Things to do in Salem When You're Dead

Chapter Thirty-Six

"We really need to decide on a name. These cute little terms of endearment we've been using aren't going to cut it when she's older." My husband reminds me.

I gaze upon the beautiful, wriggling baby in my arms. She stares back at me with her blue eyes wide open. I caress the soft cap of black hair on her head. How is it possible that something that came from me, from my body can be this beautiful? I kiss her tiny little fingers and her face lights up with joy.

"How about. Victoria Isabella?" I ask, my eyes never leaving my daughter's face.

Brady considers it. "I like it. It's a mouthful though. A bit much for everyday use. Vicki for short?"

Ugh. Brady laughs at my expression of disgust. "Okay, fine. What about.Tori?"

"Tori Black. I like it." I smile as he leans down to kiss me.

My dream switches to another scene. I exit a building to find a throng of people waiting for me. Cries of 'Miss Lane! I love you, Lane!' greet my ears. Cameras flash rapidly, almost blinding me, but I'm used to it. I flash a dazzling smile to the crowd of admirers and pose for pictures. I sign a couple of cds for the closest fans and wave to the crowd as my bodyguard leads me to the waiting limo.

I exhale a relieved breath once inside the sanctity of my limo. My bodyguard/manager/accountant smiles at me as he pulls out a notebook.

"So what's next on the agenda?" I ask with a wry smile. My day has already been so busy, and I'm not even halfway through.

"Well, next is the sound check. Then at four you have your interview. After that, a photo shoot and autograph session. And then the concert this evening and have I told you today how beautiful you are?"

I smile deviously. "Why no, Mr. Black, I don't believe you have."

Brady pulls me into his arms. "Really? Well, Miss Lane, allow me to rectify my little.oversight." He kisses me passionately and all the nervous tension just melts off my body.

He nibbles on my neck and I sigh. "You know I hate it when you use my professional name," I remind him.

He grins wickedly at me. "My apologies, Mrs. Black," he says as his lips again make their way to mine.

I see the chauffeur in the rearview mirror as he shakes his head as if to say "here they go again." He presses a button and disappears from view as the dividing wall rolls up.

"So, when's my next appointment?"

I flutter my eyes open and yawn as I become more awake. Pale sunlight pours in through the window and I can hear birds chirping outside. I stretch lazily in the bed, careful not to wake Brady.

I watch him sleep. It's funny; when he's asleep the years fade from his face and he looks like a little boy. His blond eyelashes flutter with dreams but his eyes remain closed. His breathing is slow and measured, calm and peaceful.

I could live in this moment forever. Just the two of us, in this bed. The world could crumble around us and I wouldn't notice, wouldn't care. This moment is all I need.

We've barely left the bed in the days we've been here. A great deal of time is spent making love, but an equal amount is spent talking, cuddling, just loving each other. Ironic. We flew halfway around the world to lock ourselves up in a hotel room. But as I gaze at Brady's sweet face, I know there's no place I'd rather be.

My fingers caress the hair at his temple. He smiles, but continues his deep sleeping. Poor thing. He's really tired. Knives of guilt stab my heart. I'm doing this to him. Even now, with his face bathed in sunlight, I can see the dark circles under his eyes. He's running himself ragged trying to care for me.

A dark red spot appears on my pillow. Great. I reach over the bed and grab a tissue from the nightstand. Nosebleed. Just one of many wonderful symptoms now occurring with regularity.

I hold the tissue to my nose and wiggle out of bed into my wheelchair. I manage to get dressed and scribble a note to Brady - Gone for a walk.

I exit through the hotel's vast gardens. I make my way down the cobbled streets of the villa and I'm amazed at the bustling activity. The streets are filled with people, tourists and natives alike, all enjoying a beautiful fall day. I pass by vendors selling their wares; fresh fruit and flowers. It's a wonderful day; I feel like anything can happen.

I stop beside an iron bench and watch the people pass by. An elderly woman with a kind face throws breadcrumbs at nearby birds. She coos to them, singing softly in Italian. A sudden gust of wind knocks the straw hat off her head. It floats on the breeze and settles lightly on my lap.

She smiles apologetically and comes over to me. I hand her the hat. "Here you are," I say in halting Italian.

But she doesn't take the hat. Instead she stares at me, her eyes reflecting shock. Her mouth falls open and she covers it with a wrinkled hand. I'm about to ask her if she's okay, when she crosses herself and reaches out for me. Her hand cups my cheek and she jumps back at the physical contact.

She crosses herself again and begins rambling in a very fast Italian. I can't understand what she's saying. The only word I understand is Maria, over and over. Maria. I honestly don't know if she's praying or talking to me. Tears stream from her eyes and I don't know if they're tears of joy or tears of pain.

"Is something wrong?" I ask. "Can I help you?"

Minutes seem to pass and she is attracting stares from curious onlookers. Finally though, she seems to calm down. She sticks her face in mine and stares at me, like she's studying my features. She stares at my eyes and murmurs inaudibly. She grabs a strand of my hair and runs it between her thumb and forefinger. I'm feeling seriously freaked out now. I'm about to call for help when finally she steps back. She sighs and shakes her head sadly.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes in a lilting Italian. "I thought you were my Maria, come back from the grave. You are.so much like her." She fishes in her bag and pulls out a small picture. "Here," she shoves the photograph in my hands.

