Carissima

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  “Pia, I’m sorry.”

  “And you didn’t even tell me before the show!”

  Gregory tries to hug me, but I knock his arms away.

  “I need to get out of here.”

  “Pia, please, don’t go. You’re going to be just as famous as I’m going to be once your portrait is revealed. This will be great publicity for you as a writer.”

  My hand is on the stockroom door. Before I leave, I turn around and say, “You really don’t know me, Gregory. Yes, I want to be a successful writer, but I care more about my relationships than I do about fame. I thought you shared the same ideals as I do, but I guess I don’t really know you either.”

  I slam the door shut behind me and walk quickly to the exit before Gregory has a chance to catch up. But I have nothing to worry about. He isn’t even following me.

  Once outside, I run up to a yellow cab that’s just gone down the street and is at a red light at the corner.

  “I’m going to Astoria.”

  The cabbie motions with his head for me to get in as he adjusts his meter.

  “Hold on!”

  “Oh my God!”

  Lorenzo is banging on the passenger window.

  “I’m sorry. He’s with me.”

  The cabbie pulls over as the red light turns to green. Lorenzo gets in. I wanted to be alone of course, but I have a feeling if I hadn’t let him in, he would’ve chased the cab, yelling until we stopped.

  “I saw you leaving the gallery. I could tell you’re upset and was worried about you.”

  Lorenzo’s voice sounds sincere. Mentally, I thank him for not being his usual sarcastic self for once.

  “Thanks, Lorenzo.”

  We ride in silence until we’re going over the bridge back into Queens.

  “You got into a fight with Gregory, didn’t you?”

  “Yup.” I smile sheepishly at Lorenzo.

  “Okay, I get it. You don’t want to talk.”

  “Sorry. I’m just spent.”

  “He’s taking you for granted, Pia.”

  “Gregory has been very busy preparing for the show. I don’t blame him. I can be a workaholic myself.”

  “Stop defending him. He should always make some time for you.”

  “Thanks. That’s sweet of you.”

  “I mean it, Pia. You’re a wonderful person.”

  I laugh. “You don’t even know me, Lorenzo, but thank you for the sentiment.”

  Lorenzo looks out his window. His brows are knitted furiously together. I’ve upset him. Instead of apologizing or even changing the heavy subject we’re on, I just remain quiet. I already fought one battle tonight.

  The taxi stops in front of Zia’s. I open my purse, but Lorenzo has already handed the cabbie a fistful of cash. He steps out and holds my door.

  “Thanks for the cab fare, but that wasn’t necessary.”

  “I know, but I wanted to. I like doing things for you even if they’re minor like paying for your cab fare.”

  “Well, thank you again. And thanks for making sure I was okay. Have a good night.”

  I turn to leave, but Lorenzo grabs my wrist, pulling me toward him, and before I can protest, he’s kissing me. I know I should make him stop, but I don’t. Strangely, kissing him is making me feel comforted.

  Suddenly, I realize with horror that we’re standing on the street and anyone could see us. What if Gregory came by looking for me? Guilt propels me to push away from Lorenzo.

  “That shouldn’t have happened. I really need to go.”

  “I’m sorry, Pia. It’s just—”

  I hold up my hand. “It’s okay. I just really have to go now. Okay?”

  Lorenzo nods his head and looks at me sadly. I run up the stairs to Zia’s, quickly fumbling with my keys. Lorenzo waits until I’ve opened the door and then waves as he walks away toward his mother’s house.

  Shutting the door behind me, I turn my back and lean against it, exhaling what must be the longest breath of my life. Listening for any sounds that would indicate Zia might be awake, I kick off my heels and say a silent prayer thanking God for not letting my aunt witness her niece acting like a hussy.

  What a mess! The whole night was just one disaster after another. And I can’t believe I kissed Lorenzo back. I came to New York seeking some clarity in my life in addition to experience at a magazine. But it seems like I’m only adding to the confusion.

  Pulling my cell phone out from my purse, I check to see if Gregory called or texted me. There are a few missed calls from Connie and Megan. I call my voice mail and listen to the two messages they left me, asking me to let them know if I’m okay.

