Queen of Secrets, page 29
“I’ve noticed, and it scares the shit out of me. They need us right now. Not some stupid fucking dress I can’t wear anytime soon,” I said, then looked at my big stomach.
“Thanks a lot. You know, sometimes you can act like a—”
“A what?” I asked.
“Just because things didn’t work out with Frank doesn’t mean you can take it out on me. I love Louie, and he loves me. And we want a nice wedding. With everything that happened, I wanted to have something to look forward to. Something to make me happy.” She scooped the magazines into her arms.
I took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve been under stress with the baby and . . .”
“I saw him there too. I’m sorry you’re hurting,” she said, softer now.
Unable to form words, I reached out for a hug. She dropped the magazines back onto the table, and we held on to one another for a long time. The exchange was followed by tears that lingered from the death of our mother.
Carmela’s words buzzed in my ears. I was a walking, breathing emotion. I couldn’t stop my mouth or my tears from doing what they do. To soothe my temper, I went into the medicine cabinet in the office and grabbed a few pills. One or two couldn’t hurt. It would help take the edge off and let me and my growing baby rest. With a glass of water, I took one down. Then I put on my pajamas and fell asleep in my old bed.
Like every morning on the ranch, I woke when the rooster crowed. I rolled out of bed and stretched. Massaging my aching lower back, minor cramps radiated into my groin. It must have been from all the cleaning and gardening I’d done the last few days. I rubbed my stomach and decided I wouldn’t do as much today.
I got dressed and went outside to move my body. I hoped that increased circulation would help my aching pelvis. I went straight for the chicken coop. I bent down to grab the bag of feed and a massive pain surged through my pelvis. The pressure was so bad that I grabbed the wooden beams of the enclosure so I wouldn’t fall.
I breathed through the pain. A gush of blood streamed down my legs and reddened the dirt of the chicken coup.
“Papa!” I screamed, trying to hold on. My legs gave way, and I fell into the pool of bloodied dirt. “Tony! Anyone, please help me!”
With every scream, more blood gushed out of me.
Tony ran to me. His mouth dropped open. “Oh my God, what’s wrong?” He tried to lift me off the ground as the chickens gathered around us.
“Get Pop, now!” I belted out. That was all the energy I had left. I became weak and dizzy. My eyes closed without my permission, and everything went black.
I woke in one of Pop’s medical beds. My eyes didn’t work right. Unfocused. My hearing was altered by a constant hum in my ears. The room smelled funny but somehow familiar—sweet and fragrant, like one of those rum drinks I had in Florida.
Licking my lips, I made the connection.
It was ether.
The room spun from all the medicine and drugs that coursed through my veins. I tried to move, but my pelvis ached something fierce. When I shifted my hips from side to side, something had been shoved inside me. It felt like a large piece of cloth or gauze. I didn’t want to move until I knew what had happened to me.
With a bone-dry throat, I called out, “Papa?” I tried to scream, but it felt like I’d swallowed my voice. “What happened? How’s the baby?” I barely managed to get out.
My father came to me with red puffy eyes and held my hand. He leaned over my sore body, and said, “I ma so sorry, Violetta. You bambina, she’s morta. She die.”
“Wait, what? What?” I screamed at him. With every wail of my voice, the pain penetrated deeper. Every time I yelled out, my abdominal muscles spasmed in a stabbing pain so strong it made me breathless until I built up enough energy for the next scream.
He hugged me gently, and I held on to him with one hand. The other searched my pelvis for any signs of life.
There were none.
No more bump.
No more little flutters under my belly button.
“No, no! This can’t be true. Please God, tell me this can’t be true,” I cried out, followed by waves of tears. “Why would you take my child, my sweet innocent child? The only thing I lived for,” I cried out and dug my nails into Pop’s arm. “Why, God, would you do this to me? Haven’t I suffered enough?” I cried years of grief into Pop’s shoulder.
