eve of January 6th, the Epiphany, an old little witch visited their homes and left them small gifts by their bedsides. Perhaps some fruit, some candy, or a small toy.
The kids in class heckled. “I’d leave Italy,” one of the boys insisted. “Santa brings me PlayStations and computer games.”
Signora showed us how to make paper accordion witches and color them in. Most of the kids made theirs scary, haggard old women, what you imagine when someone says witch. Long gray and white hair, a big nose, boils and warts on her face with menacing eyes.
Mine looked like me. Brown hair, big brown eyes, and a smile.
I thought of La Befana now as the plane touched down. Was this what it felt like when she landed on her broomstick flying from house to house to visit the children of Italy?
An old man with feathery salt and pepper hair picked us up at the airport. Mom kissed him once on each cheek, and he smiled and waved at Carina and me. “Hello!” He said in an Italian accent.
Carina hid behind mom’s leg, but I beamed back. “Ciao!”
“Brava!” The man said as he lifted the heavy suitcase into his trunk.
Mom sat up front with him and they chatted in Italian while Carina and I sat silently in the backseat. She cried in discomfort, but Mom didn’t hear her.
“What is it?” I whispered to her.
“I need to use the bathroom,” she whispered.
“Tell Mom,” I suggested quietly.
Carina’s eyes widened. “No!” She whispered. “The toilets will suck me out here.”
“Zia was lying,” I told my sister.
Skeptical, she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked so uncomfortable.
“Mom,” I chimed, interrupting her conversation with our driver, whose name I learned was Angelo.
“What is it?”
“I need to use the bathroom.”
She turned around and narrowed her green eyes at me. “Why didn’t you go when we were just at the airport?” Her tone was icy, annoyed.
“I’m sorry,” I said simply. “I really need to go. It just came on.”
She sighed and murmured to Angelo.
Moments later, we pulled off onto a rest stop on the Autostrada. I yanked Carina by the arm and made it a whole family affair as we walked to the ladies room inside the little pit stop convenience store.
“You go first,” I insisted to my little sister.
Mom stared at me with suspicion but didn’t say anything.
The relief in Carina’s face was clear. I smiled, leaning against the wall.
When we finally arrived in San Donato, I was exhausted. I wasn’t sure what to expect of my grandparents’ hometown. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. The roads were narrow. The cars were tiny. The people were dressed so strangely.
All of the buildings were made of stone, and it was all connected like one big clustered house. Even the trees looked different here.
We drove slowly through the square where a winged statue stood surrounded by little cafes. Angelo turned down a steep corner and then pulled over onto the cobblestones by an iron railing. He murmured something to Mom.
“Girls,” she said. “We’re here!”
Carina had dozed off, but I was wide awake, tired but observing every detail of this strange little town. We were parked in front of a house and a fruit store. There were shelves of fruits and vegetables and a bleach blonde woman shouting at someone in a raspy chainsmoker voice. I couldn’t understand a word of it, but I was fascinated, like a kid in a zoo.
“Eh!” A familiar voice shouted. Nonna emerged from the brown door of the little home beside the fruit shop. Commotion stirred behind her as my cousins Lucia and Sofia spilled out.
“Zia!” They shouted at my mom. “Talia! Carina!”
I didn’t realize how much I missed them, how nice familiar faces would be when we got here. I nearly cried hugging Lucia. She was my best friend and as close as I would ever come to having an older sister.
“Thank God you guys are here!” Sofia laughed, flipping her dirty blonde ponytail over her shoulder. “We were starting to lose our minds.”
Mom laughed as we walked toward the door. “Bored already?”
“They nap every day.” Sofia said, stunned. “All the stores are closed. It’s insane!”
“Sleepy sleepy time,” Mom joked. “You girls take Talia and Carina upstairs while Nonna and I talk with Angelo.”
Lucia and Sofia led us up the steep marble staircase, which opened up into an apartment. “We’re so happy you’re here,” Lucia reaffirmed. “It’s going to be the best summer!”