The Singing Trees Read online

  Emma wheezed again as she drew in oxygen. After a long pause—the seconds marked by the chirp of the machine—she finally spoke.

  Dear Thomas,

  What is there left to say? You know I’m sorry. You know I miss you. How many letters can a sister possibly write to her brother before he believes her? My heart breaks again and again. Did you ever truly find happiness, or did I steal it away forever? How I wish you could sit in this room—as awful as it is—and tell me the stories of your life.

  You were such a wonderful brother, putting up with me during my teenage years. Can you believe the things I did? So desperate for attention. And you were the only one who ever gave it to me. You even gave up living in the dorms to stay home for me. What would I have done without you? I still laugh about the time you beat up Jim Harrison for calling me a skank.

  How strange we never spoke of Vietnam. Or the fall of the Berlin Wall, the war in the Middle East. Can you believe we all have computers? Can you believe Tom Brady? That’s right, I keep up a little. How about Portland’s evolution? I thought the Maine Mall would ruin our city forever.

  I hope you know that after hitting rock bottom, I’ve dedicated my life to making up for my sins and attempting to honor you. I suppose it’s not much, but it’s the most I can offer. I love you, Thomas.

  Always your sister, I hope,

  Emma

  Part I

  JULY 1969 TO JUNE 1970

  Chapter 1

  NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS

  July 1969

  Portland, Maine

  Crammed into the back seat of her cousin’s brown beater, the Who playing “Pinball Wizard” on the radio, a wide-eyed Annalisa peered through the window at the skyline of the city she’d loved since she was a little girl. When someone from small-town Maine said, “Let’s go to the city,” she wasn’t referring to Boston or New York. She was speaking of Portland, a city that had been pulling at Annalisa long before she’d lost her parents and been forced to endure the rest of her high school years in Payton Mills, a town known for nothing but its football team and textile mill.

  For Annalisa, Portland might as well be Paris, and Congress Street downtown resembled the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. The buzz of the city: the museums and art galleries, the clusters of protesters pumping their signs, the psychedelic shops oozing incense, the exciting restaurants bustling with conversation, the concert posters plastered on shop windows promising wild nights, the hippies with their long hair and colorful clothes brushing past the businessmen toting their briefcases, even the honking of the horns, called to her as if moving here were her destiny. Here in this bustling port city, she imagined she’d never run out of creative inspiration.

  Her cousin Nino, her best friend and one of the only reasons keeping her from hating Payton Mills, slid to a stop by Monument Square and turned back to her. The son of Annalisa’s paternal aunt, Nino was Annalisa’s age, had a baby face, and his wavy, slicked-back chocolate hair featured a little curl above his forehead. He was six three, could out-dribble almost anyone on the basketball court, and had a smile that lit up a room. It was no wonder that one of the prettiest girls in town, a cheerleader named Sara, sat shotgun, smacking on a piece of gum. Yes, she was Italian. Dating someone other than an Italian was not acceptable in the Mancuso family.

  “All right, cugina,” he said, throwing an arm over the back of the seat, “we’ll catch you later. Don’t take no for an answer, all right?”

  “When have I ever taken no for an answer?” Annalisa cracked open the door, and the sounds of the city—the car horns and police sirens, the hammering from a nearby construction site, the loud banter of the city dwellers, the arguing and laughter, the pure excitement—rushed over her. “Just don’t get too blitzed to drive us home,” she added.

  “When would I ever?” Nino asked with a charming and devious grin. Annalisa wasn’t sure exactly what he and his girlfriend planned for their day in the city, but she could only imagine it had to do with booze and fooling around.

  They had to be back to Payton Mills by seven, or her grandmother, who was a million times stricter than her parents had been, would ground her for her entire senior year. Though she was no stranger to breaking the rules, this was the first time Annalisa had ever been allowed to go to Portland without the accompaniment of her aunt or another adult, and she didn’t want it to be her last.

