“I know what you thought, which is why I wanted to set the record straight.”
“Again,” Gemma said humbly, “I thank you.”
Sean looked relieved. Leaning over, he chastely kissed her cheek. “You’re welcome.”
Before Gemma had time to react, she caught sight of the barrista behind the counter staring at them imploringly. She looked around. Everyone else had left.
“I think he wants to close up.”
Sean twisted around in his chair, told the kid to give them a minute, and turned back to chug his coffee.
“Where are you staying while they rebuild the apartment?”
“Michael and Theresa’s.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“It’s in Brooklyn, Sean. Really, you’ve done enough already.”
“Take me twenty minutes. C’mon.”
“All right. Just let me…” Suddenly tears filled her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Sean asked, alarmed.
“I was going to say, ‘Just let me stop by my apartment’ to get a change of clothes, but I’ve got no apartment and so”—her jaw began throbbing—“I’ve got no change of clothes.”
“You do have some clothes. We got some out during salvage. They don’t smell too good, though. Smoky.” He gulped the last of his coffee. “Got your altar out, too,” he added.
Gemma was shocked. “You did?”
“Yup. But don’t thank me again, or I might have to throw up.”
Gemma laughed, wiping a tear from her eye as discreetly as she could. “Was your apartment okay? The birds?”
“Birds are fine, and the apartment is okay save for a little smoke damage that wafted up through your ceiling. Better than that incense you burn.” He winked at her before moving around the table to pull out her chair for her. “Shall we?”
———
“Yo, if it’s not the man of the hour.”
It wasn’t unusual for Sal to greet Sean like this when he walked into the firehouse. This time, though, he was waving a newspaper at him.
“That’s me,” Sean deadpanned, hanging up his denim jacket.
“You better believe it is.” Ojeda stopped waving the paper and held it still for Sean to see. There, on the front cover of the Sentinel, was a picture of him carrying Gemma’s grandmother down the ladder. Beneath it the headline declared: FIREFIGHTERS RESCUE ELDERLY WOMAN FROM DEADLY APARTMENT FIRE.
“I didn’t know the press were there,” Sean said, pouring himself some coffee.
“The press are everywhere,” Ojeda said ominously. He studied the paper a moment. “This is good PR for us. Maybe Mayor Jackass will think twice about some of those budget cuts.”
“Doubt it.”
“I don’t know, bud. I think it might help. It’s certainly gonna help you: You might be the first firefighter at this house to get a commendation and a reprimand at the same time.”
Sean laughed. “We’ll see.”
Captain McCloskey had already reprimanded him at the fire scene for disobeying his order and entering Gemma’s apartment, but as Ojeda said, it was quickly followed by a slap on the back and a “Job well done” after he’d rescued Gemma’s grandmother. Whether Sean received a formal commendation remained to be seen. Ultimately, it really didn’t matter. What was important was he’d made the rescue, saved someone’s life, and restored his faith in himself and how he performed his job.
Ojeda passed him the paper, and he skimmed the article. In general, he hated reading about fires he’d been involved with, mainly because the reporter inevitably got some small fact wrong and it set his teeth on edge. But seeing his picture on the cover made him think of Gemma.
He’d heard of people having bad days before, but hers had been “a doozy,” as his mother liked to say. Yet there she’d been last night, still upright, still smiling, still able to laugh. A lesser soul would have been driven down to their knees from sheer despair. But not Gemma. It impressed him to no end.
She impressed him to no end.
He continued thumbing through the paper, eyes scanning page after page to see if there was any mention of the hostage situation at her store. He finally found a small, one-paragraph piece on it on page forty-nine, next to an article about how popular Buffalo chicken wings were in Manhattan. Sean clucked his tongue. He’d love to know how these editors decided what was newsworthy and what wasn’t.
“Where’s Leary?” he asked, folding up the paper.
“Weight room, I think.” Ojeda’s eyes were glued to the kitchen TV. He was watching Live with Regis and Kelly. “Why?”
