AS VINI ENTERS HER MOTHER’S BEDROOM, TWO OF BETTA’S daughters rush out. Camilla, the lame one, and a taller, shy girl whose name Vini cannot remember are loaded with bowls and pitchers and towels. They barely glance at her, their faces flushed and frightened.
The curtains around Mama’s bed are drawn back. She is asleep, her face on one arm, her breathing deep and even. Vini feels the gratitude fill her like blood, race to her head. Her prayers have been answered. Mama is fine!
In her mother’s other arm, so beautiful it stops her breath, is Vini’s brother. The midwife has wrapped him in a blanket, and he is nestled against Antonia’s breast. He is not dark like their father; he has blond hair and milky skin, a small angel’s mouth. But he is not moving or crying. Vini is certain newborns are meant to be red and full of wiggles and tears.
The midwife, a tall woman with corded arms, puts her finger to her lips. She has rolled up her sleeves and tied her hair back; even so, her face and arms are shiny with perspiration. “Let Signora rest,” she says softly, then leans over the bed, gathering up soiled sheets.
Vini walks, as if in a dream, toward them. She has brought the birthing tray from the kitchen; she puts it at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on Antonia and the baby. Her mothers face is lowered toward the little one, but Vini can see the smile, all peace and pride, that lights it even in sleep.
One of the baby’s arms has fallen free of the blanket, and Vini looks at the midwife. When the woman nods, Vini reaches out and puts a finger in the tiny hand. His fingers are still and his palm is cold. Without thinking, she covers his hand with both hers, trying to rub it warm.
Leaning close, she sees that the baby’s pale skin is touched with blue, not pink. More ochre in old skin, more rose in young, Papa has said. But ’Pero’s skin, as transparent as a dried petal, is neither.
Perhaps it is the feel of his fingers curled in hers. Or maybe it is the waiting, the hoping, the prayers she has said. During the minute that she holds her brother’s hand, Vini sees him, in dozens of tiny visions like stained-glass fragments she picks up, one by one, and holds to the light: there is a picture of her brother in the walker, babbling and rolling after her down the hall; and the image of an older boy, hiding from her in the linen closet, hoping to be found; and later still, Vini and her brother standing with the crowd at the puppet theater, clapping, stamping, laughing until they cry.
But these bits of future are sunless scraps; she cannot make them come clear. All around her, Vini sees things that are sharper, fiercer, more real—the pile of bloody sheets in the midwife’s hands, Antonia’s face, bleached from exhaustion, this small body that does not respond to her touch.
By the time she stands aside to let the midwife finish, Vini is weeping openly. Her grief, though, is no longer focused on the brother she has lost, but on her mother. Antonia’s son, her wished-for babe, her life’s crown—is dead.
“I had to wait until Signora slept to take the baby from her,” the midwife whispers. “She would not listen to me when I told her it was lost.”
“Is she . . . ? Is she well?”
The woman puts her finger to her lips again and shyly takes Vini’s arm. “Come, Mistress,” she says, and leads them into Mama’s sitting room. She urges Vini to sit down, but when Vini refuses, they both stand guard by Mama’s door. “La Signora,” the midwife explains, “she kept whispering sweet words to the poor dead thing. She held it tight and would not let me take it from her.”
She drops her pile of sheets on a chest by the door and sighs heavily. She comes back to Vini, standing so close that her face gives off heat. “So I let her chatter and fuss and kiss it until at last she fell asleep.”
“But will she be well?” Vini feels selfish and angry at once. She has lost a brother; she will not, she cannot, lose her mother, too.
“Her body is strong,” the woman says, glancing at the door she has only half closed. “As for her heart, that will take time.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is hard to give a child back to the Lord before you have even held it in your arms.” The woman’s lips are dry and cracked, but her face still shines with sweat. “Now I must take the babe, Signorina, before she wakes.”
Vini follows the midwife back into the bedchamber. While the woman fetches another blanket, Vini watches her mother sleep. She sees the quiet, bottomless peace registered on Antonia’s every feature, the way her whole body is folded around the child. This is not a Madonna from church, with a half smile, a Heaven-directed glance, and a graceful hand gesturing toward her babe. This is a real woman, her hair pressed to her neck in moist curls, her face drawn and damp, holding, holding, holding her dearest dream.
“Scusi,” the midwife says softly. “It is time, Mistress.” She leans in front of Vini and reaches for the baby.