  Annalisa stepped out of the car and immediately noticed Our Lady of Victories, the bronze statue of a woman holding a sword and shield, looking almost directly at her. Yes, let today be my victory, she thought. Popping open the trunk, she grabbed her purse with her sketch pad and the orange portfolio tote that had once been her mother’s.

  After shutting the trunk and giving one last wave, Annalisa filled her lungs with the salty air blowing in from Casco Bay and crossed Congress Street, walking with determination toward the most well-known art gallery in town. Having been painting since she was two years old and selling her pieces since she was ten, she felt like she was finally ready to garner some attention here in the city.

  The gallery was sandwiched between a boutique clothing store and a travel agency in a fancy brick building. Every Mainer knew about the great fire of 1886 and how Portland had been rebuilt with mostly brick and concrete.

  Stalling, she wondered if she’d dressed too casually. She could have chosen one of the conservative and dull dresses that she wore to church, but that wasn’t her at all. Inspired by a green dress she’d seen in Vogue a few months back, she’d created a Butterick-patterned peasant top with a yard of green cotton she’d found on sale at Grants. She wore it with a caramel sash, blue-jean bell-bottoms, and hand-me-down leather boots. She had her mother, aunts, and home ec class to thank for her skills with a sewing machine.

  Just as she put her hand on the doorknob, she paused. Somehow she’d managed to brick wall any fear that had arisen in the car, but it was hitting her hard now, burning her insides. It was no exaggeration to say her entire life was on the line.

  Since her grandmother didn’t have a car, Annalisa rarely made it to the city and had been in this gallery only three times before, always taken aback by the curator’s eye. Jackie Burton was a strong supporter of female artists. Annalisa knew she was good and could probably find another gallery owner to take her on, but she wanted to be on this woman’s walls. A Jackie Burton stamp of approval was a ticket to the top of the artistic world in New England.

  Before fear pushed her heart rate out of control, Annalisa pulled open the door and stepped inside, first noticing the polished sheen of the hardwood floors. Fighting a timidity that she rarely felt, she raised her head to the pieces adorning the bleach-white walls. She instantly recognized a very busy piece by Sharon Maxwell, a legend of the East Coast art scene.

  Mrs. Burton herself was thumbing through a magazine on one of the modern fuchsia chairs that formed a circle in the center of the room. Her hair wasn’t quite jet-black, maybe more blackberry, as if God had used just a touch of violet when He’d created her. She wore a tight-fitting black dress with black heels, but her bright pearl-and-turquoise necklace rose out of the black of her outfit in a tasteful joust between dark and bright.

  Annalisa gripped the handle of her tote as the two women’s gazes met. “Oh, hi.”

  Mrs. Burton set her magazine down on her lap. “Sharon’s great, isn’t she?” She’d clearly been watching Annalisa.

  Annalisa turned back to Sharon’s paintings. “As much as I don’t love abstract expressionism, I can definitely feel the emotion in her work.”

  “Listen to you.” Mrs. Burton popped up from her chair. “Impressive. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

  It didn’t take knowing that Annalisa came from a poor mill town for the lady to know she was out of place. This gallery wasn’t for teenagers, but she thought it was nice of Jackie to go along with the idea that Annalisa might be looking for something special to adorn one of the walls in her West End mansion.

  Annalisa raised her tote, completely focused on making this woman love her. Not allowing any shake to be heard in her voice, she said, “I am a big fan of yours, Mrs. Burton. Of your eye and your gallery, and I wanted to see if you might be interested in taking a look at my work.”

  “Oh, you’re a painter,” she said enthusiastically, taking away some of Annalisa’s fear. “Yes, I’d love to see what you’re up to. Call me Jackie. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Annalisa.” She felt a bright light of excitement. Could it be this easy?

  “Why don’t you come sit down with me, Annalisa? We’ll take a look.”

  Annalisa thanked her and tried to temper her nerves with a deep breath as she took a seat next to Jackie in one of the stiff fuchsia chairs. All Jackie had to do was say she’d love to bring in her work, and the doors leading to Annalisa’s future would open wide. She wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that she couldn’t afford college. She wouldn’t have to worry about what she’d do to support herself for the rest of her life. All she’d have to do was capture the world with her brushes.