I sobbed for over an hour when Carmela came in to comfort me. I was glad she didn’t hold a grudge against me for my recent outburst because I needed her. And since Mama was gone now too, I needed Carm more than ever to help me get through this. Carmela knew me inside and out. I surrendered myself to her, right there and then. I could no longer be brave.
“I’m so sorry,” she said as she hugged and cried with me.
Pop backed away to let us have our private moment.
“Was it a boy or a girl?” I choked out.
“Una bambina,” he said.
A girl. A beautiful little girl I’d never again have the chance to love or hold in my arms. I wept as my sister held me.
“What did she look like? Let me see her,” I said with swollen eyes.
Carmela and Pop exchanged glances.
“If you wanna see her, I bring her to you,” he said. “We can bury her beside your mama. She take care of her in heaven.”
I cast my fears aside, and my motherly instincts kicked in. I needed to see her. I wanted to touch her skin and kiss her cheek. I would not spend the rest of my life wondering what she looked like—my angel.
“Bring her to me,” I said through trembling lips.
Pop left the room and came back holding a white blanket in his arms. He held her out to me. I peered into the cloth and there she was—my precious daughter. She was so tiny. She didn’t have any eyelashes or eyebrows, but the faintest shadow of the tiniest strands of black hair covered her head. She looked like she was sleeping. Her eyes were closed, and her tiny fingers were folded over her stomach. She looked like an angel, so quiet and gentle. My finger grazed her velvet soft cheek. And for a moment, I was blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had befallen me.
“She was two pounds,” Carmela said as she watched me stare at my daughter for the first time.
“How’d this happen? I did what the doctor said. I took naps. I rested. I ate well. I did everything—now this,” I cried out as tears gushed over my cheeks onto my daughter’s closed lips.
“You’ve been under a lot of pressure with Mama’s death and everything,” Carmela said as her voice caught in her throat.
“Violetta. Sometime Dio needa da bambini back in heaven to do hisa work. Itsa always God’s will,” Pop said, trying to bring me back to my faith.
With a throbbing sensation radiating through my pelvis, I held on to my doll-like baby and retraced everything that led me here: my stressful marriage to Frank, my travels to San Jose, witnessing Mama die, seeing Gaetano again, and realizing he’d moved on with someone else. Then it hit me.
It was the pills.
Waves of guilt crashed over me. As much as I wanted the comfort of denial, I could no longer ignore the truth: I had done this. I was weak. I killed my baby. I’d poisoned her.
The room spun. My grip on my daughter loosened.
“Take her. I can’t hold her any longer. Bury her with Mama. I did this,” I muttered, tangled in grief.
With a blank look, Carmela took my lifeless baby from my arms and carried her out of the room.
“Violetta, sometime dis tings happen. Itsa not you fault.” Pop reached for my hand.
“Get out. I don’t want to see anyone,” I said with acid in my voice.
Once he left, I looked around the room. Reality hit me from every direction. Although I hadn’t pulled any trigger, I was a murderer.
I mustered up the courage to call Frank. I called the house several times, day and night, and no answer. Where the hell was he? I didn’t have Jimmy’s number but decided to call the Di Natale home. I wouldn’t tell them over the phone. This was news that Frank should hear straight from me.
“Pronto, residenza Di Natale.”
“Yes, this is Violetta. Is Mrs. Di Natale there?”
“Si, un attimo.”
“Hello?”
“Hello, it’s Violetta. I’ve been trying to get a hold of Frank, but there’s no answer for two days. Do you know where he is?
“I’m sorry, I don’t. Are you okay, Violetta?”
“No, not exactly. I need to speak to Frank as soon as possible. Please have him call me at my father’s house.”
“Yes, I will. How you feelin’? So excited to meet our grandchild. I hope you’re resting over there. Frank said you weren’t feeling too good before you left.”
I couldn’t respond right away. My throat was so tight I struggled to breathe.
“Vi, you there?”
The phone shook at my ear. “Yes, please have him call me.”