“Wait!” Vini takes the midwife’s hand, pulls her away from the bed. “No.” Her whisper is loud, harsh. She cannot bear to see her mother’s arms empty, to leave Antonia with nothing to hold. She runs to the cradle in the corner of the room, fumbles among the silk coverlets and pillows. “Here.”
Vini scoops up the puppet prince, his lifeless arms and legs dangling, wraps him in a coverlet, and carries him to the bed. “Gently,” she warns the woman, who looks at her astonished. “Take him gently.”
The midwife does what she has been told, and as she lifts the dead baby from Antonia’s embrace, Vini slips the prince into its place. Mama stirs once, then hugs the puppet to her and dreams on.
Vini waits by the bed after the midwife has left with her sad burden. She does not want anyone else to watch Mama’s despair. She will be the one beside her mother when she opens her eyes, the one who holds her while she weeps. The birthing tray lies half buried in the folds of the quilt at the foot of the bed. Through misty eyes, Vini sees a piece of the green grass she has painted at its bottom and a dog bounding after a butterfly.
Mama is exhausted when she wakes, exhausted but smiling. “Did you see him?” she asks as soon as she sees her daughter. She shifts the blanketed puppet in her arms, kisses the top of its head.
“Si, Mama.” Vini moves closer, takes the hand Antonia stretches toward her.
“Is he not beautiful?”
“Si, Mama.” Her mother’s hand is warm and moist. Vini clutches it tight.
“Your father will be so proud.” Antonia’s eyes are tired but full of quiet satisfaction. “Did I not tell you? Everything will be different now.”
“But Mama.” Vini will be as patient with her mother as her mother was with her when she was blind. She will lead Antonia back to herself. “Mama, did you not see? The baby is—”
“I know, Love.” Antonia’s voice is filled with the same calm delight that is in her eyes. “He is everything we hoped.”
Vini cannot let go her mother’s hand, cannot stop staring at the radiant face before her.
“Your father has waited so long for this day.” Antonia glances toward the door as if she expects Prospero to walk through it as she speaks. “You will see how he changes now. How he grows young before our eyes. How he stops pacing and frowning and sitting by himself in the study.”
Vini will hold her mother, will smooth her hair, will help her hear the truth. “Mama, the midwife told you about the baby, remember? He is—”
“Hush now,” Antonia whispers. “You will wake him.” She looks cautiously, tenderly, at the puppet. “But perhaps we should, eh? Will you hold him, Love?” She rises on one elbow, careful to hold the doll close.
Why does she not hear? How can she stare so fondly at that painted toy? Vini feels the tears, the ache in her chest that wants to turn to sobs. “Not yet, Mama.” She tries to sound calm and reasonable. “We need to talk, you and I.”
Antonia laughs. “Do not worry, silly. He will not break.” She holds the puppet out. “You are his big sister. You must learn how to care for him.”
Dear Savior, why will she not listen? “Mama, I. . .”
“Here,” her mother says, slipping the bundle into Vini’s arms. “Only for a heartbeat, then I must have him back.” Her eyes do not leave the puppet, and she hangs on Vini’s arm while she talks, as though by touching her daughter she is still connected to her precious babe.
“Look how handsome he is.” She stares at the puppet, then at Vini. “And look how he loves you already.”
Vini lets the tears course down her face. She cannot brush them away. Her hands are full, and she has all she can do to keep from dashing the makeshift babe to the floor and throwing her arms around her mother. Mama, Mama! Please come hack to me. We can be happy again!
The puppet prince, spineless, inert, stares up at her with a broad smile. The cards were right, Mama, but they were wrong, too. God steers the stars, remember, Mama? But He also hears our prayers. The wooden arms and legs make the blanket stick out at awkward angles. The woolen hair, the gold-trimmed cape and hat—all promise to start her sobbing, crying so that she cannot stop. Worst of all, so horrible that Vini needs to bite her tongue when she looks at them, are the strings, streaming in long, lazy loops over her arms and onto the bed.
But Antonia does not seem to notice. As Vini holds the puppet, her mother touches its painted lips, pats its stiff curls. “Perfect,” she croons, her voice deep and swollen with love. “He is just perfect.”
In the kitchen, Vini tells Silvana and the midwife what has happened. “I have tried to explain that it is only a puppet,” she says, “but Mama will not listen.” She is vaguely aware of Cesare, yapping at her heels, of the midwifes husband by the hearth, of the two women listening to her. But superimposed over everything, coloring it all, is the memory of her mothers smile, her too bright voice. “We must do something, please!” she begs them. “We must call the doctor.”
