It makes me wonder: If we had known what our lives were going to be like today, would we have even believed it? Would we have made different choices back then? Could we have?
I remember your wedding so vividly, but for the life of me, I can’t remember saying goodbye to you. It’s like I just ripped out that page of the story.
This morning when I was out on my bike ride, I was listening to my iPod and “Your Auntie Grizelda” came on - Peter Tork of The Monkees! I clearly recall having a major crush on him when I was a young girl, but now I see that he wasn’t nearly as cute as Davy Jones, and he didn’t have a good voice, and I sort of remember that I chose him precisely because I thought he was undesirable. This would mean that he would be more likely to be available and of course, more likely to want me. Who wants to be Davy Jones’ girlfriend? Wouldn’t you live your life in fear that he would leave you for someone better?
So much of what we thought we knew back then was because, as Peter sang, we “only know the things they want you to know.” Makes me wonder what I don’t know now.
I hope I pull myself out of this funk soon, though. This story is getting to be a real bummer. Can I skip ahead and see how it turns out?
Love,
Lily
From: Iris Capotosti
To: Lily Capotosti
Sent: Fri, September 3, 2010 at 7:43 AM
Subject: Re: There went the bride
Dear Lily,
I remember certain details about my wedding day so vividly, but the rest is a blur. I suppose I must have been ecstatic, just twenty years old, the leading lady in my own fairy tale, romanced by a dashing Italian man, whisked away from a wacky family, a rotten climate, a lifetime of dressing up in too many responsibilities and having nowhere to go.
I wanted to see what my face looked like on my wedding day, so I dragged out a box of the snapshots friends and family mailed to me back then, which never found their way into anything remotely resembling a wedding album. The colors have faded, but not the smile on the bride’s face. Radiosa, that’s what Gregorio called me. Radiant, as befits a bride. Everyone was smiling in the pictures, except for you and Dad. No one sent me any pictures of Mom.
I wish I had a photograph of me standing alone in the living room, after everyone had gone to the church. I can’t imagine how all the emotions, expectations, and doubts I was feeling could have possibly fit into the expression of my eyes, the curve of my lips, the texture of my skin.
I remember just as clearly when I called you on your wedding day. I had tossed and turned all night, wondering what you were doing, how you were feeling, whether you needed anything. I was so mad that day. Mad at myself for not realizing in time how badly I wanted to be there. Mad at Gregorio for not reading my mind or knowing me well enough to insist that I go. Mad at you for not adding a note when you sent the invitation, begging me to come. Then the anger turned to sadness, the sadness to tears, the tears to silence, and life went on.
I think we both already knew that a wedding wouldn’t make a marriage, any more that being born gave us a life. But we had to start somewhere, didn’t we?
Love,
Iris
Book Two
To women everywhere.
May you find strength for the journey.
From: Iris Capotosti
To: Lily Capotosti
Sent: Fri, September 10, 2010 at 10:10 AM
Subject: Moving on with our girls
Dear Lily,
It’s been barely a week since we left Iris and Lily at the altar. During that time, I’ve been thinking. You know, no one actually forced our girls to get married back then, just like no one forced us to start writing about them now. But in both cases, once the idea was hatched, it was as if we had no choice but to run with it, even though we didn’t know – couldn’t possibly have known – what we were getting into.
There was no way the Iris we grew up with could have resisted the opportunity to act out the fairytale romance she had been dreaming of. Even now, I still feel that overwhelming urge to escape to another dimension. But ever since we started writing, instead of fantasizing about the future, I’ve become addicted to reminiscing about the past. There is something magical about the way one thought trickles into another, then the thoughts flow into a stream of words that come gushing out in this river of pages. They have nowhere else to go, I guess, and I have no choice but to follow them.
I’m anxious to move on now, curious to see where they’ll take me, where they’ll take us.
Love,
Iris
From: Lily Capotosti
To: Iris Capotosti
Sent: Fri, September 10, 2010 at 12:59 PM
Subject: Re: Moving on with our girls
Dear Iris:
Maybe it was a week since those young women stood at the altar. But maybe it was a lifetime – or just as likely, an instant. It makes me think about this matter of choices. We all walk around as though we have free will, but I find myself asking, “Free will to do what?” I mean, we can’t possibly know the ramifications of any of our “choices.” Yet we are held accountable for them, and are forced to make them. Like blindfolded children trying to cross the highway.
Makes me want to just close my eyes and run.
Love,
Lily
1. Iris
Iris was thankful that the apartment in Santa Ida wasn’t too big; in fact it was just the right size for a recently wed couple, with a tad of space to spare for a little one, whose arrival both Iris and Gregorio were impatiently awaiting, now that they had already been married for several months. It was the equivalent of what a real estate agent back in Rochester would call a “starter home,” only this was an apartment, and a rented one at that. Iris didn’t need much room, anyway, as she had brought very few belongings from America, mostly because she didn’t own anything worth shipping, except for some clothes and books, and a few cooking utensils she feared she might not find in Italy, such as the measuring cups she used when whipping up her favorite Betty Crocker recipes, and a baster for roasting her Thanksgiving turkey, without knowing whether she would even be able to find one in a country where the holiday was not celebrated, or who would be around to help eat it. As for Gregorio, he had only brought what he needed from his mother’s place, and left the rest behind. Isabella did not seem to be in any hurry to empty out his old bedroom, nor to have any pressing desire to find another use for the space in which her son had grown from boy, to adolescent, to man.
