Purple Leaves

By Janine Anne Rose

Samantha "Sammy" Piccara is a fifteen year old girl, who lives in a quiet, New England suburb of Boston, Massachusettes. Aside from her youthful insecurities and teenage angst, she lives a sheltered and overprotected life, until and unexpected turn leads her down a far different road. After a whirlwind of eye-opening reality, burying her woes in drugs, alcohol, and finding love in all the wrong places, she finds herself facing the most life-changing decisions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781456719913

Janine Anne Rose

Janine Anne Rose, in her first published novel, invites you to ride along on this raw, yet poetic and metaphorically written journey of life, love, pain, and redemption. This page-turning, epic drama of finding ones' self, will stir your thoughts and capture your heart, leaving you with tears of laughter, sadness, and bittersweet happiness.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 1

The sky hung like a linen curtain, faded and graying. Beneath it, a carpet of fallen leaves covered the ground, hiding the once green grass of summer. It was now fall, late fall, and as I looked out my window, I could remember the brilliant colors that, not so long ago, spread across the neighborhood like the fresh palette of an esteemed painter. Bright yellows and gaudy gold, bold reds, like the color of cherries and ripe apples, oranges so deep they looked good enough to eat, and if you were really lucky, you could even find a purple leave during the peak display of the New England foliage.

The purple ones were rare and very special, however, and if you could find one amidst the rest only meant that you were also. At least that was the fantastic meaning that my friends and I liked to imagine and believe. I had yet to find one myself, but I knew they existed out there somewhere. And, with every year that came and went, many hours were spent hopelessly gazing up to the heightened treetops, and staring down upon the multi-hued earth’s floor, in the hopes that one day I would find that one purple leave to call my own. Hoping that one day I, too, could be special.

But on this particular afternoon, all of those glorious colors were gone, leaving us with only the remnants of what once was. Trees that once stood bountiful and proudly full were now eerily empty and vulnerably naked. Their impressionable shades, reminiscent of a bowl of ripened fruit, were now faded into a dismal shade of brown.

This season, with all its’ many facets, brought with it many thoughts and emotions. From its’ genesis to its’ struggles and demise, fall seemed as if it mirrored our very own journeys and destinies. I watched as these leaves worked so desperately hard to become something wonderful and radiant, despite all of the elements that seemed to be stacked up against them. There were pelting rains, unyielding winds, the blistering sun, and those cold dark nights, just to name a few. Yet, they would continue fighting through the many cunning attempts from the powers that be standing in their way, without ever giving up. Their sole purpose, through it all, was to make their unforgettable mark upon the world and leave us with something desirable and beautiful.

You would imagine that with this unbridled determination, this piously driven perseverance, it would be nothing short of encouraging and purely inspirational. But in my overly analytical head, I could not help but to think again about all of the unnerving parallels riding along side of our own mortal lives.

There was the harsh, undeniable reality that once these divinely beautiful creations had finally achieved their destinies, blooming beyond even their own expectations with timeliness and dignity, shortly thereafter, they would inevitably die. And soon, the crackling of the leaves is all that is left behind as a satirical reminder that life had indeed escaped them.

How anticlimactic and incongruously sad! To think that after all that hard work and dedication, surviving through treacherous hurdles, and achieving seemingly unreachable goals, that all that is left in the end is a definitive death, and to become nothing more than a distant memory. Those morbid thoughts were like taking all hope and drowning it into the depths of blatant veracity.

But as I continued to rummage through these disheartening thoughts, there was still a positive side that lingered in the falls’ crisp breeze. That being the uncannily ironic fact that the same elements that had seemed to stand in the way and mar the journeys of these wondrous leaves, were also the very things that helped them grow and helped create everything they would eventually become. For, without the cold, without the dark, without the light, and without the rain, they would have remained plain and uneventful. Had they not struggled through all of the unavoidable challenges and overwhelming obstacles, they would never have had the ability to transform into these wonderful creations that were fantastically interesting and seismically unforgettable.

