"Why not?"

"You're a very interesting person," Theodore begins. It has been a rule in my life that whenever anybody has used the word interesting to describe me, it is always something bad. "You don't want to get involved with anybody, but you don't want the anybodys you know to get involved with anybody else either. Why do you suppose that's true?"

"First of all, it isn't true. People are free to do whatever they like."

"People? Is that what I am to you? A general person?"

"No, no, of course not."

"Start there. What am I to you?"

I want to tell him that he's my best friend. That if the entire world collapsed and I could only save one person, it would be him. That the thought of him leaving and taking a job somewhere else in the universe where I can't talk to him every day kills me! Why is it different when I'm the one who's going? Do I expect Theodore to sit here and wait for me while I go out and have adventures, like he's some talisman I can come back and touch to remind me that nothing has really changed? Instead, I see the wispy sisters shivering in the moonlight on Jack Mac's porch. The image makes me angry. Why am I never chosen? "Look. You don't owe me a thing. I can take care of myself."

"You don't need anybody."

"That's right. I'm very strong on my own. I don't need anybody."

"Are you sure you're not Fred Mulligan's daughter?" This comment catches me off guard, and I find it cruel. I confided in Theodore about every horrible thing Fred Mulligan ever did to me and my mama, and now he's throwing it up in my face. But I would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that he has hurt me. If you saw my face in this moment, you would think I hadn't a care in the world. This is my best area; this is where I perform at my peak. I can shut down, detach, and not feel. So, that is exactly what I do.

"You'd be the first person in the world who didn't need someone, Ave Maria. Do you think you're that person? The one girl in the world who doesn't need anybody, ever? Are you some special category of person?"

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"See, there you go. See how you operate? I'm doing something to you because I'm asking you how you feel. What you feel. It is my business. I love you."

"Sure, sure you love me." I roll my eyes like I'm five.

"You know, having s.e.x with someone isn't the only way to show you care."

"Well, it would have been nice!" Why am I shouting at this man? Isn't he on my side? Isn't he telling me that I am as deserving of love as the next person? That it's okay to need love? That I'm allowed to be scared? But it's too late. I know Theodore is really angry because he cannot look at me.

As he paces, he says calmly, "You have big problems, okay? Big ones that you need to think about."

"I have big problems? What about you? You think I can't connect to people?" Now I'm shouting and I'm sure I'm scaring him. Good. My voice gets even louder. "Stop a.n.a.lyzing me! Stop it! I wanted to marry you for nine years and you didn't want me. Finally, finally, you propose to me, and what was I supposed to do? Drop everything and marry you in the middle of a black depression? And then what? Be happy? Maybe I loved you in the middle of my depression, and loved you enough not to saddle you with a nut case! You should have married me nine years ago when I was young and I didn't know so much! I would have had someone to love me when I went through all the worst things of my life. I've gone through all the worst things, and I did it alone. A person can't just pretend that they didn't go through it all alone. I did. I don't want any credit for it, but understand that when it comes to love, I don't understand! I wouldn't know what to do with a man! Hook him? Serve him? Then pray he never leaves? How do you do it without dying? How?"

Theodore goes to the kitchen. He turns in the doorway. "How about a cup of coffee?"

I sit on Theodore's futon while he fixes a pot of coffee. I look down at the b.u.t.tons on my shirt. There is no rise and fall, no palpitations. Nothing but the steady breathing that comes with the unburdening of feelings locked up, locked down, and buried for nine years. It feels good. I curl up on Theodore's couch.

"You're my best friend, Ave Maria," Theodore says casually from the kitchen. "I'll never leave you."

I want to speak, to respond, to let him know that I feel the same, but I can't. So, I cry instead. I can cry here. I'm safe.

