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- 03/16/2021
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The Home - 43. Chapter 43
Amalia and I sat in the living room with our coffee. “Mom, Dad, Frank needs you.”
I saw the tears in Vic’s eyes and knew that he had told Frank about his mother. Taking Amalia’s hand, we walked upstairs to Frank’s bedroom. Opening the door, he was sitting on his bed crying. When he looked up and saw us, he started to cry harder. Amalia when and sat beside him, pulling him into her. I sat on his other side and put my hand on his shoulder as he continues to cry.
I don’t think anyone could feel the hurt this boy felt. The only person in his life that gave him love will not be around much longer. Unless you had experienced this yourself, you had no idea of the hurt Frank was experiencing.
In a sobbing voice, “Can I see my mother?”
“Yes. I’ll take you tomorrow to see her.”
“What is going to happen to me?”
“You will stay here and become like a son to us. We will be your guardian and see that you grow up to a fine young man. Vic will be like a brother to you. We’ll see that you’ll make your mother proud of you. She will always be in your heart and your dreams.”
That night when my grandfathers and Nonna came to me, they could see into my heart. My Nonna kissed me on my cheek. Looking into the eyes of my ancestors, “Please make sure Frank’s mother visits him as you all visit me.” My grandfathers came and put their hands on my head. Somehow, I knew they were blessing me. I then knew Frank’s mother would visit him.
The following day after breakfast, Amalia and I took Frank to see his mother. Vic came along for support, so he said. Arriving at his mother’s room, Amalia took his hand and led him into the room. As soon as he saw his mother, he ran to her. Hugging her, he laid his head on her chest. Amalia left the room. She was crying.
I held her as she sobbed, Vic looked at me, and I could see the tears in his eyes. I reached for him and pulled him into our hug. Standing there, Frank came and said his mother wanted to see me. Amalia and Vic pulled Frank into a hug as I went to see Susan.
“Will you take care of my son?”
“Yes, I will treat him as if he was my son. He shall have a good home, and I’ll make sure he never forgets you. But to protect him, I need you to sign these papers that appoint us as his guardians.”
She took the papers and read through them. I handed her my pen, and she signed them. I called the nurse, and she witnessed the signature.
“Could you please send my son in?”
I nodded and left the room. Seeing Amalia, Vic, and Frank, I told Frank his mother wanted to see him. Amalia looked at me. And I mouthed the words, ‘not good.’
When Frank returned, “My mother said that until she gets better, you’ll be my family.” I knew that was Frank’s hopes he was expressing. No child wants to face up to the death of their mother or father. In time, he will be able to face reality, knowing he has someone to support him.
After school, I made it a practice that Amalia or I would take the boys to the hospital to allow Frank some time with his mother. Vic said they used the time to do their homework. His mother sleeps a lot.
Almost two weeks after we started to drive the boys to the hospital, Father called and said Frank’s mother had passed away. The hospital informed him as his phone number was listed as her priest.
I made arrangements to meet Father that afternoon, and we finished funeral arrangements for Susan. Father said the Church had a cemetery that could be used for the interment. I ordered a stone with her name and the message, A Loving Mother. I had arranged a stone seat to be placed in the front of the grave and a holder for flowers. “Father, I’ll make sure Frank gets to come here as often as he wants.”
I knew we would visit after Mass each Sunday.
Father handled the funeral, and I never want to attend another funeral when a child is involved. I cried when Frank looked at his mother and wanted her to wake up. Vic had his arm around his shoulder. I heard only apart of what he whispered to Frank. My son had become a man in my eyes after that.
The interment at the cemetery was difficult for me. I have been at funerals in the past, but adults always attended them. Children were never directly involved, as was the case with Frank. I gave him a bouquet, which he said was his mother’s favorite. When he placed them on the coffin, his tears dropped on the flowers. Vic went and again put his arm around him, drawing him onto his shoulder to cry upon.
The following Sunday, we took the carriage and drove to the cemetery. Vic and Frank had another bouquet for Susan.
Time heals all, so they say. But it doesn’t, I would look at Frank, and his eyes would glisten from tears whenever something was said, or he saw something that reminded him of his mother.
At night I would tell my visitors about Frank and his Mother, hoping they could reach her and have her visit him in his dreams. He needed to know that she was looking out for him from above.
Life has a way of pushing forward, even when you want to go back to yesterday instead of going into tomorrow. Frank lived his past through his remembrance when his mother was alive. We heard the expression, ‘my mom liked that’ or ’my mom made this’ whenever he saw something or tasted something his mother made. I expected this was natural.
One Sunday night, Amalia made chicken cacciatore for dinner. Frank tasted it, “My mother made this, but it didn’t taste like this.”
“Your mother made the American version, this is the Italian version.”
“I like this version.”
When Frank mentioned something that his mother made, Amalia would say that it was the American version and this was the Italian version. We began to hear, “I like this version” more and more.
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17
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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