Respect by Aleatha Romig
There were more than a few on-site inspections by the adoption agency to keep the paperwork clean. While the transition from the girl we picked up one early-summer evening to the one who finally took our name nearly a year later was tangled with ebbs and flows, our home was always seen as a suitable environment.
The guest room that was ‘too nice’ by Silvia’s own standards also changed. Many teenage girls were interested in movie stars and singers. Her choices for decor were more juvenile. The child psychologist Angelina hired explained it to us at one of our parental appointments.
Because I didn’t have enough on my schedule.
“Mr. and Mrs. Demetri, the items she’s interested in, the books and small figurines, they’re all a part of childhood, a phase in her life she missed. You could push her to her chronological age, but in doing so you open the door for other difficulties.”
I usually let Angelina do most of the talking. She was the hands-on parent.
“We aren’t pushing her,” Angelina clarified. “I guess I want to know that it’s all right to indulge these interests.”
“Her world is growing, yet it’s still quite limited,” the psychologist said.
Though it wasn’t a question, we both nodded.
“She’s been with you for a few months. When do you plan to expand her world?”
Angelina looked at me before turning back to the doctor. “She’s slowly getting comfortable, and I’m afraid if we expose her to too much, she’ll slip back or revert to how she was in the beginning.”
“Mr. Demetri, have you seen the change in Silvia?”
I leaned forward with my arms on my legs and thought about her question. I should have been at my office doing one of a thousand things, but instead I was discussing Silvia. “I have,” I admitted. “It’s almost remarkable. She speaks unprompted. I know with many teenagers that’s a problem, but with her it was the opposite. She would only talk when questioned or startled...” I recalled the first morning when I found her cooking my breakfast. “...now she volunteers information.” I sat taller. “As an example, just last night she brought a book into my office to show me pictures of lighthouses. We took her on a weekend drive a week or so ago. She had never before seen a lighthouse. Now she’s obsessed.”
When I looked to my wife, she was smiling in a way I didn’t often see. I couldn’t stop from reaching out and taking her hand in mine.
“I didn’t know she showed you that,” Angelina said. “We’d gone to the library, and she spent over an hour looking for books.”
The doctor leaned back. “I think you’re expanding her world more than you realize.”
“As Angelina said, we don’t want to overwhelm her,” I said.
“The world is easier to see from the outside. Mr. and Mrs. Demetri, you’re right in the middle of it. I’m looking at the scenes you’re showing me,” she went on. “The lighthouses, the library...Mrs. Demetri, does she go with you to other places?”
“Yes, the store, small restaurants, and church of course. I tried taking her into the city to the Met—I love museums—but partway there as I talked about some of my favorite exhibits, I had our driver turn around. It was as if I could see her retreat. I’m never sure what to do.”
I was surprised to hear that. We’d taken her to Brooklyn, to the Costello home, and she’d seemed to do all right. Of course, that was with Lennox, and often Luca and Luisa were present. Silvia was guarded around Carmine and Rose, but I couldn’t blame her for that.
I smiled at Angelina. “Trust you,” I said. “You’re the best mother I’ve ever known. You won’t let her down.”
That night Angelina and I dined alone for the first time since Silvia arrived, since...I couldn’t remember. At a small restaurant not far from our house, we talked and laughed. Silvia was comfortable at home and Lennox was busy with friends. Without either one of them, we remembered that we were more than parents; we were also husband and wife.
The reprieve was short-lived. We each had too many responsibilities in and out of the home. The months continued to pass. Silvia continued to grow more comfortable. Her world was expanding. One warm autumn afternoon, she sat between Angelina and me as we watched a middle school football game. Baseball was over. I’d meant to get to one of those games, but that hadn’t happened. Now I was here, sandwiched between parents and students on metal bleachers.
Lennox’s recent obsession was anything to do with his current sport. The party planning that I used to have to do to be Angelina’s suburban husband was now necessary to be in my own home. Between current college and professional team statistics, I needed to do homework to carry on a conversation with my own son. I hadn’t realized the significance until I saw it, sitting in the stands where I should have been long before. With Lennox on the field, throwing long and short passes, the shouts were not only Angelina’s and Silvia’s, but also others yelling his name.
“He’s good,” I whispered to Angelina.
Her blue eyes shone in the fading sunlight as her pursed lips shifted to a grin. “I told you.”
Time moved on. The sun showed less, leaves fell, and snow covered the ground. As the cycle continued, it then melted as spring sprung. When the new leaves made their appearance, the time finally arrived.
Nearly a year after bringing Silvia to her new home, she was asked to talk to the judge with regard to the adoption. The young lady who appeared in the private chambers with the family court judge barely resembled the skinny, scrawny child we’d first met. The transformation was more than the way her body had filled out from being healthy and active, nourished and cherished. It was something that food couldn’t provide that was noticeable in her newly acquired poise—the way she was beginning to mimic the woman she chose to call Angelina, not Mother.
