“Nineteen forty-seven is late but accurate enough for Tom Highward with repatriation; uh, that’s when the bodies of our soldiers were brought back from Europe and the Pacific. If he’d been in the Battle of the Bulge, but—”
“As far as we can tell, he didn’t die in that battle,” I say, the series of terrible realizations pouring in so fast, I feel like I’m drowning.
“Exactly,” Mr. Christianson says like Sherlock Holmes.
“So, who paid for the headstone?” I ask, noting that he’d mentioned my grandmother paid for her plot in 1949.
“Antonio Trombello?” Mr. Christianson reads off the ledger. The name rings no bells. Likely a distant Italian relative stepping in to help his bereaved niece or cousin.
“Is there any way for us to know for sure who, if anyone, is in that grave?” Mac asks theatrically.
“‘Who if anyone’? Seriously?” I scowl at Mac. “Don’t you think there’s an easier explanation. The dates are wrong, or the headstone is in the wrong place. You’re jumping to some majorly outrageous conclusions. Right, Mr. Christianson?”
The sexton is quiet. He shrugs and looks back and forth between me and Mac and once or twice at the camera.
“There’s no way to know for certain without an exhumation.”
The word “exhumation” hangs in the air. I feel nauseated, and I start shaking my head, but Mac looks right at the sexton without taking note of my reaction.
“What would that take?” Mac asks, grasping his chin contemplatively.
“Cut. Okay? That’s too much,” I say, running my hand across my throat in a slicing motion. I can’t play along anymore. Mac continues to ignore me completely and readdresses Mr. Christianson, who’s situated both literally and figuratively between us.
“Well, uh”—he swallows loudly, sweat beading on his brow—“it starts with the family giving the go-ahead. There are some forms and such.”
The family. He’s not referring to me and my brothers. No. My mother is the closest next of kin, and if Mac is the one asking—I can’t predict what her response might be. I’m done with this ambush. I start to remove my mic.
“Where are you going?” Mac asks as I yank wires out from under my clothing.
“I told you—I’m done for today. I’m not signing any papers, and I really don’t want my mom dragged into this mess. I’m here to film a documentary about my grandmother’s early life. I’m giving up time at work and letting you film my goddamn wedding. But digging up my grandfather? That’s just gross, Mac.”
“Hey, no one said we’re doing anything of the sort. I just want to know the procedure . . .” I can hear the BS in his claims of innocence.
“Thanks for the tour, Mr. Christianson.” I drop the portable mic on the table and then rezip my coat, preparing for the cool breeze outside, ready to walk if Mac refuses to provide transportation.
“Elise,” Mac calls after me, but I don’t stop. Let him have his little chat about digging up my family and any secrets my grandmother may have had. Clearly, he wants to use us to bolster his career and make money.
I pull out my cell phone to call my mom but pull up Hunter’s number first. He’s a “take no prisoners” kind of businessperson, and I could use an enthusiastic cheerleader right now. I wish he were here. We’d be an unstoppable team, plus it’d feel good to have his arm around me while I had a good cry into his shoulder. But I’ll settle for a call—for now.
Conrad hovers with a clipboard, asking me where I’m going.
“I’m going for a walk,” I say as I finish dialing and the phone starts ringing. I put on my gloves, yank my zipper up as high as it can go, and pull on the stocking cap from my pocket. I’m so warmed by my anger that I barely feel the cold wind swirling through the frozen cemetery. Phone to my ear, I walk toward the brick entrance, waiting to hear Hunter’s voice, with absolutely no idea where I’m going other than—away. Away from all these complicated questions about Nonna and my family. I’m not sure that I want to know “the truth” if it’s anything other than the beautiful story I’ve wrapped myself in for my entire life.
CHAPTER 14
Vivian
Friday, June 4, 1943
Holy Trinity Catholic Church
“This is all I can remember. I am sorry for this and all my sins.” I say the ceremonial words through the gridded partition, waiting for Father Theodore’s response. I confessed the small lies to papà and the big lies about mamma. I confessed my growing feelings for Tom and how I’m finding it difficult to resist the temptation to go on a date with him. I confessed my occasional rebellion against papà and my prideful nature and my struggle against vanity. I also told Father Theodore about the incident with Tom and Trombello at the mess hall and how it makes me feel lost and confused.
What I don’t share, what I can’t force myself to say in this little box and in front of God, is how often I think about the young Italian POW whom everyone calls Father.
“No improvement from your mother, then, dear?”
“No, Father. I . . . I don’t think she’ll ever get better,” I say calmly, even though I want to drop my head onto the armrest and cry. I’ve come to understand this fact more and more lately, but it’s still hard to say it out loud without feeling like I’m dooming my mother to a life of imprisonment in a sanatorium. I used to imagine we’d find some magic cure, a pill or treatment or elixir, but I fear that hope is dying.
“And your father—do you think you might tell him soon about your position at the camp?”
I shake my head, though I’m not sure he can see it through the grate.
“Forgive me but—no. I can’t. He’d make me quit. I know he would.”
“I see,” Father Theodore says with a familiar sigh that’s a mixture of empathy and judgment. I don’t begrudge him the judgment, and I’m grateful for the empathy. “With that in mind, then it’s important to remember that if you allow this new young man to court you, it should not be entered into on a foundation of deceit. Proverbs, chapter twelve: verse twenty-two. Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are his delight.”
A delight. I’ve always thought I was deeply trustworthy, and I desire being “a delight” in the eyes of God, but when Father Theodore asks me to be honest about Tom, a dam builds inside me. Being honest is good; I know. But being honest is also hard—really hard.
“Yes, Father,” I say in submission, but that “yes” is yet another lie. What “yes” really means is I’ll try to do better, and I’ll look for ways to tell the truth more often. But that’s all I can commit to. Somehow, I feel that, although Father Theodore doesn’t understand, God does.
Father Theodore finishes our session with words of guidance and then prescribes penance. Penance is actually my favorite part of the sacrament of confession because no matter how I feel walking into the church, stepping out, I feel clean and refreshed.