Page 84 of A Winter in New York

“Do you know ‘River’?” I say.

“Joni Mitchell? Of course,” she says, like it’s a no-brainer.

It was one of my mother’s favorites, she used to sing it at the end of late-night sets in smoky clubs. The melancholy Christmas lyrics feel as if they were written for today, the minor chord treatment of the opening bars turning “Jingle Bells” from a lilt to a lament. I’ve asked to hear it for my mother and for me, because it’s a song about things coming to an end, about leaving, and about the pain of causing the people you love distress. For all that, it’s beautiful, and I find it uplifting because it reminds me of my mother at her happiest—singing for an audience.

“In a while, though, yes?” I say. “Not straightaway.”

She nods, giving me a thoughtful look. “You got it.”

I make my way over to a broad-trunked old oak tree I’ve developed a fondness for. I’ve sat beneath it with my back turned against its trunk on warm summer days, and I’ve sometimes paused on a walk to lay my hands against the bark just to draw strength from its solid presence. My mother was an unabashed tree-hugger and I know she’d have appreciated this oak even more than I do. I’m relieved to see that the overhanging branches have sheltered the ground beneath it from the worst of the snow, and there aren’t many people around on this midwinter’s morning. I can hear kids farther downbraving the icy basketball courts, and I kind of like their noise, their shouts, and their laughter. It’s real life, always moving.

I place my backpack down against the base of the tree and take my mother’s ashes from it, a simple silver urn. I’ve carried this with me since she died; it’s disconcerting to think of finally letting her go. Maybe I should think of it as letting her stay here, instead.

I rest my backside on my bag and lean against the tree, the urn pressed tight against my chest. There’s no rush. I suspect the busker understands what this is for me.

I close my eyes so I can recall my mother’s face, screw up my nose to try to bring the scent she always wore close to my memory. I saved her almost empty last bottle, and cried silently in the bathroom when Adam binned it without askingme.

“This is it, then,” I say, opening our final imaginary conversation. “Is this place okay? I don’t know if you ever came here. I hope so. You’d have hugged this tree for sure.” I lean my head back against it, my eyes open, miles away from here in my mind. I’m a round-limbed child coloring pictures backstage at one of her shows, I’m a grouchy teenager sharing popcorn at the cinema beside her, I’m a frightened daughter holding her dying mother’s hand.

“I’ve made such a mess of everything, Mum,” I say. “But they have their recipe back now. I managed that much, at least.”

I look at the silver urn in my hands. It doesn’t feel as if she’s really in there. I guess she isn’t, really. She’s everywhere. She’s in the perfect pitch of an unexpected Joni Mitchell song on the radio, in the rose-gold streaks of the best holiday sunsets, in the catch of her favorite perfume on a stranger as theypass by. She’s in every pink melamine bowl of gelato. She’ll always be with me, whether I’m in London, or New York, or Toronto. Leaving her ashes in New York doesn’t change that.

I cast a look toward the busker and find her watching me, and I give her a small, forever grateful smile as she plays the opening bars of “River” for me and my magnificent, bohemian, lightning-bolt mother. I don’t feel the expected rush of dread when I unscrew the lid. I listen to the poignant words as I slowly tip the urn, and I smile through my tears as her ashes catch on the cold New York wind. I blow her a kiss as she scatters and flies and dances, disappearing slowly out of sight like a balloon released from a child’s fingers. I look toward the busker and see she’s crying as she sings.

37.

New Year’s Eve dawns crystalclear, a blue-skies sub-zero last day of the year. I’ve been up since long before sunrise, taking my time to pack things carefully away. I’ve sorted stuff I’m going to need over the next couple of weeks into my suitcase, and I’m going to speak to Bobby about getting the rest mailed when I know what I’m doing. I know he won’t mind, and I feel easier about leaving my gelato maker here than in the storage lock-up. He and Robin are due back from their vacation today. They should have been getting back right about now, in fact, but he messaged earlier to say they’ve been delayed so he’ll see me later.