“The bastard owes me twenty-five bucks, that’s why. In case you didn’t notice, the Blades won yesterday. They’re gonna make the Playoffs.”
“Good luck collecting,” Ojeda said distractedly. “He’s so tight you could bounce a quarter off his ass.”
Sean chuckled to himself and went off to find Mike Leary.
———
Gemma awoke the next morning to the news that a family meeting was going to be held later that day at Michael and Theresa’s. “Not a big one,” Michael was quick to assure her. “Just me and Ter, Ant and Angie, you, your ma, Millie, Betty Anne—the people in the family who’ve actually been taking care of Nonna.” Gemma didn’t relish an-other round in the ring with her mother, but she supposed it was inevitable. Something had to be done.
She’d passed a comfortable night in Michael and Theresa’s spare bedroom, an old jersey of Michael’s serving as her nightgown. Sean had been right about her clothing smelling awful: Leaving Starbucks, they’d gone back to their building so she could see if there was anything she could salvage. There wasn’t: Everything smelled acrid, sooty—there was no way she could wear any of her clothing without a trip to the dry cleaner first. Sean offered to take them to a dry cleaner the firefighters used. Now, sitting in Michael and Theresa’s living room in a pair of Theresa’s sweats and a shirt of Michael’s whose sleeves she’d had to roll up repeatedly, she felt like a Victorian urchin. As soon as the family meeting was done, she was going shopping. That’s what credit cards were for, after all.
Anthony and Angie arrived first, bearing cannolis and Miraglia Brothers coffee, the only brand Anthony would drink. Gemma caught the annoyance on Michael’s face as he went to put up the pot, but he kept his mouth shut. Anthony and Michael: They’d fight over whether the sun was coming up the next morning if they could. Sometimes Gemma was glad to be an only child.
“How ya doin‘, toots?” Anthony’s bear-sized hands massaged Gemma’s shoulders, their brute strength an interesting contrast to the gentleness in his voice.
“I’m okay.”
“Mikey told me about the store. Let me tell ya: If someone called me and said there was a hostage situation at Dante’s, I would have left my own mother to fry, believe you me.” Gemma winced. “No one blames you for anything, hon.”
“Except my mother.”
“She needs a swift kick in the ass, that one,” Anthony replied, echoing one of Nonna’s favorite expressions. With a final squeeze to Gemma’s shoulders, he rejoined his wife on Michael and Theresa’s sleek black leather sofa. A fuss was raised when Theresa entered the room with Domenica, who was promptly passed from relative to relative for individual doses of adoration. All she was missing was a tiny tiara.
The baby was a wonderful diversion, keeping everyone’s blood from boiling over the fact that, as usual, Gemma’s mother and her sisters were late. When they arrived, Gemma shifted seats, making certain to sit as far from her mother as possible.
“Did anyone call the hospital this morning to check on my mother?” Gemma’s mother asked, helping herself to a cannoli from the platter on the coffee table before she even had her coat off.
“‘Anyone’?” Aunt Millie echoed sarcastically. “What, your fingers are broken?”
“I called,” Theresa informed them. “They’re not allowed to give out information on the phone. All they’d say was that she was resting comfortably. Michael an
d I are going over there later this afternoon.”
“What are we going to do about Nonna?” Michael asked, getting right to the point. Gemma knew Michael: He was in no mood for bickering, backbiting, or inter-Dante politics.
Gemma’s mother looked confused. “What do you mean? Assuming she gets out of the hospital, I say we just go back to the same routine.”
“No.” Gemma’s voice was firm without being sharp, and it drew all eyes to her. “I can’t do it. I live in the city, I work in the city, and this going back and forth to Brooklyn trying to take care of Nonna while trying to run my store at the same time has practically killed me. I was nuts to think I could do both. I can’t.”
Aunt Betty Anne looked distressed. “So, what do we do?”