After her stint managing the household at Chestnut Crest, Iris felt a bit like a little girl playing house when she cleaned the compact apartment. During their honeymoon, she had discovered that Gregorio was remarkably neat and, like Iris, who had very little experience sleeping in hotels, always pulled up the bedclothes and hung his used towels neatly on the racks before they left their suite, and this behavior was replicated at home. With no one making a mess, her job was shamefully easy, and the dust rag encountered very little resistance as she passed it over the few items Gregorio had bought to furnish the place. Iris wasn’t quite sure whether the furniture suited her taste or needs, not really knowing what alternatives were available, or ever having set up a place of her own. She thought it very sweet of Gregorio to have gone out with his mother and purchased everything before the wedding so the house wouldn’t be empty when they returned from their honeymoon, though she secretly wished he would have waited for her so they could have shopped for their very first pieces of furniture for their very first home together, even if it meant sitting on folding chairs for a while. No sense fretting about it now; she was sure there would be another opportunity in the not too distant future, when their growing family would justify the move to a larger home.
Apart from dusting and sweeping the floors, her other daily chores included cleaning the bathroom, mopping, and occasio
nally waxing the old floor tiles (this was the most strenuous job, requiring her to get down on her hands and knees, though the fact that Gregorio always noticed and complimented her on the shine made it worthwhile), and doing the laundry, which took more time than she would have imagined. Gregorio used a new towel for every shower, and insisted the sheets be changed twice a week, on Mondays and Fridays, so both the week and the weekend would start out with fresh linens. Iris was happy to comply, as she herself enjoyed climbing into bed between crisp, fragrant sheets, something she hadn’t known enough to miss as a child until her first overnight at Auntie Rosa’s.
In addition to the linens, there was, of course, the matter of Gregorio’s clothes. Being a doctor, he certainly had to be provided with a clean white shirt to wear to the hospital every morning, even though he changed into operating room garb when he got there. In order to run the washing machine, which took two full hours to complete its cycle, Iris had to hook up one hose to the faucet in the bathtub, and place another hose in the tub for drainage. She had been surprised to find that dryers were not common in Italy, not that she minded; she adapted quite happily to hanging the clothes on the line. She found that the chore relaxed her, and she loved resting her cheek against a pillowcase that smelled of sunshine and sea breeze. Of course, line drying took much longer, sometimes an entire day, depending on the weather. It also meant that everything had to be ironed, including Gregorio’s underwear. She had tried hand-pressing those at least, but Gregorio had mentioned, in a tactful way of course, that he was used to a neat crease in his boxer shorts. It was no bother, really, when there was already a pile of ironing; besides, putting her talents and experience to use looking after her husband and their home was her job now.
Iris had already flitted through the bedroom and living room, and was humming contentedly when she reached the dining alcove, where dusting always provided her with a welcome excuse to indulge in reminiscing as she ran her cloth over a small collection of photographs she had framed and hung on the wall. There was one of her and Lily on the farm, two scrawny girls being glared at by a hulk of a cow; another one of the two of them, now shapely teenagers in grass skirts and leis performing at a luau with Uncle Alfred; one of her mother taken in front of a Christmas tree, laughing and surrounded by a dozen Capotostis of various ages and stages of awkwardness; one of Iris in her wedding gown standing between her somber-looking father and a beaming Auntie Rosa; and the most recent, one of Iris and Gregorio standing on a sandy beach in Sardinia’s Costa Smeralda, where they had spent their honeymoon.
Almost anyone hearing the sigh which escaped Iris as she gazed at the newlyweds would have likely classified it as a sigh of contentment. What memories she must have from her honeymoon on a Mediterranean island! An island where she had finally lived out her lifelong dream of swimming in water so clear it was like floating in a precious sea of liquid emerald, sapphire, and turquoise. She could thank her lucky stars, as Auntie Rosa would say, and of course Gregorio himself, who had chosen such a lovely resort, which she soon learned was a favorite among scuba divers precisely because of those limpid waters. It was then that she also discovered her new husband’s passion for diving; how surprised she had been! How much fun they would have now that they would be spending all of their time together, learning all the other details about one another which couldn’t fit into an airmail envelope! It became obvious, for example, that she had married a man who possessed an admirable dose of courage, a man who would dive to a depth of twenty meters (sixty-five feet!) or more. The mere thought terrified Iris, but when Gregorio said he had signed her up for a beginner’s course so that one day they might dive together, she forced a nervous smile and said it was a fantastic idea. She didn’t want to give him the impression that he had married a scared little girl terrified of broadening her horizons; besides, everyone knew the happiest married couples were those who shared the same interests. But the idea of strapping on all those weights, then sinking herself to the bottom of the sea, where she would depend on a tank for each breath, seemed like flirting with death. She did take the trial lesson, though, but rather than dispelling her fears, it had only served to reinforce her instinctive aversion to the activity.
