Chapter One

The whimper came, no more than a note of longing --- or fear --- in a child's throat. Sofie reacted instinctively, each nerve pulled taut. But when she opened her eyes, there was no warm, damp cheek, no tiny brow wrinkled with sleep-swept worries. She sank back as sorrow, marrow deep, found a familiar fit.

Her wrists stung with memory. The damp bed sheet weighed on her chest like water, pressing her down, rising over her chin, despair so complete it became a force. Shaking, she stared up at the darkness, refusing to give in. Chi ha dato ha dato. What's done is done. She could not turn back time, or change one detail of what was, or what had been.

She got up and went into the bathroom. The faucet squeaked; the pipe clunked. Water sputtered, then rushed with a rust scented stream. Memory pressed again as she stepped over the side of the tub, red-stained water lapping. She turned, and the sting of hot spray drove it away.

After drying her hair, she pulled it into a ponytail, dressed in gray cashmere cardigan, charcoal slacks. Black camel coat, blue and turquoise scarf. She slid her black chenille gloves down the banister of the inner staircase and stepped out to the street her family had lived on for three generations. Belmont. Little Italy of the Bronx. Each shop, each curb familiar; each face knowing too much. A blessing and a burden.

Fog issued from her mouth. Brittle frost crunched beneath her feet. The biting January wind stung her nose. But it wasn't far, just around the corner, a couple of blocks. Shivering, she climbed the steps to the church and slipped inside the massive doors to the sanctuary scented with polish and prayers.

The bands around her chest loosened. Her muffled steps carried her midway down the center aisle, where she knelt among the donne anziane in their black scarves and thick stockings.

Mariana Dimino clawed her way, pew by pew, to the place where Sofie knelt. She paused, her eyes a portal. "Finchè c'è vita c'è speranza," she murmured.

Where there's life, there's hope. Sofie let the words penetrate, grateful for the gift. Hope was precious, to be neither hoarded nor spent lightly. And so was life.

The thought resonated as she walked back to her family's apartment building, noting each detail of her surroundings, her cocoon. She felt a metamorphic stirring. It was time for change. She'd go straight up to Momma and --- Her cell phone vibrated.

She answered, but no one responded. Whoever was placing the calls waited each time for her to answer, stayed on the line as long as she did without ever saying a word. No breathing or threats, but the silence unsettled her more.

The number was blocked, so she could not return the calls. Could it be someone she had counseled? She'd given none of them her personal number, though she was reachable through the hotline. If they'd gone to the trouble to get it some other way, why wouldn't they say what they wanted?

"I'm not sure what you're hoping to accomplish by this. If you need something, say so."

Still nothing.

"If you won't tell me, I can't help you." She disconnected and looked back over her shoulder. A prickle itched along her neck, the feeling of being watched. Her tendons tightened, even though she guessed it was only a shade from the past.

She went into the hall and navigated past bicycles with training wheels, basketballs, skateboards, snow boots, and other kid clutter. So many children in this building, and she their favorite auntie, with no kids of her own to distract her. Nicky cried upstairs, and her sister Monica hollered for Bobby to quiet him, not even noticing the irony.

Sofie smiled. She'd miss this boisterous scene. She loved them all. She just couldn't stay there anymore. Mariana Dimino's words had awakened her. She'd been going through the motions, lost in a semi-sleep of doubt and regret. But she was alive, and there was hope that she could squeeze through the familial cocoon that had shielded her for the last six years and force strength into her wings.

She climbed the stairs to the second floor. Momma was up; she could tell by the scorched aroma leaking into the hall. This would be the first tug, the hardest squeeze. She rapped the door, and her father let her in as he left for work. "See ya, Pop."

He tapped her shoulder in passing. It would be better to let Momma get used to the idea without Pop's concerns piling on. Even before Tony's death, Momma had done everything she could to keep her chicks near. Only Lance had flown the coop, his restless wanderings a constant concern for the woman wiping off the kitsch-cluttered counter.

The open window let the smoke out and the cold in. Black soggy crumbs littered the sink, where Momma had scraped the charred surface from the toast. Chunks clung to the drain like flies.

"Don't worry, Momma. Pop's glad for a full stomach."

"You think Lance would say so?" Her mother shook the towel over the sink and hung it on the rack.

Lance would try hard not to say anything, but if any woman could look inside her children, it was Doria Lo Vecchio Michelli. Lance and Nonna Antonia had run the restaurant downstairs and provided feasts for the family for years. Both wonderful cooks had suffered Momma's kitchen handicap with considerable restraint, but she knew.

"Why are you thinking about Lance, Momma?"

"I always think about Lance. I think about all of you. I worry." She wiped her hands on the apron nipping into her shapely waist. Momma had assets, Grazie a Dio. Pop knew what he was getting and what he wasn't.

Sofie drew a breath. "I'm leaving."

"You just got here." Momma ran the cloth under the water and squeezed it out.

"I mean I'm going away."

"Madonna mia." Momma pressed a hand to her heart and turned. "Going away? How can you go away?"

Sofie sighed. "I need to."

"What about school? You worked yourself ragged."

"My dissertation's been approved. I can write it anywhere, check in by phone and electronically."

"But…" Momma's face darkened. Her hand slid to her throat. "You found them."

Sofie shook her head. "No, Momma. It has nothing to do with Eric." They both knew she lied. In a sense every day, every moment, every decision had to do with him. "I just need a change. I can't keep waiting for something that isn't going to happen."

"It never should have."

She wouldn't argue. All conventional wisdom came down on Momma's side of the scale. But even with all the pain that had followed, she could not wish it hadn't. "I need to move on."

Momma wrung her hands, but on that point they agreed. "Then go to Lance. He'll look out for you. You look out for him."

At thirty, she shouldn't need her little brother to look after her. He was only now finding his way. But it was as good a suggestion as any, and the other side of the country might be just far enough to forget.
 

Excerpted from ECHOES: Secrets Series #3 © Copyright 2011 by Kristen Heitzmann. Reprinted with permission by Bethany House Publishers. All rights reserved.

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