“You’re going to see Our Lady of Guadalupe?” Nonna said as she blessed herself. “Madonna!”
Then Big Al turned to me. “How many senior citizens are we talking about here?”
“I think the number is fourteen.”
“Make it fifteen—take your nonna—and I’ll take care of all the hotel rooms. Got it?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. I’ll make the check out to St. Mary’s as a donation and they can pay the hotel. That way I get a tax credit. Or…wait a minute. I got a buddy who’s building a new hotel and he’s got a couple of places in Mexico City. You don’t worry, Grace. Your old man’s gonna handle it.”
“Daddy, you’re so wonderful. Thank you.”
“Hey! No big deal. Just tell Bomze Big Al saved him a lot of ’shca-role! Now tell me some more about this priest.”
I rambled on and on about Father John and slipped in a few comments about Michael, which no one acknowledged except Frank and Regina, who winked at me to imply that we would talk later. Finally, it was time to clear the plates and bring in the platter of finocchio. I could eat raw fennel dipped in peppered olive oil until it came out of my ears. Most days, but not that Thanksgiving. Picture this. We were thirteen people, all of us overfed, ten of us overserved and three kids ready to launch into a sugar frenzy, when two of them weren’t trying to sneak a glass of wine and one of them wasn’t looking for an opening in the action so that he could run outside and snitch a cigarette.
The finocchio had arrived and was disappearing with dwindling enthusiasm, and we had yet to rise from the table for coffee, dessert and anisette. Marianne’s mother—I couldn’t remember her name for beans and didn’t care either—was talking to my mother. Nonna was completely smitten with George and who could blame her? And I had Michael on my mind. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was suffering through the day. Maybe he was talking to the nurses or had his mother propped up in bed trying to talk to her. I felt so guilty about being with my family—such as they were—when he had only me and a couple of relatives scattered to the winds. Guilt stuck again as I realized I was always thinking my family was a caricature of some sitcom when in truth they were reasonably loving and generous to a fault.
“We’ve got pies to eat,” my mother said. Everyone groaned and no one moved. “Okay, should we have dessert later?”
“Let’s begin the impossible dream,” I said.
“What’s that?” Regina said.
“A clean kitchen—what else? Otherwise…”
“We’ll die right here at the table,” she said with a laugh.
It was Mom, Regina and me who began clearing the table.
“Come on, Lisa,” Regina said. “You’re old enough to wear makeup on the holidays? You’re old enough to use a dishcloth. Let’s go.”
Then you-know-who piped up. “I can help tooooo.”
What? And wreck that fifty-dollar manicure?
“That’s okay,” I said. “You can serve your pie later.”
“Nicky?”
Some whispers were exchanged between the lovebirds, which I ignored, and then Nicky came into the kitchen, where I was rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher. Regina was in charge of plastic wrap and Mom was putting aside those dishes and things that were to be hand-washed later.
“Come on, Grace,” he said. “Cut her some slack. She wants to be a part of things, you know?”
“I understand, but not this part.”
“You’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?”
I smiled, thinking it was something of a compliment. “Hello? She’s company, okay? Company doesn’t do the dishes. What’s the matter with you?”
“Oh. You’re right. Sorry about calling you—”
“Get out of the kitchen, Nicky. You want them to call you a sissy?”
Nicky slinked out and back to Marianne’s side. I saw them get up and go toward his bedroom. Scandal. You didn’t go into a bedroom with a member of the opposite sex unless you were married. Never mind it was the twenty-first century outside the front door. If Dad saw them, he would start yelling, but I looked out the window to see Dad gathering up all the dirty utensils from his grill. He and Frank were deep in discussion about something. If Nonna had seen them, she would do the same as Dad, but I looked back to see her focused full throttle on whatever it was George was saying. And then the screaming started.
“Yes! Yes!”
Marianne came running down the hall waving her left hand and stopped to show the ring to her mother. Jane maybe? Janine? Eventually, I imagined, I would remember her name. They came into the kitchen and showed it to my mom first. The ring sparkled like a disco ball from the eighties and even my heart fluttered for her. After all, this was the moment of her engagement and that is a pivotal moment in any girl’s life.
“Oh! Let’s see!” my mother said. “Oh! Marianne! Welcome to the family!” My mother gave her a big hug.
“Let’s see,” I said. “Oh, Marianne. It is a beauty. Congratulations!”
Actually, it wasn’t beautiful. On inspection, it was puny. If I was going to marry someone like Nicky, he would have to give me something the size of that sapphire Gloria Stewart threw off the back of the boat in Titanic. Seriously. Poor Marianne. She now had Nicky and a dinky ring. I rewarded her with a dish towel.
“You can dry,” I said. “But you’d better go show it to Dad first.”
“Ooookay!”
“Can I be in the wedding? Oh! It’s gorgeous!” Lisa said. “Can I?”
“Of course!” Marianne said.
She scooted out the sliding door and I shot Regina a look. She snickered and so did I.
“Poor Marianne,” I said.
“Poor Marianne,” she agreed. “She should know what we know.”
“No, she should never know what we know. About Nicky, about life or—”
“About raising kids!” Regina said. “Look.”