  Like she’d done it a million times before (maybe she had), Jackie took the tote, unbuttoned the clasp, and reached inside. Annalisa had chosen ten of her favorite paintings from the past year of her work; some she’d done in art class, and a few at home.

  The first piece was a scene of workers crossing the bridge over the Linden River to the textile mill in Payton Mills where her father had worked before he’d left for college in Bangor. Annalisa had waded through a tremendous amount of suffering in the days it had taken to finish this painting. When her father was her age, a brilliant young athlete with big dreams, he’d hurt his back in a forklift accident in the mill’s warehouse, which had led to his drifting to the bottle to kill
the pain, and then to ultimately driving himself and Annalisa’s mother into a ravine—albeit unintentionally.

  “Okay,” Jackie said, holding the piece out in front of her. “I wasn’t expecting this. You’re quite good. What exceptional detail.”

  Annalisa muttered a barely audible “thanks.” Was “quite good” enough to get a few paintings onto these walls?

  Flipping to the next piece, Jackie scrutinized the scene of her parents’ funeral. It was a bird’s-eye view of their friends and enormous family standing around the bodies that would soon be lowered into the ground. It was the first time Annalisa had ever inserted herself into a painting, and she stood there with her hand on her mother’s casket.

  “You’re a realist, aren’t you?” Jackie asked, turning to Annalisa and ripping her from the memory. “Not afraid to paint the truth. These are quite . . . almost dreary. Is this you?”

  Annalisa fidgeted with her hands before finally locking them down in a clasp on her lap. “I lost my parents two years ago.”

  Jackie put her hand on the armrest of Annalisa’s chair and apologized.

  “It’s been a long time. I don’t think about it much anymore,” Annalisa lied, seeing her grandmother standing outside of her school in Bangor that day, waiting to break the news.

  After a reverent pause, Jackie flipped to the next painting. “I can’t get over your eye for detail. You’ve obviously been painting a long time.”

  “All my life,” Annalisa said, hoping her experience made a difference.

  Jackie glanced at her before continuing to the next piece. “You’re like a budding da Vinci. Do you like his work?”

  It was the kindest compliment anyone in the history of her life had given her, and she had a sudden urge to wrap her arms around Jackie’s neck with thanks. “I’m Italian. Of course I love da Vinci.”

  The curator went back to studying Annalisa’s pieces. Hopefully, she could see that Annalisa had put everything she had into them, the purging that she’d felt as she’d immortalized each subject with her acrylics. Jackie was right; many of them were on the sadder side, but how couldn’t they be? Sunshine was rare in her world.

  When Jackie finished, she carefully slipped each one back into the tote. “What to do with you?” she asked herself. As if the answer were on the ceiling, she looked up for a while. More than anything in the entire world, Annalisa wanted her to say, “I think you are an extraordinary artist, and I’d like to bring your work into my gallery. You belong here.”

  “I think you have a talent like I haven’t seen in a long time,” she said, finally lowering her head. “Art must be deep in your genes.”

  Was she finally about to get a break for once in her darn life? She could see herself strutting into this gallery a week from today, seeing some of her own pieces mounted in gorgeous frames on the walls next to New England’s greatest. She could see herself collecting her first paycheck, knowing she’d finally made it after working her butt off for so many years.

  Jackie bit her bottom lip. “You’re not where you’re supposed to be yet. I think you have what it takes to make it, but there’s something missing, a consistency. I’m not seeing your voice . . . maybe that’s what it is. Do you know what I mean?”

  Unable to get a word from her constricted throat, Annalisa gathered her brown hair into a ponytail to busy herself. She could remember similar discussions with her mother, who urged her not only to try every medium but to experiment until something felt right. Well, the paintings in the tote in Jackie’s hand right now did feel right to Annalisa. She was not new to art. She’d played with watercolor, oil, charcoal, and even pen and ink. Then, when she’d gotten her hands on acrylics, she’d known it was her medium. She’d started with still lifes like her mother had, then gone on to landscapes, ocean scenes, and animals. It was people she enjoyed most, though, and that was what she’d been doing for at least two years now, as if she was subconsciously trying to understand them.

