“I’m meeting with his grandmother to hear her experiences in immigrating to the US from Italy. She might be able to provide material I can use for a school project. The dinner is just a fun way to do that.”
“I see. Well, enjoy yourself.”
As I climbed the stairs, my brain bounced back and forth. Brian took me seriously and is going to do what Mum and I recommended alternated with I’m sure she’ll choose the non-Anna option, and then what if it turns out Brian was right? I do not want that monkey on my back. If something goes wrong with this approach for Persie, will Brian blame me? I guess I could take that, but will he blame Mum? Do I care? And will I blame myself?
Ye gods, but I wish none of this had ever happened. I wish to hell we could have stayed where we were, where the only creature other than myself that I had to concern myself with was Tink. Now, not only is there Persie, and Mum’s situation—having given up everything, including me, really, to start this new life—but also there’s Toby/Kay and the horror of that situation. And there’s Michael, beautiful, gay Michael, attracted to me, lying to himself about why, headed for some kind of brick wall for sure.
I don’t like having to worry about all these other people. I don’t like it at all.
And now I had to get freshened up to go and meet Michael’s nonna. He hasn’t said a lot, but his tone of voice when he’s talked about her, the things he’s said—all of it speaks to a tenderness that I think goes very deep. I’m kind of afraid to meet her. Does she know anything about who Michael really is? Will she guess about me? And what would that mean to her?
To distract myself, I located the North End on my mass transit map. There did not seem to be any good way to get there. I wondered if Michael would spring for a taxi.
I was laying out the clothes I’d wear when my mobile rang. It was Michael, cancelling. His grandmother had had a stroke.
“I called her to see if she needed me to bring anything. I didn’t get an answer. When I got there—Simon, it was horrible! She was collapsed on the floor. Barely breathing. Dad and Naomi—my sister—met me at the emergency room. I’m outside now; they didn’t want me to use my cell phone inside.”
“I’m so sorry, Michael. Is she conscious?”
“No. And there’s no telling how long it might be”—his voice caught, and he paused for a few seconds—“before we know if she’ll even wake up. And she might not be able to talk, or move.” He sounded on the verge of tears.
“I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t wonder where I was.”
“Please let me know how things look for her, when you know more. I won’t try to call you in case you’re inside the hospital.”
We rang off, and I put my clothes away. Out on the roof garden, I leaned on that granite-topped brick wall, stared sightlessly at nearby buildings, and considered this development. Obviously, it was horrible for everyone in the family, but beyond that I couldn’t help seeing it as one more in the series of things that never quite work out between Michael and me. It was as if the universe is agreeing with me that he is not for me, telling me to move forwards with my own issues and not get distracted by his trials and tribulations.
It was fairly warm this afternoon, so after I let Brian know I wouldn’t be going out after all and why, I went back to my room, collected everything I’d need to do some schoolwork, and took it out onto the roof.
I was in my seat at the dinner table three minutes early; evidently that doesn’t bother Miss Persie, even though she doesn’t make an appearance until exactly half six. And perhaps I should have gone out someplace, even if it couldn’t be the North End, because I goofed twice, referring to arugula as roquette and saying “amongst” instead of “among” at some point. The “roquette” annoyed her, but she didn’t have a total tantrum over it, perhaps because it’s really just the French word instead of the Italian word for that green. All she did was bring her fist down hard on the table with her fork pointing to the ceiling. But “amongst” put her over some edge, and she screamed, “Among! Among! Among!” There was no Anna any longer, and no replacement yet, so Brian was on his own. He spoke soothingly, to no avail. Mum started to get involved, but she didn’t seem to know what to do, either.
Maybe it was just that the whole day had seemed like some kind of cock-up, but suddenly I’d had enough of Persie’s tyranny. I stood, landed my hands hard on either side of my plate, and glared at her. She stopped shouting, gave me a nasty pout, waited for me to sit, and declared, “Among!” one more time as though getting the last word. But she settled down to her dinner again. As long as she shut up . . .
Brian and Mum looked at me like they didn’t quite know what had just happened, but no one said anything—probably terrified of disturbing the quiet.
Around nine o’clock I felt a little peckish and headed down to the kitchen to see what I could scrounge. Brian and Mum were in the music room, dancing to band music from the 1940s. My breathing grew odd. It was almost like watching her with my father ; they used to dance to this music. My appetite gone, I decided to sneak back upstairs without being seen; maybe I’d come down later and try again.
I started up the stairs but got no farther than the top of the first flight. Persie was on the love seat there, evidently waiting for me.
“Simon.” It was more of a statement than a greeting, but from Persie that was normal.
“Persie,” I responded, my tone just as flat. I kept moving towards the stairs to the top floor, hoping I was wrong about why she was there. But she spoke again.
“Help.”
That got my attention. “What?”
“Help.”
“You need my help? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
This was not what I wanted, at the end of a difficult day topped off with what I’d just witnessed downstairs. But for Persie to ask for help . . . This seemed highly unusual. I stood where I was and waited.
