The Four Winds

“Mom won’t wake up.”

Grandma put down the metal bucket and lifted the cement-sack towel that covered the cracked porcelain pitcher on the nightstand. Silt-fine dust sifted to the floor. She dipped a washrag into water and wrung the excess into the basin, then placed the washrag on Mom’s forehead. “She isn’t feverish,” Grandma said. Then: “Elsa?”

Mom didn’t respond.

Grandma dragged a chair into the room and sat down by the bed. For a long time, she said nothing, just sat there. Then, finally, she sighed. “He left us, too, Elsa. It is not only you. He left all the people he said he loved. I’ll never forgive him for that.”

“Don’t say that!” Loreda said.

“Silenzio,” Grandma said. “A woman can die of a broken heart. Do not make it worse.”

“It’s her fault he left. She wouldn’t go to California.”

“In your vast experience with men and love, you decide this. Thank you for your genius, Loreda. I’m sure it’s a comfort to your mama.”

Grandma dabbed the cool wet washcloth on Mom’s forehead. “I know how much it hurts right now, Elsa. You can’t unlove someone even if you want to, even if he breaks your heart. I understand not wanting to wake up. Lord, with this life of ours, who could blame you. But your daughter needs you, especially now. She is as foolish as her father. Ant worries me, too.” Grandma leaned closer, whispered, “Remember the first time you held Loreda and we both cried? Remember your son’s laugh and how he squeezes so hard when he hugs you. Your children, Elsa. Remember Loreda … Anthony…”

Mom drew in a sharp, ragged breath, and sat up sharply, as if she’d been thrown ashore, and Grandma steadied her, took her in her arms and held her.

Loreda had never heard sobbing like this. She thought Mom might simply break in half at the force of her crying. When she was finally able to breathe without sobbing, Mom drew back, looking ravaged. There was no other word for it.

“Loreda, Ant, please leave us,” Grandma said.

“What’s wrong with her?” Loreda asked.

“Passion has a dark edge. If your father had ever grown up, he would have told you this instead of filling your head with fluff.”

“Passion? What does that have to do with anything?”

“She’s too young to understand, Rose,” Elsa said.

Loreda hated to be told she was too young for anything. “I am not. Passion is good. Great. I long for it.”

Grandma waved a hand impatiently. “Passion is a thunderstorm, there and gone. It nourishes, sì, but it drowns, too. Our land will save and protect you. This is something your father never learned. Be smarter than your selfish, foolish father, cara. Marry a man of the land, one who is reliable and true. One who will keep you steady.”

Marriage again. Her grandmother’s answer to every question. As if marrying well meant a good life. “How about if I just get a dog? It sounds about as exciting as the life you want for me.”

“My son has spoiled you, Loreda, let you read too m

any romantic books. It will be the ruin of you.”

“Reading? I doubt it.”

“Out,” Grandma said, pointing to the door. “Now.”

“I don’t want to be here anyway,” Loreda said. “Come on, Ant.”

“Good,” Grandma said. “It’s laundry day. Go get us water.”

Loreda should have left five minutes ago.

* * *

“HE NEVER LOVED ME,” Elsa said. “Why would he?”

“Ah, cara…” Rose scooted closer, reached out to place her rough, work-reddened hand on Elsa’s. “You know I lost three daughters. Three. Two who never breathed in this world and one who did. But never did we really speak of it.” Rose drew in a deep breath, exhaled it. “Each one I allowed myself to mourn briefly. I made myself believe in God’s plan for me. I went to church and lit candles and prayed. I was never in my life as afraid as when I carried Raffaello in my womb. He was so busy in there. I found I couldn’t think of him as anything but healthy and I grew afraid of my hope. If I saw a black cat, I would burst into tears. Spilled olive oil could send me rushing to church to combat bad luck. I didn’t knit a single pair of booties or make a blanket or sew a christening gown. What I did do, it seems, was imagine him. He became real to me in a way the girls had not. When he finally was born—so hearty and hale and too beautiful to bear—I knew that God had forgiven me for whatever sin I’d committed that cost me my daughters. I loved him so much, I … couldn’t discipline him, couldn’t deny him. Tony told me I was spoiling him, but I thought, how could it hurt? He was a shooting star and he blinded me with his light. I … wanted so much for him. I wanted him to know love and prosperity and to be an American.”

“And I came along.”