I’m dreading telling him that I’m leaving New York this evening, but at least this way I get to do it properly rather than just disappear. I sigh, thinking about Gio’s phrase.Say goodbye properly.How does anyone do that, really, especially when it’s to people you love and are leaving behind? I’m comforted by the idea that at least I’ll be able to stay in contact with Bobby and Robin. Maybe they’ll even come and see me when I’m more sorted, and of course there’s always video calling. I don’t have to completely lose them from my life.

It’s a different story with the Belottis. Santo made his thoughts clear—a clean break is the kindest thing for Gio.Even if he could get past the lie about Adam—and I suspect he probably would understand, in time—there isn’t a happy ending written in the stars for us.

Santo’s history with my mother is exactly that—history, in the past. She broke his heart, he compromised the family secret, and despite both of those things he went on to build a strong, wonderful family. For me to stay, everyone involved would have to know all of this. Gio, Maria, Sophia, and his other sisters. Family loyalty and tradition are Belotti cornerstones, which is why Santo has kept this part of his life locked safely inside for over thirty years. Who am I to force him to bring it all into the light now? My mother certainly wouldn’t want me to cause him that kind of distress, especially given his recent health.

Besides, what good would knowing all of this be to Gio? He’d realize I’ve known their recipe all along, that I could have solved his problem on day one. He’d know that I’ve been part of his life for months without saying a word about the connection between our families, that the woman in his family album with her face turned from the camera is my mother. It feels like one betrayal after another. I can see how it looks from the outside, but only I know how it is on the inside. That curiosity propelled me through their painted glass door, and that I only ever wanted to help without compromising my mother’s memory or Santo’s confidence. I didn’t plan on falling in love with Gio, or with the rest of the Belotti family either, for that matter.

There’s an undeniable part of me that wants to tell Gio everything, to throw it all out there and let him be the judge, because surely this is about our lives now, not my mother andSanto’s lives more than thirty years ago? But then I hear my mother whispering in my ear to never tell another living soul, and I hear Santo asking me to make a clean break, and I hear Felipe telling me blood is thicker than water. And that’s the crux of things, really. Bloodisthicker than water, Belotti blood most of all. Gio is first, foremost, and forever a Belotti. He would always want what’s best for them, and he’ll get over this because he has them.

I wish it was tomorrow, that the goodbyes were behind me and Canada in front of me. I know nothing about Toronto beyond the name of the airport. I don’t have any of the plans or preconceptions I had when I flew to New York, none of my mother’s steps to retrace. I’m going to be completely on my own there, and there isn’t a single part of me that’s looking forward to it.

—

I’m clock-watching, waiting forGio, missing him desperately and sick at the thought of this being the last time I’ll see him. He sent a text to say he’ll come by around one, and it’s almost twenty past twelve now and he’s never late. My hands are clammy. I wipe them on my jeans as I turn the kettle on to make coffee and then turn it off again because I know I won’t drink it anyway. I sit on the sofa, change my mind and sit at the kitchen table so I’m closer to the door, ready to let him in. I’ve nothing in my stomach. I couldn’t face food this morning, yet still my guts churn like my gelato machine.

The buzzer goes loud and shocking in my quiet apartment and I freeze like a kid playing statues. He’s here. I almost run to the buzzer and press it several times in case it doesn’t workand he leaves. I take steadying breaths as I listen to his footsteps on the stairs, and then he finally taps my door and I brace myself and open it wide.

“You stopped replying to my messages, little mouse. Upset me so much I’ve come all this way to check up on you in person.”

38.

Ilurch backward, sick with panicat the sight of Adam Bronson. I’ve promised myself so many times he isn’t lurking in the New York shadows, reassured myself that he would never go so far as to turn up here. And now he’s inside my apartment, closing my front door, smiling broadly as if I should be rolling out the welcome mat.

“What are you doing here?” I say, holding my nerve.

His eyes move slowly over the apartment, taking everything in. “So this is where you went.”

I don’t say anything else. I’m shaking violently inside; I don’t trust my voice not to betray my fear. He ambles across the room toward the sofa, picking things up to inspect them as he goes. A letter from the bank. A store receipt. Insignificant pieces of my life that I resent him touching.

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