“Sure. Take good care of yourself.”
I hung up the phone and cried the rest of the afternoon.
Frank called two days later.
“Whatsa matter? Ma said you called.”
“Yes, I called the house several times, but you weren’t home. Where have you been?”
“Out. Don’t ask me about my business, Vi. You know better than that. I’m working on somethin’.”
“Frank, I have something terrible to tell you. Sit down.”
“What the fuck did you do, Vi? What happened?” His voice grew frantic.
“We lost the baby. It was a girl.”
There was complete silence, then wails of screams came through the line. “I told you, you should have never gone out there, but no, you neva listen. You did this.”
I didn’t admit to the drugs in that moment or Frank would’ve killed me. But he wasn’t wrong, so I didn’t protest.
“I’m sorry, Frank,” I said in a small voice. “We named her Adelina after my mother, and I will bury her with my mother in two days. I wanted to tell you so that you could come here and say your goodbyes.”
“I’ll neva forgive you.”
“I understand you’re hurt and angry. I think more than ever we need each other right now. She was our daughter.”
“You pill poppin’ whore,” he said through tears. “Probably wasn’t even mine. You been around all those whores. I bet you got knocked up when you went to Florida. I provide for you. I bought you things like a God damn queen. Look what you did.”
“I wanted you to know, as the father of our child, so that we could bury our daughter together,” I pleaded.
“I ain’t comin’.” Through the receiver, I heard things breaking and Frank screaming. Then nothing.
He’d hung up.
There was a hard side to Frank that needed to live up to his father’s standards and there was still a young boy who grew up too fast and had to be tough to survive. He took to the drink when things got hard, as I had done with pills. Because I saw it in myself, I saw it in him. Sure, Frank killed strangers on the street because he didn’t know them, but he didn’t have the courage to bury his own daughter. As tough as Frank Di Natale appeared, there was a weak, sad little boy inside.
I buried my daughter alongside my mother. Mr. Loma made a small casket for her body that looked like nothing more than a shoebox. She lay in tiny, white satin clothes. Carmela stitched them from fabric she planned to use for her wedding dress. Adelina looked like a doll lying in that box. The only thing that got me through that process was the belief that my Mama would take care of her and that they’d be together. Once I told myself that, it was easier to watch them put her in with my mother, easier to walk away from them both and from the entire experience.
As he’d said, Frank didn’t show.
My daughter’s absence made me feel like I didn’t have much left to live for. I had the whole thing planned. I’d get the pills and swallow the whole damn bottle. I wanted to be in Heaven, safe with my mother and daughter. I went to the medicine cabinet and grabbed the pill bottle. With a glass of water, I tilted the bottle in the air and opened my mouth.
“Violetta, no,” Pop screamed and slapped the pills from my hands.
I reached for him and held him tightly.
“I’m sorry, Pop. I . . . I . . . I’m lost. I don’t even want to be on the ranch anymore. With Mama gone, Gaetano, and now my daughter, death and loss are all around me. I don’t want to live anymore.”
My father’s eyes were grave, and tears fell from his cheeks. “Violetta, I suffer da same wit you. I lost my wife and now my granddaughter. Please, dona do dis. I canno lose you too. Da one ting keeping me alive is you and your brothers and sister.”
“But, Pop, I don’t have any children. I have no one.”
“You have us. You mussa go on. You mama, she would wan you to go on.”
“Pop, it’s so hard. All I want to do is take the pills.”
“I willa help you get off dem. You needa get back to da church to find yourself again. Only God can helpa you do dat. My beautiful daughter, life isa bout hope and possibility. Dat isa what keep us going on,” Pop said, then wiped a tear from my cheek.
I fell into my father’s arms. He hugged me tightly and rocked me back and forth like my mother used to do.
“I love you, Violetta.” He kissed the top of my head.
I closed my eyes and embraced the silence.
