Fly Francesca Fly

By Venera Concetta

"The truth is I was glad he was dead... I wanted to celebrate his death."

Her father's death proves the trigger for Francesca Tomasi, the first-born daughter of a Sicilian immigrant family living in Australia, to relive the events she never should have witnessed. At the tender age of twelve, Francesca is brought face to face with an ugly reality that forces her to bury secrets and wrestle with choices that no one should ever have to make. Her struggle becomes one of survival as she defies attempts to silence her.

Trapped in a psychological web of fear, jealousy and deceit, Francesca learns that what she needs most is also her greatest threat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lorraine Cobcroft
• Release date: Dec 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005259860

Venera Concetta

Venera Concetta was born in Brisbane of Sicilian migrants who arrived in Australia in the aftermath of World War II. She studied psychology and ethnology at the University of Queensland, and later went on to travel widely.Fly Francesca Fly is Venera’s debut novel, but she has been writing for many years.A self-avowed student of life, she has made the study of people negotiating change and transition the cornerstone of her professional career.She lives just outside Brisbane where she tends her garden, writes and cooks with her grandchildren.

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Fly Francesca Fly

by Venera Concetta

ISBN: 978-0-9945307-6-9

© Venera Concetta, Brisbane, 2020 All rights reserved

This Smashwords edition is may not be used by anyone for any purpose other than your own personal enjoyment. If you did not purchase this copy, please go to Smashwords.com to do so. December 2021.

Book and Cover design by Rainbow Works Pty Ltd. Published in Australia by Rainbow Works Pty Ltd. First Edition: October 2020

To every woman and man, past, present, and future, who dreams of flying high

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Maya Angelou (1928 — 2014)

DISCLAIMER

This book is an artistic work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any references to specific cultures and cultural practices are reasonably held, made in good faith and are an expression of genuine belief made by the author in the distribution of this artistic work.

Praise for Fly Francesca Fly

K.C. Finn for Readers' Favorite (Book review of Fly Francesca Fly - Readers' Favorite: Book Reviews and Award Contest (readersfavorite.com))

Fly Francesca Fly is a work of fiction in the women’s fiction, interpersonal drama, and cultural issues sub-genres, and was penned by author Venera Concetta. The plot is focused on the struggles of one woman against the bonds which tradition and family place upon her and presents a realistic and emotional account of an ongoing battle with these issues. Throughout the story, she deals with the loss of a loved one, her family’s Sicilian beliefs and ways of doing things, PTSD, mental health issues, and the self-destructive behaviours which these problems present her with. What results is a powerful psychological account of the search for freedom and individuality.

Author Venera Concetta has crafted a bright, intelligently penned, and deeply serious work of fiction which informs just as much as it touches one’s heart whilst it unravels the storyline. One of the things which I most admired about the work was its commitment to authenticity, particularly in the representation of the causes, experiences, and behaviors present when one is struggling with mental health issues. I really enjoyed the narrative style of the author, which allows for an intimate portrayal that seeks to juxtapose the outside influences with their internal effects, and I really admired the attention to detail with the elements of Sicilian culture that affect the behavior of the rest of the family. Overall, I would certainly recommend Fly Francesca Fly to readers looking for a high-quality literary work that discusses serious issues in a masterful and immersive fashion.

Chapter 1

My father died yesterday, I replied.

The silence shattered by these words could no longer be stitched back together.

These words that fell from my lips did not feel like my truth; they were someone else’s truth, from someone else’s life.

Oh, I’m so sorry, replied Wendy.

You couldn’t have known.

My hand groped the receiver. I didn’t want her sympathy.

Part of me was angry. What are you apologising for? I wanted to scream.

The sound of my fingers tapping on the table filled

the void in the room, in my head.

It was a relief actually when he finally went, I said, the words an unexpected release from the obligation I felt to neatly manicure the truth.

Oh! gasped Wendy on the other end of the phone.

I looked down at the half-filled page of the blue-lined writing pad, at the letter I had started to write. As I read and reread the words, I slid into a trance, the repetition of the words mesmerising me.