“No, Preziosa, no doctor.” Silvana takes Vini’s hand. “Do you want them to keep your mother locked up? Or worse, take her away?” She turns to the midwife now. “Tell her,” she urges in her gravel voice.
The midwife leaves her bowl of soup on the trestle, comes to stand beside them. “The doctor, your father, they do not understand a woman’s sorrow,” she says.
“Giovanna has been a midwife for thirty years. She has seen much, Preziosa.” Silvana wipes her eyes with a corner of her apron. “She knows the mind will not hear what will break the heart.”
“I have seen women nurse phantom babes,” Giovanna says, “seen them sing lullabies to the air. You must give the Signora time. When she is ready, she will hear the truth.”
“But when?” Vini asks. “When will she be ready?”
The two older women look at each other. “She will tell you,” Giovanna explains. “You will know.”
Time. It is a little thing, Vini decides. If time is all Mama needs, Vini can wait. She knows well how Mama waited for her. How she nursed and stroked and soothed her angry charge. How she wept and prayed.
When they all three troop upstairs again, Mama is still awake, the puppet beside her in the bed. She shines her heartbreaking smile at them. “Come in,” she says. “Come in and see.” She looks behind them, out the door. “Why have you not brought his father?”
“The Master is not with us, Signora.” Silvana slips the painted birthing tray from under the covers, places it on a chest by the bed. She stands near Mama now, her hands folded across her chest. “Signora, I am glad to see you so well.” She smiles her toothless grin. “From the cries I heard in this room a while ago, I thought surely you were giving birth to three babes at the least.”
Mama laughs too loud. She looks at the puppet in her arms, kisses its face. “As you can see for yourself, Silvana, there is only one.” She leans toward the toy, whispers something they cannot hear in its wooden ear. “But Our Lord has seen fit to give me one worth three others, no?” Again she glances toward the door. “When is Prospero coming?”
The years of hoping, of losing faith and finding it again. They have swept Mama up, have carried her off. But she will come back, Vini tells herself. Just as Vini recovered her sight, her mother will be restored to her. She must be. Or nothing else, not even painting, will matter.
“Perhaps,” Giovanna says, stepping in front of the others, “Signora would like to rest for a while? I have a soothing potion here that will help you sleep.”
Before she can pour from the pitcher, though, Mama is sitting up in bed, pushing the cup away. “Thanks, good gentlewoman,” she says, “but there is more important business to attend.” She looks at the wooden face in her lap. “Prospero Fontana must meet his heir.” She looks up and inclines her head toward them, regally, gracefully. This is the moment she has planned for, dreamed of. “Now,” she says, “would you be so kind as to summon my baby’s father?”
When Vini tells him the sad news at supper, Father closes his eyes for an instant, as if a cinder has flown into one. She notices how slowly and precisely his knife cuts into the meat, how long he chews each piece.
All through the meal, he says little but moves with the leaden, painful deliberation of someone who has been pushed down but who staggers to his feet and moves on. Vini remembers that this is how Papa acted after his student died of typhus. While everyone else was crying and praying, Papa closed his eyes, squared his shoulders as if he were shifting a heavy weight, and went back to work.
After supper, he agrees to go with Vini to see Mama. They have reached the landing when she tells him about the puppet and cautions him to pretend it is alive. The midwife has said this is best, Vini assures him, that Antonia will grieve her loss when she is ready. Until then, she needs her shadow babe.
Papa’s face hardens but his eyes seem—what? Can it be fear that makes them brighter, sharper? “I have worked hard from first light, Daughter,” he says. “I am too tired to play at puppets.” He turns and walks back down the stairs. “Tell your mother I will come another day.”
Vini remembers waiting for her father to visit after she lost her sight. She remembers how long it was before she realized he would not come. So Antonia waits, for days, alert to each footfall on the stairs. But it is only Vini and sometimes a servant who come with meals, or to empty the chamber pot. They assure her that her new son is the most well-behaved, loveliest babe they have ever seen. They promise that Prospero is eager to visit, that he will surely come soon.
Vini pets and gossips and soothes. Every day she brings her mother food on the new tray. It is the one thing, besides her painted child, that Antonia continually admires. She has decided it must be framed when her confinement ends. “So lovely, this mother and child,” she says each time she lifts her plate to reveal the painting underneath. “I will eat very carefully, eh? I do not dare to spill a drop.”
But as each afternoon turns to evening, as the laughter and talk of the departing students drift from the courtyard into her window, Antonia turns restless. She looks from the window to the door. “Why has he not come?” she asks, clutching the puppet. “Does he not want to see his son?”