Page 120 of The Singing Trees
Epilogue
December 2019
Portland, Maine
Three days after retrieving the wind chimes from the tree for Emma, Annalisa pushed through the crowd of Mancusos in the lobby of Casco Hospice to get her hands on her two grandchildren: two boys—three years apart—who were growing up entirely too fast. Patrick was graduating from high school in a few months and would be setting out to make his mark on the world just as Annalisa had done in 1970 when she’d left the Mills for Portland.
“Nonna!” the younger one, Adam, said, catching a glimpse of Annalisa. Was there a better designation in the world? He went to her.
Annalisa’s heart filled as he hugged her waist. “Look at you,nipote. All grown up now, aren’t you?”
Patrick in his John Lennon glasses appeared, and she pulled him into the hug too. “What’s it been? Two weeks? I can’t go this long without seeing you. Any news on colleges?” She held them for a long time, taking in the love she felt for these two.
“Hi, Mom,” a voice interrupted.
Annalisa patted the boys’ heads and let them go, then turned to Celia and her husband, Jakub. “I’m so glad you made it,” Annalisa said, kissing their cheeks and pulling them both in.
Jakub was a hotelier in Manhattan and had, funnily enough, approached Celia at the Whitney Museum of American Art while she worked as a research conservator there. Whereas Annalisa had rejected Thomas, Celia must have learned from her mother’s mistakes, as she had accepted his invitation to dinner, and they’d been married six months later. That was twenty years ago.
They still lived in New York, where Celia had finally landed the job of her dreams as a conservator for the Guggenheim. Unable to stay away for long, Annalisa and Thomas had bought an apartment near Central Park so that they could spend as much time as possible with Celia and her boys. Maybe one day Annalisa could convince them to move up to Bar Harbor, but she knew a little something about wanting to live in the city.
A sweet, dashing man who’d turned out to be a great father, Jakub asked quietly, “How is she?” He was referring to Emma.
Annalisa felt her bottom lip droop. Other than to feed Emma’s cats the past few days, she had barely left Emma’s side. “Dr.Gorky says today might be her last.”
Celia, who had taken on her father’s hazel eyes but held fast to her Italian genes, put her hand on Annalisa’s shoulder. “I’m glad we made it then. How are you holding up? Have you spoken to Dad?”
“I spoke with him this morning briefly,” Annalisa replied, and then, without much to add, she shook her head. No, he wasn’t coming. She’d read him Emma’s last letter shortly after helping her write it three days ago, but he’d quickly moved on to another subject, as if he couldn’t breathe when Emma was on his mind.
Annalisa turned toward the crowd in the lobby. “Emma knows she’s loved, and that’s what matters.”
Celia and Jakub and their two boys turned with her and looked at the leaves of the Mancuso and Barnes family trees. Though Thomas had not found a way to forgive her, the rest of Emma’s family had, and they’d been visiting her steadily—two or three at a time—yesterday andthis morning. Her clients, too—veterans from the Vietnam War and forward had popped by to say their goodbyes.
Annalisa took her grandchildren’s hands. “Why don’t we go back and see her?”
Even the boys had come to know their great-aunt over the years. When Emma returned from her stint in the Peace Corps and moved to Portland to get certified as a counselor, she’d become exactly the aunt that Celia had asked about for so long. Though she wasn’t welcome at Graystone because of Thomas, she spoke with Celia often on the phone and very often invited her down for weekend visits.
Emma had started her practice and bought her house in Cape Elizabeth around the same time Celia got her driver’s license. By then, the two had become very dear to each other. In fact, it was Celia who’d helped Emma hang the wind chimes from Walt’s shop in the backyard, becoming the first of so many in Emma’s collection.
Sadly, due to Emma and Thomas’s separation, she wasn’t able to be there for the birth of Celia’s boys, but she’d jumped into their lives as quickly as she could, as if she were still making up for what she’d done.
“She’s a little tired from all the visitors,” Annalisa warned them, approaching the door, “but she’s desperate to see you.” As she knocked, Annalisa fell back in time, thinking of the moment she’d knocked and pushed open the door of Emma’s room in Davenport and found her with her mother’s pill bottle. What a long way her friend had come since then.
Annalisa led Celia and her family into the room. Sitting up in her tilted bed, Emma cracked a faint smile. “You came...”
“Of course we came,” Celia said, approaching her aunt, leaning down and kissing her cheek. Annalisa sat in the chair by the window as Jakub and the two boys joined Celia by the bed, and Emma listened with a weak yet full heart as they shared the latest from their life in New York.
Outside, the snow fell in clumps, like God was shearing his sheep up above. Thomas had always said Emma came alive in the winter, so it made sense that she would meet her maker in the winter, too, coming alive in heaven for the first time.
Ten minutes later, the boys left Annalisa and Celia to spend some time with Emma alone. They pulled up two chairs to the bed, and Emma asked about her work at the Guggenheim.
“Oh, you know,” Celia responded, smoothing her hands together. “It’s a mad race, but I love it. I’m getting my hands on a Picasso tomorrow, so that’s kind of exciting.”
Emma slid her pleased eyes to Annalisa and muttered, “She’s just like you, isn’t she?”
“Like me on steroids,” Annalisa admitted. Celia had pursued a master’s degree and career in art preservation just as diligently as Annalisa had and still continued to chase excellence with her brushes.
Emma commented on how quickly the boys were growing, and Celia lit up, speaking about their plans after graduating high school. Annalisa found herself profoundly pleased that she’d made peace with Emma, and it had been wonderful to see how much Celia and Emma had connected over the years. It was a seven-year-old Celia, after all, who’d urged Annalisa on, refusing to cease asking about her aunt, whom she’d never met.