Write a letter to your mother, my therapist had said. Don’t send it though. It will be cathartic and healing for you.

Where should I start? How should I start? I wondered for a long time.

One day, the thought occurred to me: what have I got to lose? Do I really want to hang onto this fog that has enveloped my whole life?

Writing this letter felt safe.

Coming out of the reverie, I felt safe, and continued writing.

I wanted to tell Wendy everything.

Alarm bells that only I could hear began clanging in my head. Immediately the carefully selected script sprang into life.

Yes, I’m relieved he’s gone. He suffered in the end. We all did, watching him fade away.

With that, the die was cast: this was the politically correct thing to say, and I was playing the game of manicuring the truth, the game I’d learned so well to play. You were a good teacher, Mum.

Turning over the page of the pad, I continued writing, the words flowing easily from the gel-tip pen onto the page.

For years I observed the family and discovered that everyone has secrets. Everyone had much to protect, many hidden agendas. And they had a hidden agenda about me. They had their own ideas about how I should feel, what I should say, what I should do… and I don’t give a shit about what they think I should feel, think, say, or do.

The Family — La Famiglia— I hated seeing it this way, that image of Sicilians set in concrete by the movie, The Godfather. I knew our family had not been involved in any way with the Mafia, yet there was so much about the Mafia way of life that permeated our family life, Mum. The code of silence which can’t be broken under any circumstances; the double standards — do what we say, don’t do what we do; the use of force or threat as the way of settling every conflict, difference of opinion or clash of ideas; veneration of elders; and of course, the big one, honour.

Even now, in my fifties, I was still struggling to get that stuff out of my head! Why did I keep wondering, weighing up, considering everyone else’s points of view? Why did I keep giving them power?

Why didn’t I just get on with what I wanted to do?

The invisible chains still chafed, tethering me to a way of life and being that was not of my choosing.

I didn’t have to play games with Wendy or sanitise the truth. Yet, I couldn’t escape the morass of guilt and shame that sucked me into its vortex, like quick- sand, when I tried to shake it off.

There are only two emotions I remember feeling as I was growing up — shame and rage.

The shame of what had been happening in our family for so many years. The shame about him, about myself, about the antiquated beliefs and rituals in our family that seemed to have no place in the world today. Shame was an uninvited guest that had drifted in…and stayed.

I was in my teens when The Godfather was released. I hated that movie, yet I couldn’t turn away from watching it. I was intrigued to see that I had been raised the same as other Sicilians in other parts of the world. That was an eye-opener for me. I remember comparing my own experience with the story unfolding on the screen.

How comforting it was to know that it wasn’t just our family that put on big, over-the-top weddings, christenings and confirmations, where respect for elders bordered on elder worship, courtship practices were downright medieval, and food was central to family life. You never knew, though, how I cringed and blushed with shame in the darkened cinema to see the characters resolve their differences and get their own way with force and threats; how saying one thing and meaning another sometimes meant the difference between life and death; how young children were raised without boundaries and without learning to control their frustrations and disappointments. And how male children grew up to behave like the angry demi-gods of Greek mythology.

And of course, my outrage at how men treated women.

I knew that Sicilians in my home country of Australia were tarred with the same brush as that Mafia family in the U.S., simply because they originated from the same place.

Where are you from? I was often asked when I was growing up.

I always replied, I was born here, in Australia.

But what’s your background? they continued.

Italian, I would say, my parents are from Italy, and I was born here.

I never said Sicilian, at least not at first. I gagged on the word. My gut would turn, and I’d feel sick.

What part of Italy? they persisted.

Even before the words formed in my head, shame turned up, its invisible hands gripping my throat like a vice.

The south, Sicily, rasped my throat, speaking the words I dared not say out loud.

And then it would come, as I always knew it would.

Oh, Mafia…

The one comment that always managed to transform the ripple into a tsunami. My ethnicity was exposed and found wanting. In their eyes, I’d never be able to come back from that.

Rising from deep inside me, seizing my stomach, and turning my face bright crimson, shame engulfed me. I was never able to ride this wave. I was always swallowed up, tossed about like a ragdoll in a hurricane.