I stare at the picture in amazement. My face is staring back at me; only it's not really my face. "This is Maria?" I ask, my eyes riveted to the girl's face.

Her face is so like mine, only older. Her hair and skin is a little darker, and her eyes are brown. But everything else; her features, her bright smile, just like mine. I look up at the old woman. "I don't know what to say."

She smiles at me and her eyes flit over my face. She still has a look of wonder on her face. Like she can't believe the resemblance. "I have more pictures at home. Will you come?"

I follow her to her house. I don't know why. I know the girl isn't me, and I certainly can't take her place in the woman's life. But I somehow feel connected to the woman. I feel as if I've known her all my life. Strange, isn't it?

The woman fixes us some tea and we take a seat around her coffee table. She leaves the room and comes back carrying a large photo album. She smiles at me nervously as she sits down.

"I am so sorry, miss. How I must have frightened you with my behavior." She holds out her hand. "My name is Sophia." She opens the album and turns it toward me. "Maria was my granddaughter."

I turn page after page filled with pictures of this bright, vibrant young woman. I have seen countless pictures of her now, and I am still amazed at the resemblance.

"Tell me about her."

"Oh my Maria; she was so precious to me. You see for yourself how beautiful she was? When she smiled, the darkest room would glow with light. Men adored her. In fact, her teenage years were very difficult for her father; she had so many suitors. But she made the right choice, a wonderful, smart young man. Here's a picture of their daughter, Carlotta. She's such a joy, already so much like her mother at that age."

I smile at the pictures of the little girl. They are reminiscent of me at that age, but there is much of her father in her as well.

Sophia is staring at the pictures with sad eyes. "What happened to Maria?" I ask.

Sophia smiles tearfully. "She died in a car accident," she says simply.

"I'm sorry."

Sophia pats my hand. "She's in a good place." She turns back to the album and I see her staring at a man's face. The man has appeared several times in the album. She traces his face with a crooked finger. "My son, my son," she moans.

I wait patiently for her to continue. "My son, he did not take her death so well. His wife had died many years earlier, when Maria was still a child. Maria was all that he had left of her. When she died, he had nothing left. He soon followed after her."

I reach out for Sophia's hand. "I'm so sorry." This woman has known so much sadness, and tragedy. I stare at his picture. He was very good looking for his age; dark, curling glossy hair. He had mesmerizing eyes; a brown so dark they were almost black. Weird. I can't take my eyes off of his picture. I feel so.strange right now. Detached. Like reality has faded away and it's just me, sitting in this room, looking at this picture.

"My poor Antonio," she murmurs.

Suddenly my mind flashes. I am back in the hospital in Salem. Nancy is telling me about my father.

All she knew about him was his name, Antonio. He had a thick accent, probably Italian, and Mediterranean good looks. Over the course of the evening, they shared quite a few drinks. Nancy soon discovered that her friends had disappeared. She was quite inebriated, so Antonio offered her a ride home. Only, he didn't take her home, he took her to a cheap hotel. She had been out of sorts at first, but when she realized that he was making sexual advances, she immediately refused and tried to escape. But he easily overpowered her and forced her onto the bed.

What are you thinking, Chloe? This can't be right. The father of a dead girl who looks exactly like me, just happens to have the same name and description of the man who raped my mother?

Another flash. I'm opening up a fortune cookie with a cryptic message inside. "You will find family where you least expect it."

Don't forget all of Isabella's strange visits, guiding me here, to Venice, so I could meet.my grandmother?

I back away from the table. I can feel the blood fleeing my face. I imagine I must look rather ghostly at the moment. I must be imagining things, or this is some weird coincidence. I mean, he can't be my father, can he?

I turn to Sophia with unfocused eyes. "Sophia, has Antonio ever been to America?" My voice sounds strange, faraway.

Sophia nods, her eyes shining with concern for me. "When his wife died, he was devastated. He couldn't handle the burden of raising Maria, so he left her in my care. He went on a long journey and stayed in America for several months."

"When was this?"

"Well, let me see. Maria had just turned ten, and she would be twenty-nine this year, so it would have been.nineteen years ago."

Nineteen years. That would be about right. Oh God, my heart is beating so fast.

"Do you mind if I borrow this picture?"

Come on, Nancy, answer the phone. I am so relieved when she picks up after the fifth ring.

"Hello, Wesley residence,"

I smile; it is so good to hear her voice. I almost forget the reason for the call, but then it comes rushing back.

"Mom, it's me."

"Chloe, sweetie, how are you? Are you having a good."

"Sorry to interrupt Mom, but I just sent you a fax. Did you get it?"

"Hold on a minute while I check." I impatiently drum my fingers on the phone as I await her return. My heart is racing. I'm afraid to think of what this could mean. Don't get your hopes up, Chloe. It's probably just some coincidence.

"Okay, I'm back. Chloe, what am I looking at?"

I take a deep breath. "Mom, I need you to look at that picture very carefully. Is that my father?"

"What, Chloe, why are you ask."

"Just tell me. Is that my father?"

There is an agonizing, long pause. I'm holding my breath for her answer.

"Yes. He's your father."

My breath rushes out of me. My knees shake and I'm glad that I'm sitting down.

"How quickly can you get here?"