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This one almost felt new, and a swoop of foreboding went through my stomach.
Opening it, I noted that it was less than half full, and pressure rose in my throat. For a moment, I stood there, not sure I wanted to leave the warm glow of the other notebook.
It would be too easy to pretend I didn’t know how this story ended.
This notebook started with Ty talking about summer football practice. I remembered in the previous one that he'd plannedon becoming an NFL player for the New England Patriots. This entry had a slightly obsessive edge in talking about football, his friends and some workouts. It was clear that Ty had been a natural athlete and a bit smug about it too.
I couldn’t help but shake my head and grin at that, imagining the confident ten-and-a-half-year-old strutting around the football field.
Other portions were dedicated to ranting about his mother trying to force all sorts of vegetables on him, saying that football players needed them, and how he made himself eat them, even though all he wanted was manicotti and meatballs. Then he waxed rhapsodic about working in the garden with his mother and grandparents, which made him appreciate vegetables a bit more.
I thought to the garden outside, and my chest ached.
The entries continued in this vein, Ty scribbling down memories with his family, football games, and school until they broke off shortly after his eleventh birthday.
My heart fell through my chest as I noted the gap between dated entries. Even Ty’s handwriting seemed different as he wrote,Mom passed away a few months ago. It still doesn’t seem real. She was healthy one minute and sick the next.
And then she was gone.
Even though it’s been really hard, I have Nonna and Gramps. Or I thought I did.
Now, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I heard Nonna crying. I thought it was about Mom. But I'd never heard her like that. She was almost hysterical, telling my grandfather that they “couldn’t leave me behind.”
That they had to take me back to Italy — now.
My grandfather said “he” wouldn’t let that happen. That the stupid authorities meddled, and now “he” knew that Viola had a son.
Viola was my mom.
I didn't understand what else they were saying, but I started getting scared. Even now, my thoughts are weird and moving too fast. My heart feels like it could pop out of my chest. I'm trying to tell myself that my grandparents will figure it out, but I know my mom did so much for them. They're not native English speakers. Gramps still gets confused by a lot of stuff, and so does Nonna.
Who would take me away from my family? I can’t lose them. I wouldn't even mind moving to Italy. I speak the language and stuff. Plus, I always had the feeling that mom and my grandparents taught me in case we had to go there someday.
I don’t understand why I can’t go. But Gramps said something about green cards and my visa or my birth certificate, which has a different last name from Anelli.
I thought I heard them mention the name Michaelson.
I don't like how my Gramps sounded when he said Michaelson, like it was a bad word.
Or worse.
What could be worse?
I pulled in a sharp breath. “Oh no.”
The next entries were sporadic, tallying Ty’s rising fear and confusion and his grandparents’ uncertainty about what to do. Ty wrote about “the authorities” visiting him and asking about his home life, how he’d broken down and told these strangers how much he loved his grandparents, that he wanted to say with them, and that he wasn’t even ashamed that he’d cried because it was true.
It had made his grandparents happy, and Ty wrote that they were planning to move to Italy as soon as they could sell the house.
Only, the next entry was dated a week later and simply read,I met my father, Tommasino Michaelson. He lives near Bostonand wants to bring me back there. When I said no and told him I was going with my grandparents…
I think I know why my Gramps sounded that way when he said “Michaelson.”
And my last name isn’t Anelli.
My last name is Michaelson.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