And then my defences would spring into action. Like an army of antibodies, I’d defend the country, the culture, you, my parents, my family, myself, often by pointing out their ignorance about the country and its history.

"Your knowledge of Sicily comes from populist movies like The Godfather and stories you’ve heard or read about in the papers," I would tell them with rising nationalistic fervour.

The irony was lost on such people. In a country populated by convicts and ex-cons, their descendants now took the moral high ground and passed judgment on others.

People who live in glass houses…

Now, when Australians find a bushranger in their ancestry, they wear that as a badge of honour.

Even better, getting married in a quaint old Sicilian village overlooking the Mediterranean Sea is now, in the twenty-first century, the height of chic!

I used to tell myself that they were no better. Two hundred years might separate them from their origins, but their origins remained convict, even with all their airs and graces. At least Sicilians entered Australia as free people.

Australians take themselves a lot less seriously these days. They tell jokes, like the one where a Scotsman on entering Australia is asked by the Border Force official whether he has a criminal record. Without missing a beat, he replies, "Do I need one to get into Australia?"

I too make light of it now. With a wink and a smile, I mock the threat contained in the most famous line from the movie: "I might have to make you an offer you can’t refuse."

For most Sicilians, though, a criminal record is a very serious matter, a matter of honour.

I turned to a new page of the writing pad and took a moment to adjust my eyes, blinking a few times. The room around me snapped back into view, as though I’d just come out of a tunnel. I read over what I’d just written and realised I had taken an unexpected detour following one of the many threads of my story.

Was he ill for some time, or was it sudden and unexpected? Wendy asked, attempting to recover from her awkward reaction.

I didn’t have to play games with Wendy, but I put on my best matter-of-fact voice, like a corporate voice recording: ‘Press 1 for PC (politically correct); Press 2 for uncomfortable truth; Press 3 for bullshit.’

Yes, he’d been ill for some time, so it wasn’t unexpected. He suffered at the end, as we all did, watching him, I said, knowing she would think of me as the concerned loving daughter.

I told it as it was.

It was awful watching the life ebb out of him day by day. It was pathetic watching you too, holding onto him with an ever-tightening grip.

You couldn’t let him go, but he wanted to go.

Why you wouldn’t or couldn’t let him go was beyond me, after all you’d been through with him. Deep inside, in my most private thoughts, I wished he would go sooner rather than later.

Sitting in that hospital room, watching his laboured breathing as he slept, I asked him silently inside my head, What are you hanging on for? What are you waiting for? Not only did you have everyone running after you at your beck and call in life, now in death, you’re doing the same. Your own needs come before everyone else’s — again. Die, won’t you…

When is the funeral? asked Wendy, her voice bringing me back to the present, back to the phone.

It’s on New Year’s Eve, I replied, so, look, thanks for the invitation to your New Year’s Eve party, but I don’t think I’ll be in any frame of mind to come along.

Sure, I understand, but if you change your mind, you’re welcome to come. There was a finality in Wendy’s tone that told me the conversation was at an end, and I was glad of it.

Playing games wears me out. That’s the truth.

I don’t have to play games with you now any more either.

The truth is, I was glad he was dead.

For hours afterwards, I ruminated about that phone call, the invitation, the opportunity to celebrate.

Did I want to miss out on an opportunity to celebrate? What would I celebrate?

His life?

No — I wanted to celebrate his death.

A smile began to creep over my face. The idea was tantalising, and it fit with my view of myself as a rule-breaker, a rebel.

A NYE party would be the wake I knew you wouldn’t hold.

Sicilians don’t have wakes, do you, Mum? Sicilians have morbid get-togethers, where everyone is dressed in funereal clothes, and no one quite knows what to say to console the grieving family. So, they fill the awkward gaps with weak throwaway lines that feign concern for the widow.

There are rules about everything, so everyone attending the funeral is expected to wear black as a mark of grief. Colour, even the slightest hint, is prohibited. Do you remember when I wanted to wear black and white when your father passed away and you ruled it out?

