But when I hear the words coming out of the answering machine, I rush to cut it off.
Alex, it’s me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come to see Peter at the class you were giving. Please call m—
I manage to stop the message before it can finish.
“Who was that?” Peter says.
It breaks my heart to say the word. “Nobody.”
But he knows women rarely call this phone. He reaches onto the counter and scrolls through the list of incoming calls.
“Who’s Vi-ter-bo?” he asks.
I stare at him. “Don’t be nosy.”
He grunts unappreciatively and starts rummaging through the batteries.
So this is how it’s going to feel, every time the phone rings. This is how my heart will be crimped every time someone knocks on the door.
“When is Sister Helena coming back?” he says.
“I don’t know.” I feel tired of all the white lies. “Not anytime soon.”
He gives up looking for batteries and, with a sigh, flies the car back through the air toward his bedroom.
“Peter,” I say.
He returns with an old stuffed rabbit he used to sleep with, inspecting it as if for the first time. There were once teddy bears and blankets where there are now trading cards and soccer posters. I’m going to miss my baby boy. He’s making his very final lap.
“Eh, Babbo?” he says, coming toward me.
The cartoon bear on TV says something like this. Maybe he’s already forgetting the voice on the machine.
But I’m not. Until we finish this, I’m going to hear that voice in every silence.
I open my arms and lift him into my lap. I want to remember this moment.
Running my fingers through his hair, I say, “Peter, there’s something I want to tell you.”
He stops strafing the rabbit’s ears against each other. “Good news or bad news?”
How I wish I knew. Every particle of hope says good. Every ounce of experience says bad.
“Good,” I tell him.
And then the words he’s been waiting to hear almost since he was born.
“That woman on the phone,” I say, “was Mamma.”
He stops. Confusion sets in his eyes.
“She came back two nights ago,” I say. “While you were at Prozio’s palace.”
He shakes his head. At first he doubts. Then he recoils. I’ve kept this from him. This miracle, this divine visitation.
“She’s here?” he asks, glancing toward the bedrooms.
“Not in the apartment. But we could call her if you wanted.”
His perplexity is supreme. “When?”
“Anytime we want, I think.”
He stares expectantly at the phone on the table. But there’s a distance we need to travel first.
“You and I have waited a long time for this,” I begin.
He nods. “A super-long time.”
Since before he could form a memory of her.