With so many similarities, it often made we wonder if were really much different than the simple maple tree leaf? Did our lives and deaths have any more meaning or substance? Daunting was it to wonder if we were anything more than a brief existence, striving through good and bad, in an attempt to nourish the world in a fleeting season of life.

Puberty, at times, felt much like an unprepared trek up the highest mountain, with no signs of ever reaching the top. Barely fifteen, my every day was barraged with haunting questions that I did not have the answers for. Nearly each moment of my life was spent sorting through how I felt and why I felt it. What did I believe in and what was I going to do about it? Did it matter? Did I matter? Did we all have a purpose? Did I? Or were we merely embodied souls whirling about in a tidal pool of emotion with no particular agenda?

So often, I felt like that fat, little owl, who day after day, sat on his perch, trying to figure out how many licks it would take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. I hoped and prayed that my fate did not follow his, and that I would not lose my patience and my mind before finding all of the answers that I so desperately sought.

It was a Saturday in November. The kind of day that sent a chill up your spine each time the wind whispered its’ intentions through the thick, brisk air. It was also, supposedly, a big day in the Piccara family, or so I was told. A family reunion of sorts, as my father had put it. Until then, uneventful routine filled my comfortable life, with not much wavering beyond that aside from the occasional erratic flux in my hormonally inspired emotions.

Still consumed with much childhood innocence, I had no idea that, within a few hours, my life would never again be the same. That this, seemingly ordinary, afternoon would mark the beginning of all beginnings. That it would eventually signify the beginnings of all ends. But, then again, how could I possibly have known? There were no warning signs. No great words echoed from the skies. Yet, even if I had heard the voices of destiny crying out to me, would I have listened?

Chapter 2

Drops of dread trickled through my body, as if the hours ahead were an unwanted IV forcing its’ way into my veins. There were a hundred or so other places I would rather had been than filling my day with a fabricated smile, politely pretending that I was enjoying our family get together. There were friends to visit and boys to seek, beers to drink, and a pool table down at the arcade with my name on it. Instead, my afternoon would be riddled with the annoyance of three overprotective brothers, an overbearing father, and a family I had never met.

Life in general was becoming more bothersome with every day, always having to conform to everything my family wanted me to be. They were forever nagging me to dress like a lady and act like a lady, wear my hair this way, and pick my friends that way. God forbid, if a boy should try to get within twenty feet of me without the equivalence of an FBI clearance, the world would have probably come to a screeching halt. I often wished they all could just leave me alone and let me be myself, whoever that was.

The shades to my window pulled down with a monotonous squeal. Much like the sound my bicycle tire made after daddy accidentally ran it over in the driveway some years ago, causing it to become warped and off-balance. Although a pillow upon the sheet-covered mattress and plain box spring that lie significantly alone on the bedroom floor, suited just fine for some quick and needed silence.

At one time, a canopy bed, with pink, eyelet-ruffled sheets and a Holly Hobby comforter, sat in that very same spot. But daddy and the boys had taken it down for me shortly after the turn of my thirteenth birthday. My primary complaints were that it was far too juvenile, far too childish, and entirely too embarrassing that a teenage girl should have such a thing gloating its immaturity for all of her friends to see. What was neglected to be admitted, however, was that this was also my way of evicting all of those devil-spawned creatures that lived beneath my bed late at night once evening grew dark and quiet and I was all alone.

With an over-zealous imagination working against my tenuous fears, many nights remained sleepless, consumed with tormenting visions and the nagging pain of my bladder ready to burst into an embarrassing mess. Convinced was I, that if my feet were to dare reach for the floor, tempting those soulless creatures with my vulnerability, surely they would grab for my ankles and drag me under to die.

