Read Online A Heart Most Worthy by Siri Mitchell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Siri Mitchell
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their true calling. And as they made their way through the North End distributing leaflets, they left a pink blizzard of terror in their wake.
That Sunday, Luciana tried to coax the contessa to church. They hadn’t been since they’d come to America, and she didn’t want to give God any more reasons to punish them. Besides, church was the one place she was absolutely certain her father’s murderer wouldn’t be.
“No, ragazza.”
“But you used to in Rom – I mean . . . it’s Sunday.”
“You must learn to speak more clearly, girl.”
Luciana took up the old woman’s hand and knelt in front of her. “It’s Sunday.”
“Sunday.” The contessa said the word as if it were foreign.
As if there were no responsibility, no obligation inherent in its meaning.
“Sunday. On Sunday we – you – go to mass.”
“Mass.”
“We’ll be late.”
The old woman looked up from Luciana’s hand and into her eyes.
What Luciana saw in that gaze chilled her to the core. There was nothing – no one – there. She might have said the woman was absent her soul. And so, she did the only thing she could do. She pushed to her feet. “I’ll be back when it’s over.”
“When it’s over . . .” The old woman had already turned her face toward the window, her profile dismantled by the interplay of shadow and of light.
Luciana locked the door behind her. She took one step into the hall and then stopped. She wasn’t sure she should leave the contessa by herself. She’d done it every day for work, of course, but that didn’t make her worry any less about the old woman. Luciana had actually found her standing a time or two, in the middle of the room, when she’d come home from work lately. She didn’t have to work very hard to imagine the contessa going to the door, turning the knob, and walking right out of the apartment.
And what would happen then?
Her throat constricted, and she felt her nostrils flare in compensation. She closed her eyes as she struggled to breathe. It had begun to happen quite often, this problem with breathing. But now she recognized the signs. The fluttering of panic in her stomach, the grip of fear in her bowels, the stranglehold of dread around her throat.
What would happen then?
How could she, a destitute heiress, alone and friendless, manage to make a life in this strange country? For both her grandmother and herself?
She didn’t know.
As she stood there wheezing, as her vision began to tilt, she pressed her fingernails into her palm, desperate to feel something besides the cold clutch of fear. Sometime, someday, she would have to figure out what to do. Soon. But today was Sunday and Sunday was for mass. If nothing else, she wanted the satisfaction of confronting God in His own house.
Once at church, Luciana pushed herself into the corner of the back pew. Looking at the crowd of people crammed together in the pews in front of her, she knew it wouldn’t do them any good. It wouldn’t do them any good at all to try to sit so close to the altar.
God didn’t care.
He didn’t care whether you went to confession every week of your life, or if you only went to mass on Easter. It didn’t matter.
It hadn’t mattered that in Roma, Luciana slid into the very front row every Sunday that she could remember. It hadn’t mattered that she held parties for the ladies’ parish organization, or that she had given a donation every month to the orphans and widows fund. That she had wrapped bandages for countless soldiers or that she had kissed the ring of the Holy Father himself. On several occasions.
Why hadn’t it mattered!
It was supposed to matter. God was supposed to care.
But He’d allowed her father to be murdered and then, when she’d found herself turned out of her own estate, He hadn’t even bothered to help her. He’d abandoned her. She’d always been there for God, just like she was supposed to be. Why wasn’t He there for her? Where was He?
Where are you?
She stood
That Sunday, Luciana tried to coax the contessa to church. They hadn’t been since they’d come to America, and she didn’t want to give God any more reasons to punish them. Besides, church was the one place she was absolutely certain her father’s murderer wouldn’t be.
“No, ragazza.”
“But you used to in Rom – I mean . . . it’s Sunday.”
“You must learn to speak more clearly, girl.”
Luciana took up the old woman’s hand and knelt in front of her. “It’s Sunday.”
“Sunday.” The contessa said the word as if it were foreign.
As if there were no responsibility, no obligation inherent in its meaning.
“Sunday. On Sunday we – you – go to mass.”
“Mass.”
“We’ll be late.”
The old woman looked up from Luciana’s hand and into her eyes.
What Luciana saw in that gaze chilled her to the core. There was nothing – no one – there. She might have said the woman was absent her soul. And so, she did the only thing she could do. She pushed to her feet. “I’ll be back when it’s over.”
“When it’s over . . .” The old woman had already turned her face toward the window, her profile dismantled by the interplay of shadow and of light.
Luciana locked the door behind her. She took one step into the hall and then stopped. She wasn’t sure she should leave the contessa by herself. She’d done it every day for work, of course, but that didn’t make her worry any less about the old woman. Luciana had actually found her standing a time or two, in the middle of the room, when she’d come home from work lately. She didn’t have to work very hard to imagine the contessa going to the door, turning the knob, and walking right out of the apartment.
And what would happen then?
Her throat constricted, and she felt her nostrils flare in compensation. She closed her eyes as she struggled to breathe. It had begun to happen quite often, this problem with breathing. But now she recognized the signs. The fluttering of panic in her stomach, the grip of fear in her bowels, the stranglehold of dread around her throat.
What would happen then?
How could she, a destitute heiress, alone and friendless, manage to make a life in this strange country? For both her grandmother and herself?
She didn’t know.
As she stood there wheezing, as her vision began to tilt, she pressed her fingernails into her palm, desperate to feel something besides the cold clutch of fear. Sometime, someday, she would have to figure out what to do. Soon. But today was Sunday and Sunday was for mass. If nothing else, she wanted the satisfaction of confronting God in His own house.
Once at church, Luciana pushed herself into the corner of the back pew. Looking at the crowd of people crammed together in the pews in front of her, she knew it wouldn’t do them any good. It wouldn’t do them any good at all to try to sit so close to the altar.
God didn’t care.
He didn’t care whether you went to confession every week of your life, or if you only went to mass on Easter. It didn’t matter.
It hadn’t mattered that in Roma, Luciana slid into the very front row every Sunday that she could remember. It hadn’t mattered that she held parties for the ladies’ parish organization, or that she had given a donation every month to the orphans and widows fund. That she had wrapped bandages for countless soldiers or that she had kissed the ring of the Holy Father himself. On several occasions.
Why hadn’t it mattered!
It was supposed to matter. God was supposed to care.
But He’d allowed her father to be murdered and then, when she’d found herself turned out of her own estate, He hadn’t even bothered to help her. He’d abandoned her. She’d always been there for God, just like she was supposed to be. Why wasn’t He there for her? Where was He?
Where are you?
She stood
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