“I want a real tutor this time. A tutor only.”
“You mean, not someone who lives here? Not like Anna?” She nodded. So Brian had asked her. “Did you tell your father that?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you need my help?”
“He told me to think about it. He said don’t decide quickly. But I told him I don’t need to think anymore. I know.”
“And he said . . . ?” Ye gods, but this was like pulling teeth.
“He said please take some time and think.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I think he wants the other choice.”
The idea of Persie’s considering what someone else thought about anything was inconsistent with what Brian had told me. “What makes you say that?”
“He didn’t ask me why I want the other kind.”
Several seconds went by whilst my brain scrambled to understand what I was hearing. “Is this the first time you knew what your father was thinking when he didn’t say it directly?”
Her turn to take several seconds. And then, “I don’t know.”
Not much help. I tried a different tack. “So can you tell me why you want only the tutor?”
“I don’t like being watched all the time. I want to decide what I want to do more of the time. I want to learn about things Anna doesn’t know about.”
I nodded; made sense to me. “What kinds of things that Anna doesn’t know about?”
“Art.”
Art. As simple as that. Not terribly surprising, perhaps. “Anna doesn’t know about art?”
“Anna knows about art therapy. I don’t need art therapy.”
“So you want a tutor who knows about art?”
“I want a tutor who knows how to find art. I want to go see art.”
“Like the Clyfford Still Museum,” I said, and she nodded. “What about other museums, here in Boston?”
“Yes.”
“My mother knows about art.”
“Yes.”
Mum had said she’d spent time with Persie. Part of that time must have involved art. Who could have guessed? “So what do you think I can do to help?”
“Tell him. Tell him I want art. Tell him I want to go see art. Tell him you’ll come with me.”
“Mum can go with you.”
“Yes. I want you, too.”
Christ! What I don’t need right now is more of someone else’s need. “Why can’t you tell him you want art?”
“I did. I told him about the Clyfford Still Museum.”
“That one time? That was all?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him again, Persie. That once was a big surprise to him, and it’s not likely he’s thinking of it in terms of what you need right now, right here. Tell him again, and tell him about going to museums here. Just the fact that you bring it up again will mean a lot. Tell him—tell him you want to start with the public library. That’s right around the corner, practically. Look it up online, and tell him specific things there that you want to go and see. That will help you.”
“And you’ll come?”
Think fast, Simon. “Yes, I’ll go with you to the library. Now I need to go upstairs.”
“All right.”
As I started to turn away from her another thought came to me. “How do you feel about having breakfast downstairs, not just doing it in your rooms all the time?”
Her eyes flicked towards mine briefly; then, “I need to think about that.”
I nodded. “If you decide you want to, tell your father. And the more carefully you say it, the more likely it is he’ll say yes.”
“Carefully?”
“Yes. Don’t just say, ‘I want breakfast downstairs.’ Instead, say, ‘Is it all right if I start having breakfast downstairs with everyone else?’ If you make it a question, it sounds like you care about his opinion.”
“What if he says no?”
“Well, I don’t know why he would, but you wouldn’t be any worse off than if you had just told him what you wanted and he said no. He’s more likely to agree if you ask.”
“Because I asked for his opinion.”
“I tell you what, Persie. If you ask for his opinion, he’ll be so startled and so amazed that he’ll be likely to agree just because you asked. Trust me.”
“I’ll try it. Should I do it now?”
“I don’t see why not. I think he’s in a good mood.” And it would interrupt the dancing.
“How can you tell?”
Patience. Think what it would be like not to have a clue about this sort of thing. “When I saw him, he was dancing with my mother, and they were both smiling and relaxed. And they were in the music room, not in a room with a door closed, so they weren’t trying to be private about it. Does that help?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll try.”
“Great. And now, good night.” And rather than turn immediately away, I kept looking at her, willing her to say the same to me.
She started to turn towards her rooms, perhaps to look up the public library online, and I felt a keen disappointment. I had thought maybe I’d actually taught her something she could use. Rather like handing someone fishing tackle rather than just tossing them a trout. I almost sighed. But then she turned just her head towards me. “Good night.”
If nothing else, I decided, I had gotten her to respond to a social greeting tonight.
I sat in the reading chair in my room with only the reading lamp on for maybe an hour, thinking over everything that had happened today, trying to sort out how I felt about all of it. Or any of it. There was the discussion with Brian about Persie, and then the fact that he actually listened to me—even if he really prefers the live-in tutor, as Persie suspects. Then there was the library, the beauty, the art, and Toby/Kay. . . . God! I need to remember to look for an e-mail from her. Then there was Michael’s nonna practically dead on the floor. Then there was the picture of my mother dancing with someone who was not my father. And then Persie, acting almost like a person. That is, responding to life in a way I had been told she couldn’t do.
A baby elephant can be kept in place by a rope around its ankle, tied to a stake stabbed deep in the ground. The baby isn’t strong enough to pull the stake up. As the elephant grows, for some period of time it’s still too weak to yank the stake up, but over time this is no longer true. But as long as that elephant has a rope around its ankle, it thinks it can’t go anywhere, and only a sudden fright or something equally motivating would make the elephant forget the limitation of that rope and break free.