She pointed to the grill area, where Frank, Dad, Marianne and now Nicky, all of them animated, were giving one another congratulatory handshakes and hugs while to the side stood Tony, Regina and Frank’s oldest, chugging a Budweiser as fast as he could.
“He is so totally busted,” Regina said, and went outside to deal with him.
Lisa stood next to me as we watched Regina slapping Tony all around the sides of his head while he ducked and tried to escape. Frank grabbed him by the back of his shirt and held Regina back. It looked to me like Dad was now getting involved.
“Nothing like a little drama to make the holidays bright,” I said.
“It’s his third,” Lisa said. “I only had one. But don’t tell Mom, okay?”
“No aunt ever betrayed her niece while she scrubbed the pots.” I handed her a scouring pad.
“I’m going to change my top,” she said. “I don’t want to ruin it.”
I could have said, You should have done it hours ago. I could have said, You have to remember where you are, you’re with your grandparents and your great-grandmother. This is their house…but I didn’t say anything more than “Okay, go ahead.” I just reminded myself once again that I should make some effort to be a better aunt. Maybe I would take her for a couple of weeks the following summer and try to talk some sense into her head before she turned into a screaming slut.
It was getting late. We finally served dessert and coffee and cleared all the dishes away. Dad, Frank and Nicky were putting away the folding tables and moving all the chairs back to where they belonged. Marianne, her mother, George and Nonna were looking at some old photographs of Nonna’s from Italy. The kids had all been excused. Mom and I were drying the last of the glasses. My cell phone rang. It was Michael.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said, “how did your day go? We’re still drying dishes.”
“I’m still here with my mom, Grace. She’s not doing so well.”
“What do you mean? Do you need me to come?”
“No. But thanks. I’ve been sitting here all day an
d just reading to her. They say that even though she’s unconscious, she can still hear me. I’m going to go home and get some sleep. I think I’ll come back tomorrow and just be with her. Oh God, Grace, I just hate this.”
“I’m so sorry, Michael. Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I just wanted to tell you that I love you and that this stinks, I guess.”
“It sure does. I’m so sorry, Michael. Look. I can be there in two hours.”
“No, sweetheart. I don’t want you on the road. It’s dark and that highway is too dangerous.”
“Yeah, and we swallowed a lot of grapes around here. Still, you say the word and I’ll be there, Michael.”
“I know that, baby. It’s okay. I just can’t believe that’s my mother in that bed. It’s just so incredibly sad. I could just—” His voice cracked with emotion.
“Hang on, sweetheart. I love you and we’ll get through this together.”
We hung up and I looked at my mom.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“I’m going home tomorrow morning,” I said. “Something tells me Michael’s mother is at the end.”
I didn’t have to wait that long to find out. I had the same nightmare again—I was going over a bridge in a car with Michael, he disappears, the car disappears, and I begin to fall. I was lying in bed in a sweat, trying to relax, and my cell phone rang. It was five-thirty. It was Michael and he was in shock and huge gulping sobs nearly disguised his voice. His mother had passed away.
“I wasn’t even there,” he said. “I missed her death! I feel so terrible, Grace! I wanted to be there!”
“Hush, baby, it’s all right,” I said. “I’ll be home as fast as I can.”
Back in Charleston, Michael made all the arrangements. His aunt couldn’t come, but she sent beautiful flowers. So did his cousins and many friends from work. Frank and Regina sent flowers, too. Michael’s mother was cremated and her ashes were to be buried in St. Lawrence’s Cemetery, in the same place that held the remains of his father and his brother.
It was a beautiful and chilly Monday morning. The sky was clear and a brilliant blue. We were to meet the minister at McAlister’s Funeral Home and accompany Michael’s mother’s remains. I sat in the limo with Michael. We rode the short distance in silence until Michael spoke.
“You know, it’s funny. I knew she was going to die. There were even a few moments that I wished she would—it was just so terrible to see her that way. But when she finally did die, I think I was completely surprised by it. Isn’t that weird?”
“Not really. I can’t imagine what the day will be like when I bury my parents. It has to be so profound.”
“It is. Profound is the word for it.” He was quiet for a moment and then he reached into his pocket and put something in my hand. “I almost forgot. This is for you. It was my mother’s and I want you to have it. She wore it every day from the time she was a girl.”
It was a little gold cross on a thin gold chain. It was very simple and very beautiful. I put it on immediately.
“Oh, Michael! This is so lovely. Thank you. It’s a treasure.”
“She would have loved you, Grace. She really would have loved you.”
He held my hand tightly for the rest of the way, and although he was looking out of the window, I knew he was crying. We finally arrived and our procession pulled in the entrance. We made our way down the bumpy road, passing live-oak trees, draped in torn sheets of Spanish moss. There was no doubt the trees had been planted hundreds of years before.
His family’s plot was surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence with an opening, and the headstones faced the Cooper River. I could think of no site that would have been more fitting and beautiful for Michael’s loved ones. Michael and I stood together by the graves of his grandparents and great-grandparents, and some of the headstones were so ancient, you could barely make out the names or dates. Larry and a few of Michael’s other friends were there and the minister from his mother’s nursing home led a short service and said some prayers.