Sitting there, watching as she stepped into the office, Angelina and I held hands watching the girl that no matter the judge’s decision was now our daughter. Though the woman beside me was primarily responsible, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride, seeing the confidence inside Silvia that was continuing to build.
As time passed it wasn’t only in our home or with our family that she exhibited this newfound demeanor. It came out at all times as she held her head high and made eye contact during discussions with each person she encountered. One of my favorite outward signs was the way her feet no longer shuffled as she walked, her steps now assured.
It was difficult to pinpoint the exact moment that it happened, the moment when Silvia realized she deserved to be more than she’d been told she could. And yet it had happened. We’d broken a chain. It wasn’t the same one Angelina asked about for Lennox when she was pregnant, but it was an important one nonetheless. Silvia’s life was changed. The figurative chains her biological mother had bound her with were gone.
Though I had been there along the way with her, Angelina, and Lennox, I was also busy. I had an entire life and company and family that occurred beyond our home in Rye. Yet each time I entered that house, and my home was filled with the sounds of a family, I was reminded of the change.
We offered Silvia a home. Angelina gave her more—a family.
Silvia gave us something, too. Encouraging her to interact forced us to do the same. Lennox spent less time in his room playing his games. I made more of an effort to be present even when I had a list of other things to do. It was never as much as my wife would like, but even she admitted it was an improvement.
That didn’t mean the year was filled with only roses.
From my perspective, I would have expected for Silvia to be always and forever grateful for what we gave her, and yet as the first year transpired, she hadn’t always been. There were ups and downs. Watching my wife negotiate those turns helped me to understand that life didn’t always need to be perfect. Lows were as instrumental as highs. It was during those valleys, when Silvia became upset and pushed back, that she was able to see that Angelina wasn’t going to give up.
My wife was in this relationship for the lo
Not now.
Not in the future.
And it shouldn’t have happened in the past.
She knew enough about the people she’d worked for in the past to understand the world in which we lived, where Angelina was born, and who the Costellos were. Perhaps she hadn’t been as naïve as we’d suspected, just too scared to talk. In reality, her experiences were her education, and like me, she’d never unlearn what she’d seen. Our hope was that she’d use her knowledge to move beyond. We were committed to that.
Silvia had begun studying. Angelina called it homeschooling. Though the parish was more than willing to allow her to attend school, Angelina wanted to get Silvia to a more age-appropriate grade level. Being a fifteen-year-old in a fifth-grade class would not have abetted Silvia’s self-esteem.
Once Silvia opened up, we learned that she possessed a love of reading. Of course, Angelina fostered that love. Instead of fifth-grade reading books, my wife nurtured Silvia’s interests. Such as the lighthouses, each interest was fostered until it qualified for many necessary educational disciplines. With lighthouses, Silvia learned history and geography. She also studied their different heights and diameters, working on math skills. In the one year since she’d arrived, her reading comprehension had gone from third grade to high school. That growth was evident in her vocabulary as well, constantly surprising us.
Not everything had to be taught to Silvia. She came to us skilled in the culinary arts. While my wife and her aunt were still the best cooks I knew, Silvia was easily the third. It wasn’t a chore to her but her hobby, even reward. She enjoyed learning new recipes and perfecting old ones. Together with Angelina, they kept us too well-fed.
The sixteen-year-old young woman who entered the judge’s chambers was nervous, yet eloquent and determined. She also went into the conversation to express her choice in life—she wanted to be part of us as much as we wanted her.
The decision wasn’t immediate. While we’d expected the approval, it was still joyous when the news finally arrived. The day the adoption was granted and she officially became Silvia Demetri, we celebrated in true Italian-family style. It was while sitting around the table in the private dining room at Giovanni’s that the magnitude of the change hit me. Leaning back, I scanned our crowd.
Not large by any means, but plentiful—enough. Carmine was at the head of the table, Rose by his side, Vincent at his left, Luisa between he and Bella with Luca by his mother’s side. Lennox was beside his grandaunt with Silvia to his other side and Angelina beside her new daughter. I was on the other end of the table with Angelina to my left.
Costellos and Demetris.
The conversation and laughs continued. No longer scared, Silvia sat beside her new mother, more self-assured than she’d ever been. It was as Carmine raised his wine glass and welcomed Silvia that my cold heart experienced a staggering jolt. The don of the Costello family was toasting the sister of the young man who’d almost taken his life. Of course, that was knowledge only shared with a chosen few. Though the Demetri surname was legally new, we’d used it since she first arrived.
Lorenzo Greco had made a deal with Carl Gioconda in an effort to save his family—a deal with a devil that would have ended our family. Ironically, his goal was achieved. What remained of Lorenzo’s family was now safe and surrounded with love and support—save his mother. But that was a story for a later time. Her usefulness was no longer needed.