“Simple,” Theresa said, passing Domenica to Aunt Mil-lie, who was motioning vigorously for her turn with the little principessa. “Either we get a home health aide for a number of hours a week, or—”
“Don’t say it,” Gemma’s mother cut in dramatically. “Don’t even think it.”
Gemma and Michael exchanged glances. “We’re going to have to face the reality of it sometime,” Michael told his aunt.
“Not yet,” Aunt Millie insisted with a shudder, agreeing, for once, with her sister. She began bouncing the baby on her knee. “As long as we can keep her in her own house, I think that’s what we should do.”
“How are we going to do that without Gemma?” Gemma’s mother asked plaintively. Her tone surprised Gemma; it seemed genuine, without rancor or accusation.
“Home health aide,” Theresa repeated to no one in particular.
Aunt Betty Anne began nibbling on the cuticle of her left index finger. “That costs a lot of money.”
“Not as much as you think,” Michael said. “Medicare will take care of part of it. Between the rest of us, I’m sure we can cover the difference.”
Aunt Millie stopped bouncing the baby and frowned. “Speak for yourself, Mr. Hotsy Totsy Hockey Star. Some of us are on a fixed income.”
“That’s right,” Anthony snorted. “You’re living on cat food in an SRO hotel. How could I forget?”
“Jesus Christ.” Michael sighed his dismay. “For once can this family have a conversation without someone sticking in the knife and twisting it?”
“What knife?” Anthony implored. “What twist?”
“I’m sure I can kick in some money,” Gemma said, though she wasn’t really sure at all. “I just need to figure out things with the apartment… insurance things…”
“We’ll kick in money,” Theresa said.
“And us,” Angie added.
“Sounds like the problem’s solved,” Michael said. “I’ll look into how much it’ll cost and get back to everyone.” He reached for a cannoli. “Let’s eat. At least that way our mouths will be full and we won’t be able to attack each other.”
“Wanna bet?” Anthony garbled as he bit into a cannoli.
Everyone laughed.
———
Later, in the kitchen, Gemma was refilling her coffee cup when Michael sidled up to her.
“Can we talk?”
“Always.”
“No way in hell are you chipping in for Nonna’s home health aide,” Michael informed her quietly. “You’ve got enough shit to worry about right now. Whatever your share is, I’ll cover it.”
“Michael—”
“No Michaels. Not only that, but you’re living here rent-free until your apartment is rebuilt. Theresa and I have discussed this. You are forbidden to say no.”
Gemma flushed. “I don’t know what to say.”
Michael put an arm around her shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything. That’s what family is for.” He kissed the top of her head. “One more thing.”
“There’s more?” Gemma joked, trying to keep the tone light. One more act of generosity on Michael and Theresa’s part and she’d start bawling.
“When’s the last time you had a vacation?”
“About two years ago. When I went on safari in Kenya. Why?”
“Theresa and I were thinking. Why don’t you take some time at our house on the shore? It’s quiet, off-season… you could stay as long as you wanted. You deserve it, Gem. Seriously.”
“What about the store, Michael?”
“You can’t get away for a long weekend?”
Gemma crinkled her nose. “I suppose I could, but I feel bad springing it on Julie like that. She’s been filling in for me left and right.”
“Here’s a novel idea, then: Give Julie a break, too. Take a week off and close the store completely. People do, you know.”
“I know, I just…” Gemma looked down, overwhelmed by her cousin’s care and concern. When she looked up, her mother was standing in the doorway.
“Gattina,” she murmured uncertainly. “Can I talk to you?”
CHAPTER 24
Amazing, Gemma thought how people can conduct entire conversations with their eyes. Hearing his aunt’s request, Michael looked up from preparing himself a cup of coffee, locking gazes with Gemma. We can tell her we’re busy right now, or I can leave you alone with her. Your call. Gemma stared hack, half smiling her appreciation. You can go. I’ll be okay.
Michael nodded, finished preparing his coffee, and ducked out of the kitchen.
