Page 105 of When We Were Enemies
“Oh,” I say, allowing my disappointment to show. “I’d hoped ...”
“I know,” he says, letting his fingers brush against the back of my hand as they hang parallel at our sides. “But you are strong on your own. With your work and your marriage certificate and your mamma and papà cared for. God will watch over you now.”
“I doubt God has any kind feelings for me, Father.”
“You are wrong. He is all love,” he says, sounding like the priest I often forget he is.
“But my sins ... Tom ...” I’ve had no one to talk to about that night—about what happened to Tom. What the knife felt like in my hand as it pierced his flesh. How there are times I’m suffocated by guilt and other moments I’m sure I did what had to be done.
“Do you blame a soldier for killing his enemy on the battlefield?” Trombello asks before the tears gathering in my eyes make their way to my cheeks.
“No. Of course not, but ...”
“No ‘but.’ You were a soldier,figlia mia.A brave soldier. God knows of it, and so do I.”
A soldier. It feels sacrilegious to think of myself as a soldier with the horrors of war facing our brave young men every day. But when Trombello says it, I understand his meaning.
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt without preamble. Trombello stiffens and then responds mechanically.
“Congratulazioni per la bellissima notizia.”Congratulations on the great news.
I didn’t tell him in order to seek his felicitations. As this life has grown inside of me, I’ve wondered if it is God’s way of telling me that actions have consequences. If caring for this child is my penance, for myself, for my family. To make up for what I’ve done to the child’s father, to make up for the life my brother didn’t get to have.
“What do I tell my child?” I have so many questions I need answered. I want the guidance I can get from only one source. “How do I tell him his father is gone? That I am the thief who stole his father away. How do I repent?”
Trombello gazes at the chapel. It’s a long, unbroken stare.
“Tell him his father died at war.” I nod. Trombello’s body sways as his knees lock, and the breeze tosses my hair into my face. I don’t panic at his withdrawn demeanor and far-off look. I know it’s not an easy question, and I don’t expect a simple reply. At long last, he says, “One day, when your child learns of God, tell him this in addition andnothing else—his father is buried on consecrated ground, with last rites, and God will open the gates of paradise to him if he is found worthy.”
I imagine my child sitting on my knee, wanting to know stories of his papà. I’ll tell him of a man who didn’t exist, not really, not in any way I’d want my little one to know of. My child will worship a fable. I touch the scar at my neck where Tom cut me with the knife that killed him moments later. I grew up knowing who and what my mother was. Her darkest moments were also mine. If I can protect my child from such a harsh understanding, I will.
And I’ll be the mother mine was unable to be because of the way her mind worked, and the way life failed her. I’ll care for my child and carry the heavy burdens of life so he doesn’t have to, no matter what sacrifices are required.
Finding the first modicum of peace I’ve felt since that fateful night, I follow Trombello’s gaze, grateful. He lingers on the cross at the apex of the chapel’s vaulted entrance like he’s witnessing the holy sacrifice of Christ himself. An unsettled nausea gathers in my belly that goes beyond morning sickness. This is a holy place now. But it’s been consecrated ground since Archbishop Cicognani dedicated the altar last June. Consecrated ground. The phrase chills me. The foundation to the chapel was poured immediately following the night of the dance.
Consecrated ground.
I shake off the potential realization. I don’t want to know.
If Tom rests under that chapel, and Trombello spared his soul in those final moments of his life by administering last rites, that’s something Trombello can carry. For now, I’m carrying enough, including Tom’s innocent child.
“I wish things were different,” I say quietly as Cresci and Gravano wave and make their way to us across the field.
“As do I,figlia mia.As do I.”
I’ve seen an ally turn from a stranger into a dance partner, into a lover, into a husband, and finally into an enemy. And I’ve seen myenemy turn from an adversary into a colleague, then a friend, a rescuer, and finally my only true ally.
I’ve been many things in my life as well, and soon enough I’ll become a mother. I don’t know if I believe Tom will be waiting inside the gates of heaven when I make it there one day. I don’t know if I’ll be allowed inside either. But I do know that my child doesn’t deserve to inherit the sins of his or her father or mother. And I will do my best to protect her and provide for her. Whatever it takes.
CHAPTER 35
Elise
Two Years Later
RROCK Headquarters—Refugee Resettlement Organization and Community Kitchen
The boardroom table seats twelve, but right now it’s just me, my chief operations officer, senior vice president, and general counsel sitting across from a bright-eyed Harvard grad in a tailored skirt and jacket. Her résumé is impressive—master’s degree in public health and social work and an undergrad degree in linguistics. I can already tell her vibe will fit in perfectly with our team.
