Several seconds ticked by, then her father grunted. “Il bambino?”
Olivia’s muscles seized with a spasm of grief, now as familiar to her as breathing. Clenching her hands into fists, she held her head high. “They took him from me, as you knew they would. They put him up for adoption.”
Her mother gasped. Her father remained silent.
“Un ragazzino?” Mamma’s sorrowful whisper sliced through Olivia’s stoic calm.
Her throat closed up, and she could only nod. Yes, a little boy. Her son, Matteo, whom she got to hold for only a few precious minutes before he was ripped from her arms.
Her father shook his head. The coldness in his eyes sent a shiver down Olivia’s spine. “We no longer have a daughter. You are not welcome here.” He turned to point a finger at Mamma. “Rosina, you are needed in the store.” Without a backward glance, he disappeared down the staircase.
Tears slid down Mamma’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, cara.”
Olivia’s lips trembled. Part of her wished her mother would stand up to Papà. Tell him that Olivia was their daughter and that of course they would forgive her. But Mamma couldn’t risk the wrath of Enrico Rosetti being turned on her.
“I’ll just get some of my clothes, then.” Swallowing hard to hold back the tears that begged for release, Olivia went down the hall to her room and pushed open the creaky door. Her jaw dropped. The room had been stripped bare, with nothing but the bed in the middle, leaving it more sterile than her cell at the reformatory had been. All her photos, her bulletin board with her awards from school, all gone.
She rushed to open the closet. Only barren wire hangers swung there. She turned to see her mother wringing her hands in the doorway. “Mamma, where are my things?”
“He . . . he got rid of them.”
“He what?”
Olivia scrambled to the scarred wooden dresser, yanking open drawer after drawer. Every one empty. Her lips quivered. All her clothes, her mementos from childhood, and—most importantly—all Rory’s gifts to her, gone. Her mind struggled to remember what treasures she’d hidden there. The book of poetry where Rory had inscribed words of love, the dried rose pressed between the pages, and the silver locket he’d given her for her eighteenth birthday. She sank onto the soft mattress, grief fresh in her throat.
“I managed to save a few things.” Mamma reached under the bed and drew out a cloth bag. She undid the drawstring and revealed a few pieces of clothing and a battered cigar box. Then she drew the string tight again. “You can look at them later. I must go.” She pushed the bag into Olivia’s arms.
“Mamma, did Rory send any letters here from the army?” She yearned for any word of him. Proof that he was still alive and that he missed her as much as she missed him.
It had been hard enough not having any member of her family visit her for the past eighteen months. But not receiving any word from Rory had been sheer torture. She had no idea if her letters had reached him, if he even knew she’d been pregnant, or that she’d given birth to their son. In her dreams, she’d imagined Rory leaving the war to come to her rescue. But she’d never heard a single word from him.
Her mother looked away. “Oh, cara.”
“Papà destroyed those too?” Why was her father so cruel? But then again, he’d always despised Rory, “a filthy Irishman” he called him, and likely blamed him for leading his daughter astray.
“Mi dispiace.”
“Why are you sorry? It wasn’t your doing.” Bitterness coated Olivia’s tongue. Her mind whirled with the unfairness of all that had happened to her. If God was out there, He was certainly exacting His punishment. “I’ll just have to wait for Rory to come home, then. Papà can’t keep us from being together.”
Mamma shook her head, tears glittering in her eyes. “Oh, Olivia. He isn’t coming home.”
Olivia’s heart slowed to a dull throb in her chest. “Of course he is. As soon as this ridiculous war is over.” Or maybe sooner. She’d even prayed that he would be injured, just a little, enough to warrant them sending him home to recuperate. Was that selfish of her? Her fingers tightened on the drawstring.
“No, cara mia. Rory . . .” She hesitated. “Rory è morto.”
Olivia’s head jerked up so fast she bit her tongue. “Dead? No. That’s not possible.”
Her mother’s face crumpled. “Sì, cara. Eileen came to the store to tell us. They got a telegram three months ago.”
“She came here?” Olivia heard her own voice echo in the empty room. If his sister had come to the store, then it must be true.
Her hands shook, her heart shriveling in her chest as the ache spread outward and the horrible words sank in. Mamma would have no reason to lie. No cause to deceive her. But how had Olivia not known? Surely if she and Rory were soul mates, she would have felt his absence from this earth.
The distance she’d felt from Rory since he left to join the war now widened into an unending chasm, one that could never be crossed. She’d clung to their unborn child as the one tangible bond connecting them, but when the authorities had torn baby Matteo from her arms, Olivia’s hope had wavered.
Once Rory is home and I’m with him again, she’d told herself, all will be back to normal. We will overcome this loss together.
Now that would never happen.
A keening wail escaped her throat as she bent forward over her knees.