The postmaster from town calls; he has a certified letter for me. I let him open it. They're my tickets from Gala Nuccio. I am very excited about my trip, and very nervous. I have called Gala nearly every day to practice speaking Italian and to discuss the trip. She is very excited to have me with the group, since I speak Italian. Also, we've become good phone friends. She has told me a lot about her life. Her boyfriend, Frank, has finally asked her to marry him, but she doesn't see herself as Maria von Trapp, a second mother who plays puppets with her stepchildren. Gala also believes Frank still has other women. She can't prove it, but he keeps strange hours and is forever calling her from phone booths (she a.s.sures me this is a sign of a cheating man, and I think she's right). I never had a girlfriend who was Italian like me, and it is so much fun. We have similar att.i.tudes about things. Theodore and I drove all the way over to the Tri-City Mall, to see Sat.u.r.day Night Fever. (It's been out two years but there is still a demand in Kingsport.) I never knew people were like that. Gala a.s.sures me the movie is accurate; she grew up in the same kind of neighborhood. She finds it charming that I have a Southern accent. "You just don't expect that sound to come out of an Italian girl." I told her all about the last year of my life, and she listened carefully. She thinks Theodore is not the man for me. She likes the idea of Jack MacChesney. I told her it's too late for all of that; Jack Mac and Sarah are hot and heavy. Gala wasn't surprised that Jack Mac turned around and got another girlfriend so fast. "Men always have to be with somebody. It's just how the sons of b.i.t.c.hes are made." Her words ring in my ears long after we're off the phone. I think she's right about that too.

I wash my face, throw on some lipstick, and grab my keys to run into town. I have already had my mail rerouted to the post office, so daily ch.o.r.es at my house have dwindled to preparing my meals and packing.

I need a spatula to pry all of my mail out of the post office box. I quickly shuffle through. There is a postcard from Zia Meoli telling me in a line how the whole family cannot wait to meet me. I've received a card or a letter from Zia Meoli at least once a week since I wrote to her the first time. I told her I hadn't heard from Mario da Schilpario since his first and only letter, even though I have written to him three times with the dates of my trip. I've given up on him. I would like to meet him, but if it doesn't happen, if he doesn't want to see me, I am not going to barge into his home and confront him. I wonder if he told his mother about me. My grandmother. How I wish I could meet her. It's silly, I know, but the one thing I always wished I had was a grandmother to talk to. Well, the sooner we learn that we don't get everything we want in this life, the better. I am grateful to meet my twin aunts and uncle and cousins. They will be more than enough; I guess I shouldn't be greedy.

The windows in Mulligan's Mutual have never been prettier. Nellie has painted the backdrop doors a bright lime green and placed paper b.u.t.terflies on the product displays, making the windows look like a happy terrarium. The mortar-and-pestle neon sign that had burned out on the building has been replaced with a giant ; and it's a real attention-getter. Otto and Worley did a beautiful job on the bricks. So the place finally is up to snuff, and that makes me very happy.

Fleeta is handling the store part of the Pharmacy during the day until Pearl gets off school, and that nice man from Norton agreed to take Mondays and Tuesdays for prescription filling until a permanent pharmacist can be found. We interviewed a man from Coeburn, and he may be able to start by early summer. Nellie and Iva Lou are keeping an eye on Pearl already, though Pearl has complained that Nellie is a little bossy. I told Pearl to tell Nellie that; I'm sure she doesn't realize that she's being bossy.

Fleeta is behind the counter. I hear her explaining the difference between the chicken-wing overcross and the sleeper hold to a boy, obviously another professional-wrestling fan. Fleeta begged me to start carrying World Wrestling Federation magazines, so we did. It does bring in that young male element; they also buy a lot of candy. Fleeta is downright religious about wrestling. She has started smoking again; she said it was too hard to quit because everybody smokes in the arenas where the wrestling matches are held. Plus, her nerves get frayed during the shows when the man she is rooting for falls behind. She needs her cigarettes to calm down.

"What are you doing here?" she asks me.

"Just dropped by. To say hi."

"Shouldn't you be home, girl?" Fleeta looks around nervously.

"I was home but I already had my mail rerouted, so I came to fetch it."

"Oh."

"Is something wrong?" I ask.

"No, nothing." Fleeta puffs on her Marlboro like she's blowing up a balloon in spurts.

"You seem upset about something."

"I told you everything was fine."

Now, I know Fleeta as well as I know anyone. Something is not right. It could be something small, like she made a bet on Haystacks Calhoun or the Pile Driver and somebody's into her for twenty bucks; or it could be something big like Portly's ill. The one thing about Fleeta: She reacts exactly the same to any challenge; there are no degrees with her.

"Don't look at me like that. Don't you think you ought to be getting yourself home?"

"Fleeta. What is going on?"

"Jesus. Would you lay off?"

Fleeta has never spoken to me like this.

