The Supreme Macaroni Company

by Adriana Trigiani

  I believed that sometimes people chose death. But the last thing he said to me was, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  When I sat down in Ms. Cazana’s office on Twelfth Street, I studied the room for clues. But there wasn’t a photo of a guru, no tarot cards, just a plain sofa and chair. It was more a therapist’s office than a medium’s.

  As soon as she entered the room, I began to cry. The thought of communicating with the man that I’d lost had seemed like a good idea when I was home missing him, but in the moment, I was afraid.

  What if I had done something to make him leave? I told her about the house.

  Why hadn’t I seen the physical signs? I explained every argument I ever had with my husband.

  He’d mentioned something about his heart in Buenos Aires, and I had forgotten it. Roberta reminded me of it, because she remembered it. I was the guardian of my husband’s health. How had I let that slip through the cracks?

  Ms. Cazana gave me a tissue.

  “I understand what happened with your husband, but why are you here?”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  She closed her eyes. “Where is the lake?”

  My mind raced. “In Italy.”

  “He almost died there once. Almost drowned. There’s a castle.”

  “I know it.”

  “This man almost died three times. Once in the lake. Once in a car. And a third time of a broken heart.”

  “What broken heart?”

  “He loved a girl and she left him.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted a child with her but was afraid that she would take the baby from him.”

  “What?” I was stunned. I remembered asking Gianluca about Mirella and the end of their marriage.

  “He wanted a child with her.”

  “He had one.”

  “A second child. The relationship was over.” She sighed and then repeated herself. “He was afraid to lose the child because he was certain she would take the child from him.”

  I leaned back in the chair and had a revelation. My husband wanted the second baby with Mirella but didn’t think the marriage was strong enough. That’s why he waited so long to remarry. Orsola came first, just as Alfie had in the last year of his life. I shuddered when I thought about our arguments about nursing the baby, and my working hours. “Did he know he was going to die?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  “It shouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he had to go.”

  “Why?” I pressed her.

  “He was part of your life, but there is more for you.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “That’s not your choice. Do you want to know what I see for you?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “When the grief goes, and it will, you will be surrounded by loved ones. I see nothing but family, loving family, around you. Your dreams have no limit. None.”

  She continued to speak. She spoke of my parents, and a land far away, and said that my baby girl would grow up and become a doctor. She said all of it with such conviction that had I not been so sad, I might have believed her.

  What she told me that stuck with me was that Gianluca was only part of my story. But isn’t that true of everyone that you love and who loves you? Why wasn’t I dreaming of my husband? Where had he gone? And why couldn’t he reach through to find some way of communicating with me? He’d said he wasn’t going anywhere. I held him to his word.

  Did Gianluca know he was going to die?

  Who goes about doing ordinary things like making a pot of gravy and folding the laundry minutes before the worst happens?

  Who showers and gets dressed and puts on one black sock and one blue one?

  Or does a man who knows he is going to die rise early, feed his baby, and bring her into bed, where the mother rolls over to awaken to father and daughter with matching blue eyes, looking at her? Was everything I had with Gianluca for the sole purpose of leaving me with that moment—the three of us, a family? A perfect family.

  Was this the meaning in our grief? Was our ordinary routine each morning the point? The mother and father encircled the baby, taking in the scent of her new skin, the soft tufts of black hair, the long, slender fingers with sharp nails that needed a trim, the grip of the small foot in a soft white sock that wriggled out of her mother’s grasp as the baby rolled over and onto her father’s chest.

  He couldn’t have known that this was the day he would leave this life. This is not the picture of a dying man, but of one who is wholly and completely alive. Gianluca knew what was important and tried to show me so I might know joy. This is the man I had come to count on, to lean on, the one who protected us. We were safe in our small circle. I would never know that security again.

  “Val?”

  I heard my father’s voice from the other side of the bedroom door. I was so tired, I did not answer him.

  “Val?”

  I shut my eyes so he’d think I was asleep. He pushed the door open.

