1. A Theory That Fits The Facts

The doctor told her the problem was dysplasia, a relatively small growth on her cervix. “No,” he said, “it’s not malignant but it has to be removed because sometimes these things develop into a cancer.”

Maria lowered her head, closed her eyes. The smell of a hospital nauseated her, and she hated doctors. And most especially surgery.

“I’ll schedule you in, uh…two weeks. Meanwhile, since you’re a bleeder we need to get a backup supply of blood. You might ask your parents.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Maria said.

“I know, but you must. This is too risky to ignore. But don’t worry, it’s a routine procedure. Won’t take long at all.”

When Maria got home she called her father in Florida. She explained the upcoming surgery and the doctor’s recommendation. “So I need you to come up here and do what he wants,” she said. But Giovanni did not reply.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

She heard a clatter, and then the line went dead. She redialed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I can’t give you my blood,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you, and that’s it. Don’t press me. Per piacere.”

“Put mom on the phone.”

“She can’t give you blood, either.”

“I just don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

“Mi dispiace, cara. I’m really sorry. I’ll explain everything. But not now.”

There’s a six hour time difference between Italy and the US, so when Maria and I talked on the phone she was in the middle of her day and I was finishing mine. I was on my villa’s veranda overlooking the village of Forio two kilometers below. The hydrofoil from Naples slowed, settled into the water, and enter the harbor. The sky was clear; I could see the faint outline of the island of Ventotene on the horizon.

From the beginning of the conversation I sensed something serious was up, and I mean besides her hating to go see the doctor. I also knew that getting the particulars out of her would, as always, be difficult. It’s just her way. She deals with problems by going silent. If something bad comes her way, she’ll just pretend it’s not happening.

“John, I’m totally confused,” she said. “My father refused to give me his blood for my operation. I don’t understand it.”

“Maybe he has an infection,” I said.

“No,” she replied, “he doesn’t. And mom doesn’t either.”

I heard and felt the stress in her voice. And fear. I tried to think of a plausible explanation for her father’s refusal. But nothing came to mind.

The next day in the shower it became clear. I went naked and dripping into the bedroom and hit the speed dial button.

“You must have been adopted,” I told her.

She gasped. “How could you say such a thing to me!”

“Because it’s a theory that fits the facts,” I replied. "And besides you asked.”

“No, no, NO. That can’t be true.”

“Listen, sweetie, you’ve always said that you are different from everyone in your family. You look different, you act different. Adoption explains it perfectly.”

“I can’t believe you are saying this to me. I’ve got to go now.”

“Wait.”

But she hung up.

The next day I called her house. Columba, Maria’s daughter, answered. She sounded totally stressed. She said her mom was shut up in her room and wasn’t talking to anyone right now. Meanwhile, Nonna and Nonno were flying in from Florida and she’ll have to go pick them up at the Philadelphia airport later that afternoon.

“So what’s going on, John?” Columba asked. “Why are my grandparents coming? Is something really wrong with my mom? Is she dying? Is that what the doctor told her?”

“No, Columba, you mom isn’t dying. It’s just routine surgery and…”

“But something terrible is going on, I just know it.”

“Did she tell you that Nonno refused to give blood as backup for her surgery?”

“No, she didn’t say anything about it. But why would he refuse?”

“I think it’s because you mom was adopted. Anyway, that’s what I told her when she asked.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Well, I don’t know it for sure. When your grandparents come, you’ll have to confront them. Both you and your mom deserve a straight answer.”

As usual I was left with plenty of time to imagine what was going on in America. I could see grim-faced Giovanni and grim-faced Restituta, sitting in the back seat of the BMW. Columba glancing at the rearview mirror, trying to read their expressions. Not daring to ask them a single question. They’d speak, but only when they were ready.

Finally Columba told me what she learned. And it wasn’t good. After two solid days of stony silence Giovanni finally decided it was time, and called a meeting. They assembled in the living room. Maria, Columba, and Maria’s son, Antonio. Maria’s husband, Carl, wasn’t there because he was in New York City on a big construction project.

Yes, Giovanni admitted, Maria was adopted. In Napoli. Shortly after her birth on January 14, 1964. He intended to keep it a secret forever. He never imagined that it would ever have to come out. The other day, when Maria asked for his blood, he was so shocked that he dropped the phone. He knew at that moment he’d have to tell her the truth.

Giovanni had taken careful steps to ensure that Maria’s biological mother would never find her abandoned daughter, if indeed “that woman” ever dared to try. He destroyed the documents he got from the hospital. Restituta, meanwhile, hid away in her steamer trunk a rag doll, baby shoes, and a gold necklace with a cross, all of which came with the baby when they picked her up. Restituta had never intended to show those things to Maria or anyone else. But now…

When Maria was 11 Giovanni decided to move the family from Ischia to America. That way nobody would ever be able to track down his daughter. He swore that if any of that woman’s people tried to get Maria back, well, “a lava of blood will flow through the streets.”

That woman. Who was she?

“Sophia Loren,” Giovanni told them. “She was too busy making her movies to bother with a daughter.”

“So what’s the part that’s not good?” I asked Columba.

“Mom has disappeared. Her backpack is gone. Do you know where she is?”

I thought for a moment. “The last time she took off she went to her friend Margaret’s house.”

“Yes, I’ve already called Margaret, but she hasn’t seen her. I’m thinking maybe she’ll come to Italy to visit you.”

“If she does, I’ll let you know.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely.”

Nonno was upset, she said. She could see him though the kitchen window, sitting out in the back yard, smoking. She was deeply worried about him. He looked really bad. He kept lighting up one cigarette after another.

“I know he thinks something terrible is going to happen to my sister, and that it’ll be all his fault.”

“I can imagine.”

“This is big. Too big. I can’t believe it’s happening.”

“You’re sure Nonno said Sophia Loren?”

“Yes, Sophia Loren. And I don’t even know who in hell she is.”

“She’s a famous movie star. An academy award winner.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I hate her.”