"You know what, Fleeta? I don't appreciate your tone."

"I'm sorry about that, Ave Maria. I really am. But I need you to just trust me on this one. You need to get yourself home."

"Is something wrong with Otto?"

"G.o.d, no. That shunt in his heart is working like a garden hose."

Fleeta clamps her little lips shut and goes about her dusting. I wait for a moment, but she isn't volunteering any further information. Something is up.

When I get home, Otto and Worley are repairing the fence in my front yard. They laugh, share tools, and consult each other about the best way to replace an old hinge. I ask them if everything is okay, and when I tell them about Fleeta, they just shrug. I ask Otto about his shunt. He opens his shirt and shows me the red staccato scar down his breastbone. (I didn't need to see that.) The doctor is pleased with the results, and Otto is feeling like his old self again. The doctor considers Otto's recovery a miracle. I think that the truth healed his heart. Once Otto unloaded the terrible burden he had been carrying all these years, the weight on his chest lifted, and he could breathe again. He doesn't huff and puff when he climbs ladders or lifts things anymore, and he gave up chewing tobacco. It's the start of a whole new era for Otto. I think he'll find a girlfriend next. He has his eye on a woman down in Lee County.

I finally found out how old the boys are. Otto is sixty-nine and Worley is fifty-five. Everybody in town is shocked by this; we thought they were much younger and closer in age. Worley has a hard time calling Otto Daddy, so he still calls him just plain Otto. The transition from close brothers to father and son has not been that much of a challenge for them. Otto always took the lead anyway; so the revelation hasn't really affected their day-to-day life. Worley seems very happy and takes every opportunity to ask folks up the mountain if they remember little Destry, the beautiful Melungeon girl. Some do, and that has brought him great comfort.

I tell them I'm going upstairs to finish packing. The house looks so cheery; Otto and Worley painted all the rooms in sheer eggsh.e.l.l beige, and they are pristine. All of my clothes are laid out on the bed. Italy in April is on the cool side, so I'm packing basics in navy and off-white: simple suspender pants my mother made for me, a few pressed blouses, a skirt for church, and my red velvet swing coat. Pearl saved me all sorts of travel-size toiletries and put them in a pretty makeup bag on which she embroidered my initials as a going-away present.

I go into the bathroom. It is completely bare, except for my clean, white towels. I run a bath. I have the day free. I'm going to have a nice soak, put on my makeup, test-run my casual navy travel suit, and surprise Theodore and take him to the movies in Kingsport.

As I sink into the hot water, I look up at the skylight, which for years has been my favorite thing in this house. I could always see a patch of sky through it. I never minded if there were clouds or if it was raining; all kinds of weather had a particular beauty in that square of lead gla.s.s. I could see birds go by and watch the clouds change from billowy white to gray and then, in winter, see a sky full of snow. It was my own private clock. I'm about to turn thirty-six years old. Thirty-six! I cannot believe it. I feel nineteen some days and eighty-five on others.

I am blissfully content. I'm sure there are things I could get riled up about, like Mario Barbari dropping me as a pen pal. But I see the big picture now in a way I couldn't before. I have lowered my expectations, and that's a good thing. I can't look outside of myself for happiness, or let things like letters coming or not coming ruin my life. I am ready for a change. I just know that this trip to Italy will change my life. And I'm not going to fight it.

Since Mama died, I have prayed to her. I haven't had any sense that she's around me, but I do believe she's up in heaven. Iva Lou told me for six months after her mother died that, whenever she'd turn a light on, the bulb would blow, even if it was new. Iva Lou believes that souls are full of energy. And they channel into our energy sources to talk to us. A lamp is a perfect object for them to communicate through because it runs on electricity, and that is similar to the frequency in the afterlife. All I know is that I haven't changed a bulb in this house since Mama died.

I do say my prayers every day. Mama told me to pray even if it was just mindless repet.i.tion. "You may not need your prayers today, but trust me, eventually everyone needs to pray." I remember Reverend Gaspar's face as he was dying. "Faith," he said. I hope I find it someday.

I put my hair up in a towel and put my makeup on. I go with the full Kabuki: moisturizer, spot concealer, and base applied with a sponge. Pearl taught me how to do it, and I must say, my skin looks like alabaster. She taught me how to line my lips and fill them in with lipstick on a brush, not straight from the tube. I'm not big on eye makeup, so I don't do the shadow thing, just mascara. Pearl told me that long lashes are my best a.s.set. Maybe she's right.