Alone now with her mother, Gemma felt an immediate shift in atmosphere. It was as if Michael’s presence had acted as a buffer. Now that he was gone, unresolved business hung heavily in the air. “What’s up, Ma?” Gemma asked. This time, she was determined not to let the invocation of her childhood nickname through her off balance. Little Gattina was on guard.
Her mother looked down at her hands. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for slapping you last night. I was crazy with worry and I just didn’t think.”
Gemma’s immediate impulse was to say, “It’s okay,” but she suppressed it. What her mother had done was not okay, and remembering the slap was like experiencing it all over again. She felt queasy inside, hot in the face. “That was really humiliating.”
“I can imagine.” Her mother looked up with sorrowful eyes. “I’m so, so sorry, Gattina. Forgive me.”
“Please stop calling me Gattina. The last time you called me that you denied afterward ever saying it.”
Her mother looked ashamed. “I’m not a very nice person sometimes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But you forgive me?” her mother asked uneasily. Gemma rolled her eyes. “Of course I forgive you.”
Relief settled over her mother’s features, a sentiment Gemma didn’t dare share as she waited for the other shoe to drop. But maybe that wasn’t going to happen this time? Her mother was actually looking at her with a repentant expression she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before.
“I was doing some thinking last night.”
“About?”
“You.”
“Yes?” Gemma tried hard not to sound defensive or skeptical. Her mother was really trying, really struggling to connect. The least Gemma could do was hear her out.
“I was thinking”—her mother coughed nervously—“that I’ve always been very hard on you. Even when you were a little girl, I expected you to be perfect.”
Gemma waited, listening.
“I think it’s because you were an only child. All my dreams were pinned on you, and what you did reflected back on me. That’s the way I thought.” She knit her hands together. “So, when you turned out to be different—different than I imagined you would be—different than I wanted you to be—two things came to my mind. One was ‘What will people think of me?’ The other was, ‘God, how can I protect her?‘“ She raised her eyes to her daughter’s. ”Because you and I both know that people who march to the beat of their own drum have a hard time, Gemma.“
This was extraordinary. Yes, that was the word. Extraordinary. Gemma took a second to savor it. She wanted to hear more—needed to hear more.
“I’ve known for years Nonna was a
stregh.” Her mother laughed mirthlessly. “That was another thing that stuck in my craw: that you were more like her than me.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” Gemma blurted. “I mean, you’re my mother, for God’s sake. No one could replace you. Not even Nonna.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” Her mother shrugged. “I was a stupid, frightened woman. Plus, it’s not like you and I ever got along. At least not since you were a teenager.”
“Ma—”
“Let me finish, Gemma.” She paused at length. When she resumed, there was a quiver in her voice Gemma hadn’t heard since her father died. “When I saw your grandmother in that hospital bed last night, I realized how close I came to losing her. My own mother. That hit me hard.
“But it also got me thinking. Did I really want to be someone with no mother and no daughter? And the answer is no.” She reached up, cupping in her hand the very cheek she had slapped the night before. ‘This is hard for me, cara. Very hard. You know your mama isn’t very good at talking about her feelings. But if I want you back, I realize I have to learn to talk to you. To listen to you. To see you. And I have to be willing to tell you what I really think.“
Gemma swallowed. “What’s that, Ma?”
“That you’re a good girl. A good person, and that’s what matters, not that you’re a-a—”
“Witch?”
Her mother nodded, frowning. “Witch. Right. It doesn’t matter that you’re a witch, or that you don’t dress like other people, or that you believe in things I think are kooky, or any of that stuff. What matters is what’s in your heart. And judging from all you’ve done for your Nonna, you have a very good heart, Gattina. And that makes me proud.”
“Ma,” Gemma whispered, laying her hand over her mother’s.
“It’s been hard on me all these years without your father. I’ve had to learn to do for myself. But you”—her eyes lit up with admiration—“you’ve been doing for yourself since the beginning. You were always so smart, so independent.” She tugged affectionately on a lock of Gemma’s hair. “My little girl.”
Gemma’s breath caught. “I love you, Mom.”
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