In fact, my entire room was very much a self-decorated portrayal of the ever-growing inner struggle between the woman I was becoming and the young girl that I obviously still was. Sheer, maroon curtains hung with a hint of sensuality over bamboo-textured wallpaper, while posters of rock stars and beautiful women were tacked up as icons and aspirations of what I wished to become. A mobile of shells that I had made in the third grade hung before a window, so to sing me a lullaby on the occasion of a gentle breeze. And a small, black music box sat upon a hutch-topped dresser, still playing a version of It’s a Small World, although it had become a bit off-key and grumpy by now from having to have performed it for me for so many times.

Behind a set of pom-poms, sitting without jubilation in their all too early retirement, was one wall that was left free of posters and wallpaper. It was really no longer just a wall. It had become more of an opaque window into my deepest hopes, darkest fears, and undying dreams. Here is where poems, dredged up from the depths of my soul, were etched into its’ near-crimson paint. And hand-drawn pictures, usually of wrenching hearts and bleeding roses, were taped upon its’ unlighted pane. Quite often, it served as a variable shrine for whichever boy I happened to be in love with that week and the innocent plagiarism of songs that described exactly how I felt about them.

After collecting my thoughts for a moment or two, I searched through the mountain of clothes that were untidily strewn across the bedroom floor and sloppily hung in the closet. Eventually, a tight pair of Sassoon’s and a black, silk blouse replaced the ripped jeans and worn out concert shirt I was wearing, before being chastised by my father to change for the day’s occasion. A brush dragged through my feathered, brown hair and an adequate amount of make-up concealed the unforgiving signs of adolescence. When I could no longer avoid the inevitable, my legs dragged me downstairs to where I could hear the fusion of familiar and unfamiliar voices echoing in both laughter and conversation.

Hey, Maria, I said to our housekeeper, as she remained diligently tending to something in the oven.

Skipping past the hellos, Maria finally stood up and extended over a basket of warm rolls. Could you please place these on the table, next to the butter, she asked of me, her English still muddled with an Italian accent.

Setting down the freshly baked bread, I couldn’t help but to feast my eyes upon the array of assorted salads and fresh fruits, home-baked pies and desserts that stretched out along the breakfast bar, overflowing its’ abundance onto the kitchen table behind me. The heavy scent of espresso and the sweet smell of homemade cannolis played its’ redolence through the air like an orchestrated symphony, guiltlessly seducing my stomach into its’ own little song and dance. Temptation and hunger would soon overpower etiquette and a few black olives made their way into my salivating mouth.

Shoo, shoo, Maria fluttered her hands at me, you must wait for everyone! A tiny strand of gray escaped from a bobby pin as she spoke, brushing against her puffy, olive-colored cheeks.

Throughout the years, Maria had become far more than a mere caretaker and more like a mother to all of us. After my real mother had died, daddy was not only overwhelmed with tremendous grief, but was also overcome with the many stressful tasks that he was suddenly left to carry out alone. Tending to housework, running two restaurants and a nightclub that he owned with Uncle Tony and Angelo, and the rearing of three growing, young children was going to be an endeavor that was far more than he could handle. He sent for Maria from Sicily, where he himself grew up, to help out for a while, just until he could find someone here that was suitable. That was nine years ago.

With no blood relation, Maria had been a part of my father’s family ever since he was a young child. Suddenly orphaned at sixteen, my gramma and papa, who both left this world before I was born, decided to take her in to live with them, blessing her with the humble home of a cobble smith, his wife, and their four young children. The oldest of which was my father, Marcetta Andrew Piccara.

Maria continued to pass more plates and bowls, filling the already congested countertop with enough food to feed an army. All the while, my mind wandered off to the sometimes surreal and somewhat whimsical daydreaming that happily interrupted my daily thoughts. I always relished in the welcomed comfort of my secretive escapes that were kept well hidden from the outside world, yet lived vibrantly inside me.