The sun pours through the skylight, giving my hair a sheen when I take it out of the towel. I dry it and it doesn't frizz. It's too early in the year for humidity. I have a three-week window in the seasonal calendar when my hair behaves. This is the first week. I'm going to miss the rest of the good-hair weeks, but I don't care-my hair can do whatever it wants on a gondola in Venice.

Mama had a bottle of Chanel No. 5 in her dresser; I dab it on sparingly. I know I can always buy another, but this was hers, so every drop is precious. I don't want to use it up. I guess I feel that when it's gone, she is really gone. I screw the cap on tightly.

When I go downstairs, Otto and Worley are in the kitchen eating their lunch. They whistle at me. I give them a look, and we all laugh.

"We just ain't never seen you all gussied up like that, Miss Ave," Otto says.

And they're right. They haven't.

"Pearl says she wants to drop some of her and her mama's stuff by later," Worley offers.

"That's fine."

"Where you off to?" Otto asks.

"I thought I'd go and see a movie in Kingsport. I'm getting jumpy waiting for Friday to get here. I need something to do."

Otto and Worley look at each other and smile.

"Did I say something funny?"

"Nah," Otto says. "It's just that you've always been so busy, running here, running there, that it's funny to think you don't got nothing to do."

"Are you all packed?" Worley asks.

I nod.

The doorbell rings. It's probably Pearl. She has keys, though. So why would she be ringing the bell?

I open the door. For a moment, I feel as though I have entered a dream. Through the screen, I see a familiar face. It's the same face that appears in an ad in The New York Times travel section every Sunday. The hair is different and the arms aren't extended over her head in welcome, but the same face, the same big eyes, the same big smile greet me with the same largesse and joy that's in the picture. Except she's not in the paper; she is here on my porch. It is Gala Nuccio.

"Are you Ave Maria?"

"I am."

"Oh, my G.o.d! It's me! Gala!" She pushes me into the house and embraces me. We hug like sisters, and it's so funny-she could be my sister. She's shaped like me but smaller, and she has hair that could frizz. She's much more down-to-earth and less dramatic in real life.

"What are you doing here?" I ask without letting her go.

"Before I tell you, believe me, I wanted to call and explain, but they wouldn't let me." I'm thinking, who are "they," and why would Gala come over a thousand miles to see me when she would have seen me two days from now at the C luggage area at Newark Airport in New Jersey? My nerve endings feel as though they are pushing tiny needles from the inside of my body through to the outside. I am overcome with a deep fear. Gala, my sister, can tell.

"Don't be afraid," she says, sounding like Moses if he had been raised in New Jersey. She puts her arm around me. Otto and Worley stand in the doorway of the kitchen and watch silently. Gala leans out the door and motions for someone to enter.

There in my doorway is the man in the picture: my father, Mario da Schilpario. I put one hand on my heart and the other over my mouth, as if to make sure I am still in my body and standing here. He smiles at me. Just like he did in the picture. He is about my height, and his black hair is full and curly, peppered with streaks of white. His eyes are large and brown and turn up at the corners, like mine. He has the same slight overbite I do, but he has a dimpled chin, which I don't. He is dressed impeccably, with a long-sleeved beige cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders like Jean-Paul Belmondo in all those French movies. I am stunned that my father could be so dapper. Then he says, in very rehea.r.s.ed English, "I am Mario Barbari. I am happy to meet you." He takes both of my hands and kisses them. Then he embraces me. It is not a phony embrace either, and not a pitiful "I'm sorry I was never there for you all these many years" embrace; it is one of genuine joy. He is happy to meet me.

Finally, I am in the arms of my real father. Why, then, do I see the face of Fred Mulligan? Fred, who taught me how to peel an apple, play gin rummy, and open a checking account? Fred Mulligan, who I thought never loved me because I asked "why" too much. Fred Mulligan, who died and left my mother everything he had, knowing that someday I would benefit from that. Fred Mulligan, who didn't know how not to hurt me, because he, too, was asked to live a lie.

When I cry, Gala weeps. My father cries too, but they aren't shameful tears; they are empathetic, like he knows how important this moment is to me.