With Pop’s help, I got off the pills. I attended AA meetings around town, and they helped for a while. I listened to others talk, but I knew with the kind of life I was in, I’d never be able to share my story. If anyone found out that I told someone outside the family, I’d look like a rat. So, I went to the one place most mob wives went to lessen the pain—church.
I spent many hours praying to the man on the cross. I told God I was angry at him for making me endure all that I had. I asked him why he would do this to me, and the answer that came to me was simple. He didn’t; they did—the Mafia.
They had done it all. I was a product of their power—a puppet on their strings. Every loss I’d suffered was because of them in some way. And it wasn’t just their physical power. They were always in my head, manipulating me and leaving me on edge. They controlled me—mind, body, and soul. I’d been beaten and lost almost everything I loved. I could blame Frank, I could blame the pills, I wanted to blame everyone, but it was Cosa Nostra that had brought me to my knees. Every sick and twisted move led me here, before God. As much as they’d given me, they’d taken.
In my mind, we were now even.
Between the Hail Mary and the Lord’s prayer, I decided it was time to leave the ranch. I needed to face Frank, one way or another. I hadn’t told him when I’d be returning for fear that would cause another unwanted outburst. But once I was home, I would decide if I’d stay married. I knew that the church frowned upon divorce, and divorce to a mobster was almost unheard of, but my soul was at stake. This time, God would guide my decisions, not pills, and not fantasies.
With an altered soul, I packed my things, said goodbye to my family, and left the foothills behind, ready to face my predetermined life. Again.
Liberation
The cab pulled up. Frank’s car was in the driveway, odd at this hour. Maybe he slept in from a late night out again. I didn’t want to face him. I represented failure to him, as he did to me. I rubbed my stomach and felt the absence within my womb.
With every step toward the front door, I fought back my shame.
My hands shook as I inserted the key. I opened the door quietly. I walked into what looked like my house, but it didn’t feel the same. It even smelled different. A blend of cigarettes mixed with perfume that I’d smelled before, but I couldn’t place.
I put my bags on the sofa and took a look around. All the kitchen chairs had been knocked over. Liquor bottles littered every surface. Broken glasses and plates scattered across the floor.
Poor Frank. He wasn’t handling our daughter’s death well.
As much as I would’ve liked to avoid him, I was ready to talk. At the staircase, strange noises came from our bedroom. It sounded like the radio. I continued to climb the steps and entered the abandoned nursery. My stomach dropped and more tears welled. The hollow shell of my soul crumbled. Inside, I touched the yellow curtains that hung from her tiny window.
A familiar voice came from my room.
A woman’s voice.
My mind mentally cataloged the sound, and an eerie feeling came over me.
I walked toward my bedroom door. Voices turned into groans and heavy breathing.
Heat spread through my body. A fire deep inside burned and consumed me. Blinded by red, my mind locked somewhere between consciousness and freefall. I stood in the confines of my hallway, barely holding onto my resolve of duty to family. I’d suffered every emotion but one—rage.
The anger that lay dormant in my soul was now present. Like smoke, adrenaline crept up from the ground and slithered its way around my legs, passing my heart and settling in my brain. The toxic poison desensitized all rational thought.
This felt primal.
I wanted to be hit. Hit hard. Pain was welcomed. Pain would make me feel alive again. This time, I’d hit back. Just beyond that door was my excuse—my freedom.
My heels sank into the Persian rug fibers that lined the hallway in our home. I would force myself through the door and face my demons. This was my house. The only place I had left to go. With my dead daughter’s nursery behind me, the level of violation was incomprehensible.
I unclenched my fists and threw open the bedroom door.
Rose was on top of Frank, naked, while he lay like a rag doll. The sound of the door striking the wall made her whip her head around. Her eyes were doll-like, black and lifeless. She focused on me—the woman standing in her way. Her message was clear: conquer and stake her claim, like a dog marking its territory. To Rose, this wasn’t betrayal—it was a business move. A divisive power play used in my absence.