You can’t wear colour to a funeral, it is disrespectful. What will people say? you fussed.

It served as a reminder to wear what I was expected to wear to Dad’s funeral. I had a choice to make: play along and do what is expected, or do what I wanted.

In the end, I decided that Dad’s funeral was not the time or place to put revolution on display and ‘come out’ as an independent thinker. That would have meant being a rebel, and non-conformity was a threat. It would have been viewed with shock and horror, and invited infamy and insult from others attending the funeral. I knew it was all part of the show — Sicilians love their melodrama. I decided not to play into their hands and give them more to gossip about.

I came to pity him in the end. He had become frail and weak, and his hair had turned grey many years earlier. His skin had also turned grey and paper-thin, giving the impression that it might flake if touched. Every vein protruded from the surface of his hands, like rivers of molten lava pouring down the sides of Mt Etna, his birthplace. He had lost the spare tyre around his middle, which had been a permanent fixture for over forty years. Was this the man who had been the cause of so much fear and anxiety for most of my life? It was hard to imagine now, as I watched him motionless on the bed.

In the end, he was a mere spectre of the person he had once been.

When I asked you if you wanted to hold a wake after the funeral, it was as much to find out what you wanted as to know the culturally appropriate thing to do.

No, you said. You didn’t want anyone coming to your place for a wake after the funeral. You just wanted to go home, close the doors and draw the curtains.

Great, I thought. I don’t have to hang around after the funeral.

At some point during the funeral preparations, I decided to hold a wake of my own.

Hell, what would la famiglia say if they knew I was going to a NYE party after attending my own father’s funeral? It wouldn’t go down well. There would be a lot of talk and gossip about me.

To hell with it, I thought.

The funeral was held mid-morning on New Year’s Eve in 35°C heat and sixty per cent humidity. In such uncomfortably sticky weather, I put on the black dress I had bought for the occasion, black stockings and shoes, and prepared my black handbag. Wearing dark sunglasses, black hat, and red lipstick, I went to Dad’s funeral.

I went along with the game of keeping up appearances.

After such a day, I was ready for a change of mood.

I ended up not going to Wendy’s NYE party. I went to the biggest NYE party in town, with my husband, George, on the riverbank.

I drank Champagne, watched the fireworks, and laughed at the stupid things people did when they’d had too much to drink, all under the cover of the anonymity I craved. I was lifted, supported, and carried along by the tide of the crowd’s euphoria that erupted at the stroke of midnight.

Good riddance, I said silently to myself, as I raised my glass to toast the dawning of the New Year.

What pleasure it gave me to know that he was finally gone.

Actually, it wasn’t so much pleasure as an indescribable emptiness. I drank to escape the numbness gnawing away at my insides. I hoped the alcohol would make me feel something, anything.

Feeling wasted was better than feeling empty.

Feeling empty was better than feeling scorn.

I told myself that this would be a new beginning.

I was celebrating freedom, feeling free from some invisible burden.

So why did I still feel empty and numb?

I lifted the pen off the page and began to reflect on this man I had identified throughout my life as my father, but whom I had never known at all.

What did I have to fear from this man?

What did any of us have to fear from this man, this man who had brought us little else but misery and fear, a man who with one twitch of his eyebrow, or that look, could get us to do whatever he wanted. You didn’t cross this man; you didn’t stand up to him either. You couldn’t have a conversation with him or a discussion of any sort. He always wanted to win the argument and he didn’t care how he won it, whether with arguments (rarely), or with lies (often), or with insults and slurs against your character (mostly).

He was a slithering, slimy snake and I am not sorry he’s dead!

Even as I watched him lying lifeless in the hospital bed, even then I couldn’t let myself acknowledge that thought. I told myself that I was relieved he was dead because he had suffered a great deal, and it was a relief for him and the family. His suffering was finally over.

I was deluding myself, playing games of smoke and mirrors, into believing that I was a dutiful daughter and that was how a dutiful daughter should feel.

I have to be honest with you, Mum. I can’t go on playing the game you taught me so well, the game of doing what everyone expects of you, and keep smiling.

I haven’t shed any tears for him,