I often imagined the man of all my hopelessly romantic dreams to one day burst into my life and come to my rescue, filling an emptiness that plagued my lonely and aching heart. He would sweep me off my feet, and infinitely bath me with enough love and affection that would make me feel like the most special and sacred person on earth. Tall, strong, and amazingly handsome, he was the picture of what any and every woman dreams of. Though we would be strangers at first, it would only take but one look into each other’s eyes and a few spoken words, before we both knew that an eternity was meant for us to share. He would stay by my side from that moment on, making forever only a minute of our undying love affair.

Cynically, I wondered if soul mates truly existed. If so, did everybody get one? Was there one out there for me? When or if I were to meet my destined lover, would it be like a bolt of lightning striking down from the heavens, instantly igniting our hearts into eternal flames of desire? Or would I not realize who he was, until years of emotional investment lay behind us, growing slowly over time at the hands of patience and commitment? There was only one thing that was sure to be true, that as long as these poetic dreams of immeasurable love stayed close to my heart, I could call on them whenever I was in need of their refuge.

Unfortunately, with the sound of my brother’s voice beckoning for something outside of the sliding glass doors, reality appeared as quickly as it had faded, snapping me out of my naïve fantasies. In the far depths of my soul, the belief in such a love triumphantly remained. But, for now, the realistic and pessimistic side of me took over, reprimanding my quixotic heart for such pathetic nonsense.

What are you screaming about out here, I asked, stepping out onto the deck to where Mario, the eldest and most favorite brother of mine, was standing before the fiery grill.

I need a plate for these. Could you go inside and get one for me, he asked.

Returning with a large, silver platter that Maria insisted we use, I stood next to Mario, while he flipped about the charring steaks and breasts of chicken. God, those look so good, I moaned, their smoky aroma drifting through my senses, heating up my hunger a bit more.

Some things never change, Mario laughed. The day’s barely begun, and Uncle Billy’s already three sheets to the wind! I don’t think I’ve ever seen that guy with the same girl twice! I wonder which strip club he dragged this one out of! he joked, nodding his head towards the basement from where my uncle had just emerged. He had a drink in one hand and a new girlfriend in the other. This one happened to be blond and considerably taller than he was. She wore a bright, pink dress that accentuated her fairly large breasts and had heels so high they made her legs wobble as she attempted to walk along side of him.

Aren’t any of those done yet, I questioned impatiently, my attention pulling away from the conversation of my uncle’s promiscuity and back to the delicious smell flowing through the air before me.

Almost, he stated, it seems people are starting to pick around in there. Why don’t you go grab something, and by then these should be finished.

Following my brother’s direction, I headed straight for Maria’s Syrian salad, knowing that it would be thoroughly blended by now and marinated to perfection, as I had watched her prepare it the night before. But just as I was grabbing for the spoon that was partially submerged in the wheat and vegetable concoction, another hand was reaching for it at the same time.

Oh, I’m sorry, you go ahead, I politely spoke after our fingers clumsily bumped into each other.

No, no, that’s okay, I can wait, a female’s voice answered back.

Attached to the courteous words was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her hair wore the shade of the deepest sunset moments before it disappeared into the night, with silky waves cascading far beyond her shoulders. Gold hoop earrings hung amidst the thick tresses, while a necklace, displaying the cross of Jesus, hung proudly around her neck of golden skin. She had a face that was smooth and unblemished and perfectly proportioned, with dark eyes that glistened with an inescapable appeal. Fashioned in a long, clingy skirt and a tastefully tight shirt, she appeared simple and elegant. The way she carried her thin, shapely body with class, emanated a sense of self-assurance that radiated throughout the entire room. She was everything I someday wished to become.

I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to know who she was. Where was she from? Were we related? Was there a chance that I could have the same blood running through my veins as did this stunning, young woman standing in my kitchen? But, I was afraid. Insecure thoughts grabbed a hold of my tongue, not allowing me to spit out a single word. She might see my questions as silly, or stupid, or perhaps my conversation not interesting enough. So I stood there frozen, in a silent awestruck stare.

Hi, my name is Risa, and you? She broke the empty moments, and filled them with a cordial handshake and a pleasant smile.