Even Lennox had become accustomed to our new family member, though he had an interesting perspective. I’d asked him at one time while we were alone how he felt about Silvia living with us. In a typical boy-like way, he’d shrugged and simply replied, “She’s not really my sister, even if Mom says she is. Not like Luisa and Luca. We’re not related, but that’s okay. Mom said she needed a family. We’ve got one. Problem solved.” Maybe it wasn’t childlike but a sign that my son was a problem solver. Silvia needed a family. Angelina offered her ours. No more thought was necessary.
If only life could be as simple as it appeared at eleven or twelve years old, and yet lifting my glass in the midst of the complicated ways of our world, and glancing at the girl who now had my last name and then to the woman at her side...for a moment, I believed in that simplicity.
Blood in. Blood out.
Family was about more than being related. I didn’t know if I’d ever truly recognize her as my daughter. I wasn’t sure she acknowledged me as much more than Angelina’s husband. Whatever the future held, I could accept Silvia as family in the broader sense of the word. Family was comprised of those people who made you who you were, who supported you, and stood beside you when others turned away.
In that respect, Silvia would always and forever fill the bill. If having my last name—our last name—protected her, then it was a small gift. It was a minimal goodwill gesture that may in some way counteract the ill will in my past and future.
“I’m so happy.” Angelina’s lips moved in her silent declaration as her gaze met mine, just before the glass came to her smiling lips.
With my left hand, I reached for her right one and squeezed. “Mio angelo, you’re amazing.”
She leaned my way for a chaste public kiss. “We did this together.”
“Always together.”
The family’s conversation grew louder as more courses of food appeared. By the time we said our goodbyes, our stomachs were full, but not as full as our hearts. Carmine’s hand landed upon my shoulder as we gathered near the back entry, waiting for our cars. “It was the right decision.”
“Yes, sir. I wasn’t sure, but Angelina can do anything.”
“You have a daughter now. Cherish her. My daughter...” His gaze went to Angelina, taking my wife in as she carried on a conversation with Bella. “...when they’re in your heart, the blood doesn’t matter.”
I nodded, my attention going to Silvia. She was standing with Luca and Lennox, the three of them talking. At sixteen, she was at least a head taller than both—boys usually grew later and they were both younger than her. Lennox was used to the height difference; however, Luca wasn’t and made me smile. Previously accustomed to holding the cousins beneath him in his court, he fidgeted—his neck elongating as he rolled on the balls of his feet.
Carmine must have followed my line of vision. “One day they’ll tower over her.”
I laughed. “I don’t think Luca is happy that the day hasn’t arrived.”
In a rare show of pleasure, Angelina’s uncle chuckled. “Costello men.” He turned to me. “The work on the shipyard, it’s impressive. I was looking over the plans you brought by. The work will help the area. And Rose said Angelina is happy with what you’re doing.”
A lump formed in my throat. “She is. It will be expensive.”
Carmine’s dark eyes grew sentimental. “Sometimes we change a child’s life. Sometimes we create a memorial to fallen parents—I believe Salvatore and Paola would be proud—and in the process, we help many lives. In the end, everything we do matters.”
“Oren,” Angelina’s voice pulled me away from the dark stare. “Testa’s here.”
I offered Carmine my hand. As we shook, I simply said, “Thank you.”
I hadn’t discussed my parents with him since before Angelina and I were married, and yet he remembered. Perhaps that conversation wouldn’t have been as monumental in my memory as it was had it not been our last.
Chapter 34
How does one become part of a family? It was a question I found myself repeating.
And when exactly does that occur?
It would have been a more fitting story to say that after the dramatic life Carmine Costello had lived
That wasn’t to be.
Instead of glory, the revered boss simply fell asleep.
No fanfare. No flourish.
While lying beside his wife after a typical day and reading the newspaper—the New York Times—he closed his eyes. His fingers lost their grip. The dropping newspaper caught Rose’s attention. For a moment, she assumed he’d fallen asleep.
Our call came a few minutes later—a few minutes after she realized her misconception—after she said her private goodbye to the only man who ever held her heart. We were the second telephone number on Rose’s list.
Despite the late hour of night, we gathered the children and all immediately congregated at her home in Windsor Terrace.
Upon entering the brownstone…the one that I’d feared, admired, and even enjoyed over the last seventeen years, I witnessed a new first. It was the first time I’d seen emotion on Jimmy’s face. Even after the ambush and during the assassination attempt, he’d been the model of calm, his expression a mirrored image of what he’d displayed a thousand times before. However, when we arrived at Rose’s, the enforcer’s eyes were red and puffy; his jaw clenched and unclenched as if he were chewing gum, yet there was none. Jimmy De Niro had pledged his life for and to Carmine Costello. Despite the enforcer’s valiant effort even he couldn’t keep Carmine earthbound.
Rose was a different story; her demeanor was remarkably calm and equally determined. Her husband was not going to be disrespected by the New York Archdiocese as Paulie had been. Once she received the permission of her son, she was on a mission. Besides Father Mario, she made middle-of-the-night phone calls to every wife of every council member within the parish. Men may appear to have the power, but Rose knew the truth that the rest of us silently accepted. Not one of the women refused Rose Costello’s call nor denied her their support.