thirsty. But the English word water was nowhere to be found in my brain.
“Acqua,” I cried. “Acqua,” I begged. But no one answered. No one came over to me.
Then I was back in my room and my parents were there. Was it evening already, or had they taken the day off from work? I was throwing up again and crying uncontrollably.
“Mamma! Mamma! Che male! How it hurts!”
My mother held me while I strained to bring up more foul-tasting green poison. She wiped my face with a cool, wet washcloth and put an ice chip in my mouth. And she cried right along with me. My father also seemed on the verge of tears.
Oh no! How could I make my parents so unhappy? They had been through so much for me already. I had to stop crying. I was a big girl, not a baby.
“Sto meglio,” I whispered, “I’m better,” and smiled to make sure my parents believed me.
When I woke up again, my parents were gone. But someone was holding my hand. I turned my head on the vomit-stained pillow and saw Audrey. I squeezed her hand but could only speak to her in my mind. Oh, Audrey, I’m so sorry. I forgot all the English words you taught me. But I’m so happy you’re here. My mother always told me there was a crippled girl like me living in another town. I didn’t know you lived so far away, in America. But I knew that, wherever you were, I would find you. Audrey, my lost sister, my beautiful crippled sister. I’m so happy I found you. I love you, Audrey.
The English words all came back to me within a few days. The pain gradually subsided. The nausea lasted a whole week. I chewed ice chips until my gums, my tongue, even my teeth were numb. When I finally could get out of bed and into a wheelchair, I was so thrilled that I went racing up and down the corridor, yelling “Hello, everybody!”
Then I heard the music coming from Audrey’s room. A few girls were in there, and others came in after me. Audrey had stolen some fat Magic Markers from the recreation room. With a red one, she wrote on the brand-new cast on my leg “LOVE, Audrey” as the girls crowded around, encircling me. They all signed their names and drew hearts and flowers, until my whole cast was covered.
The day before, my parents had brought me a box of chocolates. We passed it around as we listened to records. Some of the boys joined us, and soon we were all licking chocolate off our fingers and shimmying and bopping in our wheelchairs. My stomach got a bit queasy from the chocolate, and I felt kind of dizzy shaking my head to the music. But who cared? I was so happy to be with my friends. So happy to be in America. So happy my father had found the best hospital for me.
3
BLOOD SISTERS
About a month after the surgery, I was discharged from the hospital and given a wheelchair. Rosa had been wrong about my getting braces. The doctors told my father the next step was to release another tendon, this time in my left leg. After that, my ankles would need to be fused. And other surgeries would be necessary—it was hard to predict how many—before I could be taught to stand and walk. My father agreed to it all, happy that I was getting the best care.
I barely had time to get settled at home before I had to go back into the hospital for more surgery. But I was happy to go. More surgery meant more pain, but it also meant seeing old friends and meeting new ones. Best of all, it meant being with Audrey.
Audrey and I always tried to be in the hospital at the same time.
“Tell the doctors you can’t go in till next month. That’s when I’m having my surgery,” Audrey would say.
“Oh, please, see if they can do it earlier! I don’t want to wait that long!”
We were best friends, though we never got to see each other outside of the hospital. Audrey lived on Long Island. Her parents had a car and drove her places, but I guess my home in Brooklyn was too far. We were happy talking on the phone every day. Usually, I waited for her to call me, since a call to Long Island was long-distance and expensive. Audrey’s parents didn’t mind the high phone bills.
I’d made no friends outside of the hospital. I went out only with my parents and not very often. Our apartment without stairs still had one step at the front door. I couldn’t manage that step on my own in my wheelchair.
Audrey told me her house had a ramp, so she could go in and out without anyone’s help. I asked my father to build a ramp for me. He told me he couldn’t. Unlike Audrey’s parents, who owned their house, we rented our apartment, and the landlord would never agree to a ramp.
“Don’t worry, gioia, before long we won’t need that wheelchair.” Wasn’t that the reason we had come to America? Presto guarisci, presto cammini was the refrain I heard every day.
If I could have gone out in my wheelchair, I wouldn’t have gotten far, since none of the curbs had cuts, and there were steps going into most places. Besides, I wasn’t brave enough to venture out on my own. I was still the shy crippled girl from the little town of Riposto.
When I went out with my parents, it was to visit our cousins Vito and Concetta and their son, Vittorio, or Victor, who was a few years older than I. They lived only a block away in an apartment on the second floor. My father carried me up the stairs.
Cousin Concetta had found a job for my mother in the factory where she worked, right in the neighborhood. They made ladies’ coats and everyone there spoke some southern Italian dialect. They called the factory fattoria, which I thought was hysterical, since fattoria means “farm” in English.
“Are there cows where you work?” I asked.
She didn’t appreciate the humor. She took her job very seriously. An expert seamstress, she was proud when her work was appreciated by her boss. And above all, she was happy to have found a place where people spoke her language.
My mother had not been going to church but didn’t seem to miss it. Maybe there were no churches nearby. Or maybe after working Monday through Friday, she needed rest more than church services. I asked Audrey if she ever went to church and she laughed. Of course not! She was Jewish, she said. And she was not religious, and neither were her parents. I was glad to learn it wasn’t necessary to be religious in America.
Both my parents left early in the morning to go to work, my father to his construction job, my mother to the factory. I was alone most of the day, but I didn’t mind. It felt great to move around the apartment in my wheelchair—into the kitchen to get a soda or make myself a sandwich, into the living room to turn the TV on, and into the bathroom by myself. Although to get into the bathroom, I had to transfer to a stool, since my wheelchair didn’t quite fit through the door. Taking a bath was tricky and I could do it only when my mother was there to help me. Audrey told me her bathroom was big; she could get her wheelchair right next to the bathtub and get in and out by herself.
TV was a novelty for me, since in Sicily only rich people owned one. I loved our set, encased in shiny dark wood, with a huge nineteen-inch screen. I watched game shows and American Bandstand, trying to remember the words of the songs I’d learned from Audrey.
One day, I turned on the TV and a bunch of disabled kids were going around on a stage, some with braces and crutches, and a woman in a low-cut dress was guiding them and patting first one, then another