Mario looks at me with the same wonder I feel looking at him. He is much more imposing in life than he is in his picture. I take a moment to examine the details of his face in person as I have in the photograph all these months. He has a firm jaw (decisive), thick eyebrows (a healthy libido; surprise, surprise) that frame each eye from one corner to the other (a woman would kill for such perfect arches!), and a straight nose, but it is his smile, with full lips revealing perfect teeth, that draws you in. In face-reading, his is the face of a king. He isn't very tall for a man, but his posture and carriage are so regal, you don't notice.

Gala touches my shoulder, and I look at her as though I am looking into the face of an angel. I am very grateful, but I cannot thank her. How do you begin to thank someone for something so incredible? Then she says, "Would you like to meet your grandmother?"

Through the door steps my grandmother. She looks me up and down and over like she's buying an eggplant. She is tiny but broad-shouldered. She wears a simple blue serge suit. Her hair is in a white braided bun. She has a long nose and clear blue eyes. She shoves her son out of the way and says, "Ave Maria!" And then she hugs me hard, right from the gut; I think my tailbone will snap in two. "Nonna?" I say to her. She grins at me. "You speak Italian?" I nod. She is so overjoyed she slaps my arm hard. Nonna, or "Grandma," speaks in a hard-to-follow mountain dialect. She understands my Italian, though. I speak too fast when I am excited too. It is a wonder to me that she exists. I have dreamt of this all my life, and now it is real. Nonna does not stop talking. She tells me that I am her only granddaughter and she prayed all of her life to have a grandchild. She is sorry she never held me as a baby. Do Italians tell you everything they feel without censor? I think so. Then, she says, "Dove e cucina?" I point to the kitchen and she trundles off. Then the most magical thing happens.

Zia Meoli and Zia Antonietta walk in together. They are identical twins, and they look exactly like my mother! The same high forehead, the same golden skin, the same smile! They were ten years older than she, but their hair is still black; they wear it in the same long braid. I embrace them both at once, and I feel like I am in the arms of my own mother again. They smell like Chanel No. 5, just like Mama. They are followed by a tall, distinguished man, my Uncle Pietro, Meoli's husband. She introduces him, speaking in Italian, referring to her descriptions of him in her letters. I look off and see my father trying to communicate with Otto and Worley, using some sort of sign language. It is so funny that I start laughing; soon we are all laughing. The laughter clears my head, and I can think. I turn to Gala. "How did they get here?" She tells me she put the tour together. She reads my mind: I'm thinking, Who paid for this? Gala tells me someone sent the family the tickets. Who? She shrugs and looks out on the porch.

Theodore, Fleeta, Pearl, Iva Lou, and Lyle are waiting for me. They are crying, all except for Lyle, who keeps biting his lip. I go to embrace them, but none of them can wait, so we glob into one group and hug and cry. Pearl, like the great makeup artist she is, dabs the runny mascara off my face with a Kleenex.

"Thank you for this. Thank you so much." My dear friends must have pooled all their money to bring my family to me. How will I ever repay them for this priceless gift?

"Don't thank us," Iva Lou says simply.

"What do you mean?"

"Thank him." Iva Lou points to the end of my front walkway. A man stands there with his hands in his pockets, his back to us. He turns slightly and kicks a rock with his foot. It is Jack MacChesney.

"He did this for me?" My friends nod at me solemnly and look at one another.

"But why?"

"I guess you'll have to ask him that yourself, honey-o," Iva Lou says tenderly.

I turn to go down the steps that lead to the walkway that will lead me to him. I take a deep breath, but I don't move. I see him there; he does not see me yet. The mountains rise behind him in green folds that peel back, back, back, until they reach the end of the sky. How small he looks at the foot of those hills. How singular. How lonely. I know I must go to him. I look at my friends on the porch, and they agree. What can I possibly say to him? I'll think of something. I hope.

Jack Mac is deep in thought when I reach him. I touch his arm, and he looks at me.

"You did this for me?"

He nods.

"Thank you." I step toward him to embrace him. I am so full of grat.i.tude; I want him to know that no one in the world ever did anything like this for me before.

He takes a step back and looks off into the middle distance. I am stunned that he rebuffs me. But I don't press it; he is not the sort of man you back into a corner.

"Why did you do this for me?" I ask him softly.