Maybe Persie is as much an elephant as a cat. And maybe the fright, or the motivation, of having to replace Anna has made her realise she’s stronger than she thought. This is going to make fantastic material for my Theory of Knowledge course!
My mind went next to what it would be like to wake up in hospital, not having done anything to yourself to get there as I nearly did, and not to be able to move or speak. Unimaginable. I wondered how Signora Vitale was doing, and how Michael was reacting to it.
Michael. What did I want, anyway? Was Ned right that I was going to get hurt? And was it already too late to stop it? He’s gay; I’m sure of it. But who am I to try and force him to look in that mirror ? More responsibility for someone else; that’s what it would be. But what about my feelings?
I decided I was going to have to pry this thing open. Which is to say, force Michael’s hand in terms of what he does or doesn’t feel for me. Because gay or not, he’s attracted to me. And I want him to admit that and then say what he’s willing to do about it, even if that’s nothing. Then I can decide what I need to do.
I heaved a sigh and stood, giving up on the idea of coming to any conclusions on how to go about forcing Michael’s anything.
At my desk, computer fired up, I checked for e-mails, and there was one from Kay. The subject was Promise you won’t be mad. Inside, she confessed that she’d chickened out of saying anything tonight, because her parents were fighting about something and she didn’t want to make things worse. I replied that she probably made the right decision (how would I know?). Even though I don’t want this confession to interfere with her competition, I’m keenly aware that the longer she waits, the closer to puberty she’ll get.
There was another e-mail, from Margaret, full of Tink pics. There was even a short video clip of Tink chasing a remote-controlled mouse around the kitchen floor. I would have thought this would make me cry, but instead I was laughing. Actually laughing.
I can’t remember the last time that happened.
Later, I snuck downstairs to the kitchen, put some things together, added the remains of a bottle of pinot noir, threw a wet sponge and a hurricane lantern into the mix, and sent the whole thing upstairs on the dumbwaiter. On my own private rooftop deck, with Graeme in the chair across from me, I watched the moon make its way across the night sky. It was a little chilly, but I enjoyed it thoroughly.
I was nursing the last half-glass of wine when my phone rang.
Michael.
“Simon, I’m sorry about the way tonight turned out.”
“How’s your nonna?”
“She’s a little better. She woke up maybe an hour ago, which was a huge relief. The left side of her face is saggy, and she can’t move that arm or that leg. She can’t talk yet, but she can make sounds, so if she can just get a little more access to that side of her face, she’ll talk again. Or she might learn to be understood with only half her mouth. The only trouble is that until one of those things happens, we won’t know whether she’ll be able to find words, even if she could form them.”
“Wow. And that could take some time.”
“The good news is she recognised us. All of us. And she seemed to understand what was going on when we told her.”
“If you get a chance, please tell her I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her.”
“Ah. Yes, well, about that. Would you still like to?”
“She’s in hospital, Michael. And
she can’t talk.”
“But I had an idea, and she nodded when she heard it. I know where she keeps a couple of shoe boxes full of letters that she received from family and friends back in Italy after she and my grandfather moved here. Now, I know you won’t understand everything, but . . . they’re in Italian, Simon. You could read them to her. Or, some of them, anyway. She would love that, so much! And you’d be able to get a little of the immigration picture.”
What this looked like was yet more responsibility, at a time when I was beginning to have to ration any time not spent on studies. I tried to pawn it off. “Michael, I’m sure someone else in your family can read Italian to her.”
“Not really, no. And when I heard you speak, your accent sounded really good. My dad can say a few things, but he can’t read it and make it sound like Italian. And, besides, there might be some personal stuff in there that would be easier to hear read by a stranger.”
I tried to think about what was in it for me. I came up empty, and I was silent too long.
“Okay, I wasn’t going to say this, because she’s not your grandmother. But her doctor said it might be a really good thing for her, in terms of regaining mental capacity. What do you say, Simon? Will you do it? Just an hour or so tomorrow.”
His voice was so full of hope; he sounded so young. And again the tenderness he must feel for her came through powerfully. “Will you be there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it! So you’ll do it?”
“All right, for maybe an hour. But I might not be able to do a convincing job, you know. I won’t understand everything, and I might massacre the meaning too much.”
“How about three o’clock?” He gave me her hospital and room number. Then he asked, “So did you get any dinner?” I described the alfresco scene before me rather than the earlier dinner, and he said, “There, you see? Alfresco; Italian. And it sounded like it. Wish I were there, too.”
Ah. So did I. Sort of. I think. And then I had an idea of my own. “Well, if tomorrow’s as nice as today, we could come back here after the hospital. Antipasto, forse? Perhaps? We could pick up something on the way.” I stopped; I didn’t trust my voice not to give away that this was a plan. A plan to get him alone long enough to test him. To test myself.
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