  I send them both texts, telling them not to worry and that I made it home safely. Connie immediately texts me back:

  ARE YOU OKAY???? GREGORY TOLD US YOU GOT INTO A FIGHT.

  Great! He had to blab that to everyone.

  I text Connie back:

  I’M FINE. JUST TIRED. WE’LL TALK TOMORROW.

  My stomach grumbles even though it’s close to midnight. Heading into the kitchen to get a snack, I can’t help thinking about Gregory and what’s he’s doing right now. The show is probably wrapping up. We were supposed to be together to celebrate his big night. Guilt stabs at me—both for getting upset with him and for kissing Lorenzo.

  I don’t need to eat right now. I need something to help me fall asleep and forget this terrible night. I search Zia’s cupboards to see if she has any brandy. After much searching, I locate a few liquor bottles behind her baking pans in one of the cupboards above the stove. I pour milk into a large mug. I then stir in a teaspoon of vanilla and a few teaspoons of sugar. I heat the milk in the microwave for a minute and a half. Once the timer goes off, I take the mug out and stir in an ounce of brandy and a quarter of a teaspoon of nutmeg. Taking a sip, I let out a sigh of pleasure. Zia made this for me one night last week when I couldn’t sleep.

  Carrying my warm milk with brandy up to my bedroom, I tiptoe past Zia’s room. But once I hear her cacophonous snoring, I relax, knowing nothing will wake her out of that deep slumber. Too lazy to remove my makeup, I step out of my clothes and ease into bed. I don’t even bother with my pajamas tonight. Drinking slowly so I can savor my drink, I replay my argument with Gregory. But as the warm milk with brandy works its magic and makes me drowsier with every sip, my mind keeps replaying Lorenzo’s kiss.

  22

  Francesca

  Giuliana is sleeping. I am sitting in the upholstered chair that is usually in the corner of the bedroom, right next to her bookshelf. But I have brought it closer to Giuliana’s bedside. Even in this room, Giuliana is surrounded by her treasured books. As I take closer notice, many of her beloved possessions are in this room.

  Jewelry boxes of all shapes and sizes cover the surface of her dresser. She has adored them since she was a little girl. I am happy to see she even kept a few that I had sent her over the years for Christmas. At least her contempt for me did not transfer to the boxes.

  A light scent of flowers always fills her room, much like a funeral home. Daisies, Giuliana’s favorite flower, are in vases throughout the room. Though daisies have a shelf life of seven to fourteen days, Giuliana has instructed Angelica to check them regularly and replace any that are beginning to wilt. The daisies are taken from the garden out front. But in the winter, Angelica buys them at the local florist. Luckily for Giuliana, daisies are available year-round.

  Giuliana fell in love with the flower after Dante, her deceased husband, showered her with them during his courtship. When my mother was alive, she told me that Dante used to call Giuliana his “delicate daisy.” Even when we were children, Giuliana loved the wild daisies that grew on the hillside of my parents’ farm in a tiny mountain village outside of Taormina, Sicily.

  I close my eyes and am instantly transported to when we were young girls.

  Giuliana was thirteen and I was ten. Our arms were linked as we skipped and sang, playing a silly game in which one of us would suddenly drop to t
he ground, pulling the other along with her. Every time we fell, we pulled more daisies and placed them in the little wicker baskets we each held.

  “I am going to beat you, Francesca! You hardly have any daisies in your basket!” Giuliana laughed.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “So what? You always share yours with me anyway.”

  “Davvero? I think I am going to stop being so generous and will keep all of my flowers to myself this time!”

  “You will not!” I laughed, knowing Giuliana was incapable of acting so selfishly.

  “Wait and see!” Giuliana broke her hold from me and ran down the hill. I chased her. We were both giggling. Finally, out of breath, Giuliana stopped halfway down the hill and collapsed on the grass. I joined her. We both shielded our eyes from the sun as we looked up into the sky.

  “I can never get sick of living here,” Giuliana said. I glanced over at her. She was smiling and seemed so content.

