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Chapter 15:  Angelina

            Teresa pushes back from the desk and peers out the window.  It is still raining; drops trickle down the panes in silver streaks.  Running her fingers through her salt and pepper bob, Teresa remembers that day, the day Angelina came into their lives.  Of course, Teresa was furious at first.  Mother was dead less than a year.  It soon became obvious that Angelina was no new acquaintance of Father’s.  The newlyweds were far too comfortable with each other, and their conversation overflowed with references to mutual friends and experiences that seemed to span years in Italy.  Teresa wanted to hate Angelina, wanted to pounce on innumerable faults and reprehensible qualities, but she could find none.  Angelina was just like her name, a little angel.  What she saw in Father was a mystery. 

            Angelina enchanted the twins within a week of her arrival.  Both Debo and Dolly were at home until school started.  Angelina asked them to show her New York.  Each evening the trio came bursting into the apartment in high spirits, shouting phrases in Italian. 

            A rueful smile is on Teresa’s lips as she recalls her own hostile behavior.  She maintained loyalty to Mother for a month or two, but Angelina won her over in the end.  She was, Teresa thinks, the most patient, generous, and loving person any of us children had ever known.  She was lighthearted, funny, and fun.  Angelina even smoothed out some of Father’s hard edges.

            Rubbing her eyes with her fingertips, Teresa realizes that she’s been at the computer for hours.  The battery needs charging.  She opens the desk drawer to get out the charger.  It isn’t there, so Teresa goes downstairs to see if she left it in her carrying case.  While she is in the living room, she opens the front door.  Clouds are high, backlit by the full moon.  There are puddles on the paths, but the rain has almost stopped.  Everything smells fresh and earthy and fragrant.  She breathes in deeply several times, decides to leave the door open for some clean air. 

            Upstairs again, Teresa sees that the mug that held her tea is lying on its side.  The cold tea has trickled into the open desk drawer soaking some of her tourist pamphlets.  She picks up the dripping papers and drops them into the trashcan.  Underneath the papers, the thin wood of the bottom of the drawer is wet and beginning to warp.  Teresa gets a bunch of paper towels from the kitchen.  She blots up as much of the wetness as she can and leaves the drawer open to dry. 

            “If you knocked over the tea, Margaret, I can tell you I don’t appreciate it.  You could have damaged my computer, not to mention this antique desk,” Teresa says into the room’s shadows.  “I told you I’d do the writing, but you have to do your part and get me some information, too.”  She goes back to the kitchen with the mug and a handful of wet paper towels.  “I’m glad there’s no one here to witness me talking to a dead woman,” Teresa mutters.

            She tosses out the towels and rinses the mug in the sink.  “Well, it’s not the first time I’ve conversed with a ghost,” Teresa says.

            She remembers when Father’s spirit appeared to her after he died.  It was always preceded by the scent of cigar smoke.  To this day, cigar smoke makes Teresa snap into a state of alertness and anxiety, even though Father’s ghost hasn’t been around for decades.

            Teresa stands for a few minutes in the open doorway, taking in the moonlit path and the scents of the wet earth and foliage.  She thinks she can hear the sea.  She closes the door and then checks the electric meter and appliances.  It has become her habit since the first night’s misadventures.  In the bedroom, Teresa opens the window halfway before sliding into bed.  In the early morning, she has another dream.