  So why wasn’t Jackie seeing her transformation?

  Jackie put her hand on the armrest again, making Annalisa feel slightly invaded. “The one with you at your parents’ funeral; that one hits me hard and shows me you have what it takes. Believe me, your ability with detail is first-rate, and I don’t mind the sort of realist, almost bleak outlook, but I don’t see your voice breaking through. If you look at works on my wall for even a second, you know exactly who did them. How old are you, anyway?”

  Annalisa forced herself to perk up. “Seventeen.”

  Jackie leaned in. “Seventeen? No wonder. You can’t have a voice when you’re seventeen. None of my artists did. You need to go to school, find some good teachers, and keep at it. Trust me, you’re going to be great one day. You just need to find exactly what you’re trying to say and then say it loud.” She finally sat back in her own chair, giving Annalisa the space she needed.

  “Where are you from?” Jackie asked. “What’s your plan? Surely, you’ll be attending the art school, right? You know Sharon Maxwell teaches there.”

  Annalisa straightened. “I wish. I’m from Payton Mills and live with my grandmother. We can’t really afford college, but I’d like to move after I graduate.” Truthfully, she wanted to grab her tote and run.

  Jackie raised both hands, palms up, as if she were carrying a globe—the whole world balancing on her fingers. “You have to. What are you going to learn in Payton Mills? I mean, no offense to the place, but you need to be around other artists. You need teachers. You need inspiration that I’m not sure a small town can give you.”

  “I totally agree; believe me.” Moving to the Mills, as many called it, had been a death sentence. Not that Bangor was this big metropolis, but she’d at least had some good friends and a wonderful high school art teacher.

  The door swung open behind them, and they both turned to see a well-dressed older woman with fancy jewelry strolling in, carrying a large magenta purse.

  Jackie called across the echo chamber of the gallery, “I’ll be with you in just a minute. I’m wrapping up with this talented young lady.” She scooted to the edge of the chair and faced Annalisa. “You just missed it, but Sharon Maxwell does a show every April in the Old Port. Very cutting-edge stuff, some even risqué, but everybody who is anybody is there. Do you know of it?”

  “Art news gets to Payton Mills about as fast as new releases make it to the drive-in.”

  “Trust me, you should check it out if you ever get the chance,” Jackie said. “I think you’ll find some of the answers you’re looking for.” She clasped the button on the orange tote and handed it back to Annalisa. “I want you to come back and see me. I’d be happy to help you along the way, finding a teacher or whatever it is. And please know that one day, if you keep working at it, I’d be honored to hang your paintings in here.”

  Annalisa offered her best closed-lip smile, knowing that she should take Jackie’s words as a compliment, but the reality of the rejection was pulling her underwater, drowning her. “I really appreciate you taking the time to look through them.”

  “Oh, the pleasure is mine.” Jackie set her hand on Annalisa’s knee. “I cannot wait to see your development as an artist. What’s your last name, by the way?”

  Annalisa forced herself not to pull her leg back. “Mancuso.”

  “I’ll remember your name, Annalisa Mancuso. Good luck to you.” With a last goodbye, Jackie was off to help her customer.

  Annalisa pressed up from the chair and left the gallery with her portfolio in her hand and purse on her shoulder. Couldn’t she get a break? As if life were that easy. Even in the worst moments of her life, like when her father was drunk and attacking her mother, or when she’d moved in with her grandmother and had been hopeless, parentless, and afraid, painting had been the thing that had saved her. Not this time.

  She rounded the corner and slipped down a quiet alley. Stopping near the back of a seafood restaurant that stank of used frying oil, she let her head fall and broke into a sob. Jackie was right. As confident as Annalisa could sometimes be with her talent, she still hadn’t found her voice. What if she never found it? Or worse, what if she did and it wasn’t anything extraordinary?