  “Not me. I want to see what the rest of the world outside of Sicily looks like.” Though I was just ten years old, my wanderlust had already set in, and I spent much of my time daydreaming about traveling to other countries. I did not know yet I wanted to be an actress. I merely knew that I was not going to spend the rest of my life in the city where I grew up. How much we change when we grow old. Now I only long to be in my native country, in my home, where my memories of my unspoiled childhood bring me comfort.

  “You would not dare leave me!” Giuliana reproached me. Her voice betrayed a hint of fear.

  “Then, you will have to join me, Giuli.” I nudged my elbow lightly into her side. When I was first learning how to speak as a toddler, I could not say “Giuliana,” so I called her “Giuli” instead. I continued calling her this until we had our falling out, and we stopped being the best of friends.

  “I cannot imagine traveling so much. I think I would miss home too much.” Giuliana’s voice sounded wistful.

  “Trust me, you would forget about home almost immediately. I know I would.”

  “I would not be so sure of that if I were you.” Giuliana propped herself up onto her forearms and watched me with a smirk on her face. She then took the daisies she had collected earlier and placed a bunch in my basket. Pulling two out, she intertwined their stems and leaned over me as she inserted both into my hair, right above my ear.

  “Perfetta! Sei molta bella!”

  “Grazie, Giuli. Your turn.” I took six daisies out of my basket and pulled off the stems. I then tucked each flower into the crown of Giuliana’s head, forming a headband of daisies. Her thick, wavy hair held the daisies securely in place, and the white petals stood out against her fiery red hair.

  We then made our way down the hill, back to our home. I do not remember what we talked about, for we were always chatting and laughing. What I do remember is our close bond and how I thought, in those days, nothing would ever come between us.

  Tears flow freely down my face as I watch Giuliana lying in bed. How different this sick woman looks compared to the vibrant girl I knew from my youth.

  On Giuliana’s night table, her wedding photo rests. She was so beautiful. If only I could have seen her in person that day. Her light breathing reaches my ears.

  “Giuli,” I softly whisper to her. “Please come back one last time before you go.”

  The day after Gregory’s art show, Giuliana’s health took a dramatic turn for the worse. Lorenzo rushed her to the hospital, where she stayed for a day. Her cancer has spread throughout her body. The doctor told us she could last a month or less. They recommended transferring her to a hospice, but Lorenzo and I want her to die at home. Lorenzo said he knew his mother’s wishes would have been the same. A few days have passed since we brought her home. She was barely conscious the first forty-eight hours, but yesterday she slipped into a coma and has not woken up. It is just a matter of time now before she leaves us forever.

  My tears fall onto my clasped hands that are clutching a rosary. I have been praying for my sister to wake up since yesterday.

  Please God, just for five minutes. That is all I am asking of you. I have wasted these past few weeks thinking about how bored I was cooped up here, thinking about my secret admirer, thinking about myself as always when I should have forced Giuliana to talk to me. I want to tell her how sorry I am for hurting her so much. Please God, do not let her die before I tell her.

  A soft knock at the door interrupts my prayers.

  “Zia, why don’t you go lie down? You haven’t left her side since yesterday.” Lorenzo comes in and hands a glass of water to me.

  “I must stay in case she wakes up. There is something I need to tell her. I will never forgive myself if I leave and she wakes up.” With the back of my hand, I wipe my tears.

  “Just talk to her anyway. They say when someone is in a coma he or she can still hear his or her loved ones.” Lorenzo strokes his mother’s cheek with a light touch of his fingers. His eyes well up. I stand up and join him, placing my arm around his shoulders. He breaks down sobbing and leans into me. We hug each other as we both cry inconsolably.

  A raspy breath comes from Giuliana, startling Lorenzo and me. Her eyes flutter open for a second and then close again.

  “Mama!” Lorenzo calls out to her.

  A few seconds go by, and then Giuliana’s eyes open once more. She blinks a few times.

  “Loren . . . sho.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

  “Mama, yes, it’s me. Zia Francesca is here, too.” Lorenzo squeezes his mother’s hand.

  I walk over to the other side of the bed and take her free hand.

  “Giuliana, I have prayed for you to wake up. It is so good to hear your voice. We are here with you. There is nothing to fear. You are not alone.”