She had been sorry for disappointing Gregorio, and told him she saw no reason why he should not take advantage of the diving anyway. It was only when Iris had insisted, saying that since he was already an expert, he should go ahead and join the other divers, that he agreed. He was kind enough to want to include Iris anyway, and suggested that she accompany the group on the excursions, even if she didn’t dive. The first morning they set out on the rubber dinghy, she had enjoyed bouncing over the waves with the group of divers, the wind in her hair, the sea spraying her face and arms and legs, as she admired the spectacular views, giddy with the sense of adventure. But once the anchor had been dropped, and Gregorio and the other divers had disappeared under water, her giddiness turned to nausea, and her exhilaration to anxiety, as she bobbed about in the boat, her eyes trained on the little streams of bubbles floating from her husband’s mouthpiece to the surface, until they disappeared from view.
After the humiliation of puking all over the instructor’s gear bag, Iris had begged to be excused from further excursions. She explained to Gregorio that perhaps she just needed more time to adapt to the sea, and would prefer to do so from the beach, if it was all right with him, of course, and by no means did she expect him to give up diving on her account. He had said that was very considerate of her, and understood her preferring to remain closer to shore for the time being, and even bought her a mask and snorkel to help her get used to swimming in the sea.
As the dust cloth glided over the picture frame, she felt lucky to have all those heavenly swims to think back upon. With no one telling her what to do, she had found herself strangely at ease in the clear, shallow water, and her self-confidence had grown steadily, until she was spending hours each day kicking the restlessness out of muscles unaccustomed to a life of leisure. She thought of the secluded little beach she had come upon, where she had even dared to sunbathe topless for the first time. She hadn’t felt comfortable baring her breasts, however unremarkable they might be, at the hotel beach, in front of people she saw at dinner every evening, and had remained one of the few women who got her money’s worth out of both pieces of her bikini. She had such vivid memories of lying in the warm white sand of her secret beach; she could still feel how each fine hair on her skin tingled as the salt water was dried by the sun and wind; how all those delicious sensations caressing her body had made her yearn to be touched.
She recalled the hottest hours of those lazy afternoons, when the Sardinian sun would have scorched her skin, had she not repaired to the shade of the beach umbrella as she waited for Gregorio to return, while devouring one novel after another. She had never envisioned her honeymoon as a time to catch up on her reading, so had come unprepared, with only two paperbacks in her suitcase, but had discovered a bookstore in town which catered to tourists, and carried an assortment of foreign editions. She had been lucky enough to find a copy of The Thorn Birds, and immediately became engrossed in the plight of the lovely Meggie growing up with all those brothers, and found herself hoping that the handsome Father Ralph would leave the priesthood (even though she knew it was not right) and they would at last be reunited, never again to part.
One of her favorite times of day had been when the sun released its hold, and she showered away the sand and salt from her tanned body, and dressed for dinner. She had always adored eating at restaurants, though most of her experiences had been at diners, or at places not much fancier than the Sizzling Skillet or the Luau. The waiters at the hotel restaurant wore black jackets and bow ties and spoke several languages, though often no words were needed. After the first evening, for example, all Gregorio had to do was raise an index finger, and one would come right over with another of the many bottles of mineral water they would share during their stay. And when Gregorio waved a dismissive hand at the ca
ndle, it was promptly removed, never to reappear. When Iris questioned him about the candle, he explained that in addition to distorting his view of her lovely face, the flame would burn up what little oxygen there was in the crowded dining room. Iris, who had never thought of candles in such threatening terms, and in fact found them rather romantic, smiled and said she didn’t mind. She had no doubt he would feel differently about the candlelight dinners she would prepare for them in the comfort of their own home, where they would have access to all the oxygen they could possibly desire.
Candles or no candles, what counted most in any restaurant was the food. Iris would have been hard-pressed to choose her three courses each evening from among all the tantalizing dishes described by the waiter, had Gregorio not been such a connoisseur when it came to picking out the freshest fish, crustaceans and mollusks, and ordering for them both, while waving away the wine list. Iris had thought it so thoughtful of him to want the very best for her, that she had been too embarrassed to admit she hadn’t yet developed a taste for the seafood he ordered. It wasn’t until the fourth evening, when the waiter had placed in front of them yet another immense platter of tentacled creatures, and caught her staring longingly at a passing dish of pasta, which he identified for her as gnocchetti, a Sardinian specialty, and which he proceeded to describe in such irresistibly appealing terms, that she had felt bold enough to request a dish for herself, nodding enthusiastically at his winked recommendation to accompany it with a glass of local Vermentino.
The Complete Series Page 61
