Home Again

And that damned song kept going through her mind. You and me against the world.

It would change everything, her next question. Take what little she and her mother had left and rip it apart.

He doesn’t know about you. He’d love you if he did.

Lina seized the comforting thought until her fingers stopped shaking and the lump in her throat melted away. Slowly, drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes, unable to look at her mother when she asked the question. “What’s his name, Mom? That’s all I want for my birthday. Just a name.”

For a second, everything went quiet and still.

“Whose name?” Mom said at last, her voice soft. So soft, as if she knew, knew and was afraid.

Lina opened her eyes and met her mother’s gaze. She felt a little sting of conscience, knew how much her next words would hurt her mother, but she pushed the feelings aside. “My father.”

“Oh my God,” Francis whispered.

Lina didn’t spare him a glance, just stared at her mother, who was so motionless, it looked as if she weren’t even breathing. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, her honey-brown hair curled gently away from her face, her clear, pale skin flushed. The bright red silk of her blouse was a jarring smear of color against her throat.

“Well?” Lina prompted.

Color crept up her mother’s long, slim neck. She brought a shaking hand to her forehead and pushed away a nonexistent lock of hair. “Your father…” She stopped, threw an uncertain look at Father Francis.

Lina had a sudden, horrifying thought. “Is it him? Father Francis and the Virgin Mary of medicine?” She laughed sharply, almost hysterically, but it wasn’t funny. How was it that she’d never considered this possibility? Her middle name was Francesca. Oh, God, it was hysterical, really it was. Who better for her perfect mother than a man of the cloth? “How many Hail Marys would they give you for that one?”

“No,” Francis said. “I wish I were your father, Lina, but I’m not.”

Lina’s breath exploded in a sigh of relief. He wasn’t her father, hadn’t lived beside her for all these years a hidden liar, a father who wouldn’t admit it. He was still her friend, the uncle she’d never had, the only extended family she’d ever known. All at once she remembered a hundred moments in her past when he had been there for her, washing a scraped knee, playing Candy Land, taking her to the father-daughter luncheons. She moved woodenly toward him, her eyes fixed on his face. Embarrassingly, tears filled her eyes, but she couldn’t will them away. “But you know who he is, don’t you? You know.” Francis paled. He shot a confused look at her mother. “Mad—”

“Don’t ask her.” Tears spilled down Lina’s face. She grabbed Francis’s hand and squeezed it. “Please…”

“Francis won’t tell you,” Madelaine said in a tired voice.

Lina saw the truth in Francis’s pale blue eyes. He might love Lina, but not enough to go against her mother’s wishes. Never enough to cross the great and perfect Madelaine.

Lina felt a sudden, blinding rush of anger. How dare her mother keep this information from her? How dare she?

She spun around, surged toward her mother. “Tell me.”

Her mother reached out and placed her ice-cold hand against Lina’s cheek. “Let’s talk about this, baby. This isn’t the way to do it, not so—”

Lina slapped her hand away. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want an answer.” Her voice broke, tears fell. “You always talk and I’m sick of it. I’m tired of being loud and different.” She stared up at her mother, blinded by tears, sick with confusion.

“I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t know.” Mom’s voice slid into a whisper. “I should have told you years ago.”

Lina grabbed her by the shoulders. Fear and panic were coursing through her, obliterating everything except the need to finally have an answer. “Tell me.”

“Your father didn’t want…” Mom looked at Francis, gave a watery laugh. “Oh, God, Francis, how can this still hurt so badly?”

Lina went cold all over. Sh

e could feel the answer, swirling around her. She wanted to cry, wanted it so badly, her mouth felt dry and her throat swelled. But suddenly the tears were gone. “He didn’t want me.”

“No, that’s not it.” Madelaine moved forward, her gaze fixed on Lina’s face. “He … didn’t want me, baby. Me.” She gave a brittle laugh. “It was me he left.”

Lina jerked back. “What did you do to him? What?” She looked at Francis, then at her mother again, feeling panic rising in her blood, making her sick and dizzy and angry. “You shoved him away, didn’t you? Made him sick with all your Goody Two-shoes perfection.” Her voice shattered and she started to cry harder. “You made him leave us.”

“Lina, listen to me. Please, I love you so much, honey. Please, let’s—”

“No!” Lina didn’t even realize she’d screamed. She backed up, her hands clamped over her ears. “I don’t want to listen anymore.” She turned and ran for the door, yanking it open. As she stepped through, into the bright sunlight of the day—her sixteenth birthday—she felt a strange calm descend. Her tears dried into a hard, cold knot in her stomach. Slowly she turned to her mother. “Am I like him?”