Oh, ah, my name’s Samantha, but everyone calls me Sammy, I introduced myself, greeting her hand with mine. Inside, my nerves shook like a miniature tremor.

Hello, Sammy, it’s nice to meet you. Is this your house? I love it. It’s so beautiful, she spoke in a somewhat deep and sexy voice.

Yes, thanks, its’ okay, I guess. Stumbling through my sentence, I wanted to change the subject over to her, as there was so much I wanted to know. But as I was building the confidence to speak, daddy walked over and interrupted our barely begun chat.

There you are, Princess. he embarrassingly called me, disregarding that I was engrossed in conversation, and worse, that I absolutely hated being called Princess in the company of others.

Sammy, daddy, I emphatically reminded, my heart dropping at the thought that he had just made me look like a child.

Beside my father stood a short and stocky man, sporting a black suit coat, with matching pants. A blood-red tie clung to a shirt, the color of the darkest hour, by a gold and diamond clip. Heavy jowls drooped off of his still attractive face, quietly revealing years of probable glutton. Lines of experience surrounded the man’s eyes and pouted lips, and what hair that was left upon his balding head struggled to keep its’ color amidst a sea of gray. With shoulders spread in a virile stance, any lack of height he may have possessed paled within an omnipotent presence.

I’d like you to meet someone, my father’s hand daring to grip the man’s shoulder as he spoke. Samantha, this is Paully Capiano, my long lost cousin. Paully, this is my baby girl, Samantha.

Sammy, how are you? Paully’s overly warm skin touched my face, as he firmly planted a kiss upon each side. You did say that you liked to be called Sammy, is that right? he spoke to me in his deep, New York tongue.

Yes, Sir, I do. It’s very nice to meet you, also. My stomach continued to nervously wriggle at being the center of his attention.

You forget all that ‘Sir’ stuff. You call me Paully, okay?

Yes Sir, ah, I mean, Paully, I slowly stuttered.

Achieving reverence for this man came instantaneously. There was something about him that was remarkably captivating. His voice echoed of confidence and control. His demeanor was gentle, yet powerful. Most of all, I was amazed that he had acknowledged the preference of my name, and deemed it important enough to remember.

I see that you’ve already met my daughter, Risa, he mentioned, his eyes still looking into mine.

Yes, we met.

Marco, you remember my daughter.

How could I possibly forget? Though, I must say, you’ve grown into quite a woman since the last time I saw you. Daddy placed a soft kiss upon the back of her hand.

I was just telling Sammy how beautiful your house is. Perhaps you could give me the grand tour sometime today? she said to him with an overtly friendly smile.

It would be my pleasure. The creases above his cheeks grew stronger, as he raised both corners of his lips.

For a moment, it almost seemed that they had both forgotten they were not the only two people in the room. With the expression on my father’s face, it became quite apparent that I was not the only one who had been sucked in by Risa’s alluring beauty. But, so it appeared, Risa didn’t seem to mind this unashamed attraction, boasting itself in a heightening performance of almost courtship proportions. In fact, it looked to be that the magnetism was quite mutual.

As my father continued to hold Risa’s meticulously painted fingertips within his hands, then, kissing them once more before surrendering her touch, I looked over to see Paully’s reaction. Though, strangely, there was no outward sign of discontent. For me, however, this all seemed very odd. Not only was Risa more than half my father’s age, more awkward, she was not a distant enough cousin for it to have been morally acceptable for them to be gazing into each other’s eyes the way that they were.

So engulfed in this somewhat uncomfortable situation unfolding before me, and my own curious captivation with both Paully and Risa, I hadn’t noticed that there had been someone else standing with us until Paully spoke up once again, Sammy, I want you to meet my nephew, Anthony.

Getting a good look as I said hello, led me to question how this kid could possibly have been related to either one of them. He was pathetically scrawny and had only a few inches above my barely five feet. A poorly cut wiffle could not hide the tiny, awkward ears that stuck