The group was small, but everyone there meant something special to Michael or his family in some way. When the minister was finished we sat in the folding chairs the funeral home had provided. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my parents.
“Sorry for your loss, son,” my father said, and shook Michael’s hand. “You shouldn’t have to bury your mother without people to help you get through the…the…”
“Thank you, sir,” Michael said.
My mother, who had been known to weep openly in the drugstore from reading greeting cards, welled up and cried quietly. Seeing her cry made me burst into tears. She put her arm around my shoulder and leaned toward Michael.
“I feel so terrible, Michael. I just, you know, wish we were meeting under other circumstances.”
“So do I,” Michael said, and smiled for the first time since I had come home.
“I want you to come for Christmas,” my mother said.
“Yeah,” Dad said, “we talked it over on the way here. My wife and I. We want you to come down with Grace. You’ll spend Christmas with all the Russos. There are worse places to be, right?”
“Oh, Daddy…” If I didn’t get a grip on myself, I was going to lose it.
“Thank you, sir. I’d like that very much.”
I squeezed Michael’s hand and thought, at last, my parents were finally beginning to understand. Big Al, the mighty oak, had decided to bend with the wind.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHRISTMAS
He said it’s as clean as a whistle!” Michael was referring to the MRI he’d had earlier in the week.
“No sign of anything suspicious? Nothing?”
“Nothing, nada, zilch, zero.”
“Oh, Michael! This is the very best possible news. Now we can have ourselves one absolutely fabulous Christmas! Want to meet me at Saks?”
His news gave me chills all over my body. I was so relieved I felt like I could fly. I knew that when I hit my bed that night, I would have the first sound and restful sleep I’d had since we began to think that Michael might be ill.
I had never told Michael about the nights I spent tortured by nightmares. The same horrible dream. Over and over—the same terrible scene would play out, night after night.
But the days weren’t much better. When I tried to work, I had these continuing visions of Michael in a casket, pale and cold to the touch, and me, all alone in the funeral home. I would be undone by it. On television or in a magazine I would see an ad that showed old people walking the beach, holding hands, happy that they had done careful financial planning. Thinking that might never be Michael and me, I would feel the tears sliding down my face. I never told Michael or anyone about these terrors because it seemed like recounting my horrible imaginings would only make them worse. All these weeks, I had been holding my breath for his test results.
The news of a clean MRI was of colossal proportions; the alternative would have meant sure disaster. For the first time since his diagnosis, we had real hope. And just by the way, if I never had to make chicken soup again, it would be just fine with me.
Michael found me at the men’s fragrance counter at Saks. I had just chosen aftershave for Frank, Nicky and even for young Tony, which I thought he might consider a compliment.
“Come see what I picked out for Big Al,” I said.
“I didn’t know Saks sold muzzles.”
“Oh, God, you are so bad!”
“Get him a karaoke machine.”
“Stop!”
I had chosen a beautiful lamb’s-wool cardigan for my father and leather slippers I knew he liked because I had seen them in a catalog my mother was browsing through. She had pointed them out and said, “See if you can find them cheaper in Charleston. He never buys anything for himself except golf shirts. He must have a hundred golf shirts.” But that’s how my father was. He would pay for a block of hotel rooms for people he’d never met so he could thrill Nonna with a trip to a shrine, a
nd then he would go around without slippers. Actually, that’s how both my parents were. They spent their money on things that were important to them, leaving the rest of us to wonder.
Michael and I were walking down King Street, window-shopping and musing about who might like to have this set of bar glasses or that wallet.
I was quiet for a while and he said, “What are you so deep in thought about?”
“Christmas makes me sentimental, that’s all.”
“Come on. Tell me.”
“It’s just that this has been an amazing year, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, it has. Losing my mother was the worst thing ever, next to my brain cancer, of course.”
“Absolutely. Losing your mother was tragic, but at least she’s not suffering anymore.”
“Yeah. God, I miss her. When I was a kid, every Christmas she would decorate the house like something out of a magazine. She and my father would have these huge parties and my father would make eggnog. He had an old recipe that was his father’s and it went back to his father and who knows?”
“Was it, like, fabulous?”
“You’ve never had homemade eggnog?”
“Are you kidding? The closest we ever got to homemade was when Welsh Farms started putting it in bottles. We thought a glass bottle made it, you know, real.”
Michael laughed and said, “My dee-ah! You have been deprived! I will make eggnog this year and your little heart will sing ‘Dixie’!”
“Better yet, make it for my whole family. I really wanna hear them singing ‘Dixie’!”
“I’ll do it!”
I saw Michael look up at the sky and a wistful expression came over his face.
“She’s in a better place, Michael.”
“Let me guess. You think she’s in heaven with my father?”
“Maybe. I would like to think something wonderful happens for you when you die, especially after suffering a long, terrible illness. Or after a long and worthy life. Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would. It’s just that intellectually I know the afterlife is a bullshit concept. Emotionally? I love the idea. Love it.”
Full of Grace Page 23