  “I have . . . I have . . .”

  “Take your time, Mama,” Lorenzo pleads.

  “Poco . . . poco tem . . . po.” Giuliana has reverted to speaking in her native Italian as she tells us she has little time left.

  “Don’t waste your energy, Mama.” Lorenzo is crying once more, but he is fighting to keep the emotions from being evident in his voice lest Giuliana hear.

  “Tivo . . . glio . . . bene.” Giuliana looks at Lorenzo.

  “I love you too, Mama.” Lorenzo bends over and kisses his mother on the forehead.

  Giuliana then looks at me. My heart stills.

  “I for . . . for . . . give . . . you, my . . . my little . . . sis . . . ter. I did . . . a . . . long time . . . ago.”

  “Carissima.” I call my sister by the endearment my fans have used for me all these years. But she is truly the dearest one, not me. She should be adored and honored. She is the one who possesses a good heart. “I am sorry I hurt you so much, Giuli. Every day for the past thirty years, I have regretted the pain I caused you.” I bend my head and kiss Giuliana’s hand.

  “You . . . made mis . . . takes. You were . . . just . . . just a child . . . who grew up . . . fast. We all loved . . . you . . . sor . . . sorella mia. Promise me. Promise to tell the truth.” Giuliana’s eyes begin to close, but then they open once more. She is struggling to stay with us. Lorenzo and I wait patiently, hoping her time has not come, though we know our bargaining with God is almost over.

  “Lo-Lo-renzo. Please. I . . . must . . . talk . . . to her . . . alone.”

  Lorenzo nods, but I can tell he is reluctant to leave, afraid this really will be the last moment he has with his mother. He leans over and whispers into her ear. He kisses her hand before he lets it go and steps out of the room.

  “Promise . . . me . . .” Giuliana stares intently at me.

  “I promise, carissima. But are you sure?”

  Giuliana squeezes my hand so tightly that I am shocked her weakened body still has such amazing strength. She stares intently at me and repeats, “Promise . . . tell . . . truth.”

  “I promise. I promise, Giuli.”

  Little by little, Giuliana’s grip relaxes until she is no longer holding my hand, and her breathing has stopp
ed.

  Placing my head on her chest, I hug my sister as I weep uncontrollably and whisper, “Do not leave me. Do not leave me, carissima .”

  23

  Pia

  A week has passed since Gregory’s art show. And it’s been one of the worst weeks of my life. The day after the show, I waited for him to call, but he never did. Connie had come over and admitted that Gregory had asked her to check in on me. He wanted to make sure I had arrived home safely the night of the show, and I couldn’t help feeling he wanted to know how mad I still was before he contacted me. All that did was infuriate me more. I told Connie I didn’t appreciate her acting as his spy. I wasn’t mad at her though. Connie pleaded with me to call Gregory, but my stubbornness wouldn’t allow for it.

  Gregory finally called me a few days ago, leaving voice mails each time. Of course, he apologized in each message. Deciding I’ve made him suffer enough, I’m in a cab right now heading to his house.

  While I know I have every right to be mad at him for not telling me he was including my nude portrait in the exhibit, I can’t help feeling guilty for ruining what was to be his biggest night. Then again, from the photos that Connie showed me, which were taken after I bolted out of the show, he appeared to be enjoying himself. A few other celebrities, besides Francesca, had arrived after I left, and they all posed with Gregory. For someone who often made snide remarks about stars and hating pop culture, he’s embracing it all too readily now.

  Then again, how well do I know Gregory? We haven’t been dating long. With that reminder, my spirits suddenly plummet. I can’t believe we’re already heading into the second week in August. I’m supposed to be returning to California the first week in September. Zia has been asking me to change my airline ticket and stay in New York for another month. I have to admit I am tempted. I don’t know why I can’t make up my mind. It’s just postponing my return by a few more weeks. Sighing deeply, I squeeze my eyes shut. Whom am I kidding? Of course I know why I can’t decide. If it were Gregory instead of Zia asking me to delay going back home, I would change my ticket in a heartbeat. But he hasn’t brought up the subject. How can he tell me he loves me and then not ask what my plans are at the end of the summer?