Francesca took her sister’s hand in hers and brought it to her lips. “Dio mio, Maria, how on earth am I to do any of this without you?”
At the sound of her sister’s voice, Maria’s eyes fluttered open. Slowly, she turned her head. Through waxy lips she pushed out the words, “You’re brave, Cesca. And strong. You don’t need anyone.”
“How can you say that? I’ve never done a single thing without you.” The pain welled from deep within and shook Francesca violently. Her dearest, most precious sister would slip from this world to become a memory, just as her mother had. If there was a God, he wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t take everyone from her. He wouldn’t leave her so completely bereft.
“Ti amo,” Maria gasped. “Tell Alberta… Send my love.”
A sob tore from Francesca’s lips. “Please, Maria. Please don’t go. I need you here with me.” She wept so hard she felt she’d be sick. “I love you.”
She looked at her sister’s face, swept the damp hair from her forehead, and for a moment saw her five-year-old sister racing after her down the street at home, golden sunlight pouring over her, and the two of them collapsing together into a heap, giggling. She saw little Maria chasing gulls on the beach and collecting shells. The two of them snuggled deeply under the covers of their little bed to keep warm. Together—always. Sempre sorelle. Soon, there would only be one.
Maria placed her skeletal hand, light as a butterfly, on Francesca’s arm. “Promise me.” She paused a long moment to catch her breath. “Promise me, Cesca.”
“Anything,” she rasped, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Promise me you will thrive in America, for us both.”
10
Alma left the hospital anguished and unsettled. She’d never witnessed anyone dying before, or seen a person so utterly bereft. And for better or worse, she’d begun to care for the Ricci sisters’ welfare. She went back to her work in the registry office and spent scarcely an hour there when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“The boss wants you in the hospital again,” said a matron whom Alma had yet to meet. “There’s an Italian, gone off the rails. She’s screaming and no one knows what she’s saying. A young woman.”
Alma’s stomach dropped. Maria must have passed.
“I’ll go now,” she said and hurried outdoors to the hospital and through the sick ward.
As she neared Maria’s bed, several nurses stood by on alert and one reached for Francesca. She had thrown herself across her sister’s body and slapped away the hands that reached to detain her. She pawed at the shroud covering Maria’s face.
Alma’s heart squeezed as she raced to the young woman’s side. “Miss Ricci—Francesca, please, they must prepare her for…for burial.” She stumbled over the Italian.
“She hasn’t seen a priest,” Francesca’s voice rasped. Her nose ran, and deep purple circles ringed her eyes. “She didn’t have her last rites. Please, she needs a priest to pray over her. She deserves to go to heaven!” Her voice became shrill. “They’ve put this tag on her like she’s…like she’s…”
“Don’t remove it,” Alma said calmly, glancing at the tag around Maria’s wrist. “It’s an identity tag.” She reached for Francesca and, in an uncharacteristic display of affection, laid a hand on her back. Francesca didn’t pull away, and Alma exhaled a small breath. “I will see about a priest now. I’m so sorry, Francesca.”
“Where will they bury her?” she asked, the frenzied look in her eyes beginning to ebb.
“I’m not sure…” Alma stammered. “I’ll ask.”
Francesca nodded and relaxed her hold on her sister a fraction.
Alma quickly relayed Francesca’s requests in English to the nurses.
“Why didn’t she request a priest for last rites before now?” the chief nurse said, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “We have one here today. Leslie,” she called to another nurse, “fetch the priest.”
“Yes, Nurse Rose.” The woman hurried away.
“Do you know where she’ll be buried?” Alma asked.
“She’s Catholic, so probably at St. Mark’s in Brooklyn.”
“What are they saying?” Francesca demanded, not daring to move away from her position beside her sister.
“It’s all right,” Alma said. “A priest is on his way. He’ll pray with you and then you must say goodbye, Francesca. Maria will be buried properly, in a Catholic cemetery.”
Francesca’s tears began anew. “Thank you.”
Though Francesca seemed relieved, Alma felt vaguely nauseous. After her sister was buried, Francesca would be deported—Alma knew the uncle from Chicago was a fabrication—but perhaps that was best, now that she was alone. Surely she had some family other than her father in Sicily? Alma glanced at the still feet poking out from beneath the edge of the blanket. Maybe Francesca didn’t have anyone else. Wasn’t that what Maria had intimated? Alma didn’t know what to say, what to do to console Francesca, so she looked on quietly, hoping against hope that she had guessed incorrectly and this Nico Ricci from Chicago would appear. Perhaps then Francesca could begin again.
*
Francesca stared at the empty bed where her sister had taken her final breath. No sign of Maria remained—no indentation in the pillow, no wisps of dark hair strewn across the blanket. The odors of cough syrups, cinnamon, and quinine tablets were replaced by vinegar so strong it burned her nostrils. She knew she would be escorted from the hospital momentarily, but she couldn’t seem to find the strength to leave on her own.
They’d taken Maria away to a cemetery filled with lost souls who didn’t belong in America, or in their homelands. Francesca closed her eyes against her imaginings of her sister in a coffin, deep underground, forgotten and unknown by everyone but her. Pain surged through her, and yet she couldn’t seem to shed another tear. It was as if her heart had been buried, too. The only comfort had come from the priest who had prayed for Maria’s soul. Though Francesca wasn’t certain prayers helped, she knew Maria believed in their power, and this simple act would have made her happy.
“I’d like to help you with your paperwork.” Alma Brauer interrupted her thoughts.
Had she been there all along? Francesca squinted as if peering through a haze. Yes, Alma had remained by her side through the prayer and while Maria had been taken away. Though Francesca didn’t really know the young woman, she was grateful for her calming presence. Everyone else had gone.
“You’ve had no luck contacting your uncle in Chicago, sì?” Alma asked.
Francesca stared at the matron without replying; her grief paralyzed her, echoed inside her as if she were an empty vessel. But Alma waited patiently for her, hands folded.
At last, Francesca managed to shake her head.
Alma replied in slow but steady Italian, “I know this is difficult for you, but I’ll do everything I can to help. The Catholic missions will be here tomorrow and can make inquiries on your behalf.”