  “Valentine?”

  I opened my eyes. My father came and sat on the side of the bed. Though it was daytime outside, I had the shade pulled down, so the room was dark. My father flipped the switch on the bedside lamp.

  “Honey, you can’t keep doing this.”

  A few days after the funeral, I thought I was okay. I was answering letters sent to me about Gianluca, and Alfie was taking a nap. The pen in my hand became very heavy. So heavy, I couldn’t lift it. The room began to feel oppressive, as though I couldn’t breathe.

  I couldn’t feel my body or hear my breath.

  I called my mother. She came immediately. I asked her to take Alfie home with her, that something was wrong with me. They called my doctor, who came to see me. I was physically okay, he said, but I was grieving, and everybody grieves in a different way. I took to my room and stayed there. I couldn’t face anyone. I couldn’t face myself.

  Mom called Gabriel, and he came back to live at 166 Perry Street. I still hadn’t left the bedroom.

  After three weeks of solitude, I still had no desire to leave the room. Now my father was angry, though he tried not to show it.

  “You’re hiding,” my father said.

  “I don’t want to see anyone.”

  “Alfie is asking for you.”

  “Bring her home.”

  “It’s okay. She’s with her cousins. With your mom.”

  “I don’t know how to pretend to be okay, like all of this didn’t happen.”

  “Val, we can’t change it. But you have to get out of this bed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s been almost a month. Because you have responsibilities.”

  “I don’t want them.”

  “It’s too late. You have them.”

  “I want him back.” I began to cry. My father lay down beside me in bed.

  “I can’t bring him back.”

  “He promised he was going to be all right. His last words were, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Shouldn’t that count for something?”

  “It should,” Dad said helplessly.

  “He promised.”

  “Maybe he meant that he would always be with you. Even in death. No matter what. Is that a possibility?”

  “I keep trying to look for clues and signs and some warning that this was going to happen, and I can’t find a single one. I want to know why this happened.”

  “I don’t know. There must be a reason.”

  “What is it?”

  “I wish I knew. But you know, even if you had the answer, what good would it do? How would that information help you, Val? Really, what good would it be to know the grand scheme?”

  “What am I going to do?”


  “You have to figure that out. You have to make a plan with where you are right now and what you have. You can’t plan the future based on what you don’t have anymore.”

  “I can’t think. It’s all just doom.” I rolled over in the bed, away from my father. We didn’t talk for a long while. My father was present with me, and that’s all he could do. And I couldn’t offer him anything. I couldn’t assuage his worry, I couldn’t make him feel better, not even for a second. Finally, Dad said:

  “Alfie ate blueberries today.”

  “She’s never had them.” I turned to face him.

  “She liked them.”

  “She did?”

  “Loved ’em.”

  “How did she have them?”

  “One by one. What do you mean?”

  “Did Mom freeze them?”

  “Who eats frozen blueberries?”

  “It’s a new thing.”

  “It’s a stupid idea.”

  The way my dad said this made me laugh. My laugh sounded strange to me, as though it was new. It was the first time I’d laughed since Gianluca died.

  “Is that all it took? Frozen blueberries?”

  “I guess.”

  “Wait till she eats an artichoke. We’ll have a laugh riot.” My dad smiled at me. “I want you to get up and come up to the roof with me.”

  “It’s too cold.”

  “It’s New York in January. Of course it’s cold. Every person from here to the Rockaways is freezing their ass off. Why should we be exiled?”

  “You mean exempt.”

  “Right, right, whatever left out means. What am I now, King of Synonyms?”

  “You are not to make Alfie’s flash cards.”

  “Forget it. Your mother already started. She’s putting words on wallpaper samples.”

  “She found a use for them.”

  “How many decoupage coasters does this family need?” Dad took my hand. “Come with me. Please. You need air. You need to see the sky again.”

  “Go and tell me what it’s like.”

  “I’m not your errand boy, Missy.” Dad went around to the side of the bed and helped me up. “Come on. You’re not dying, Valentine. You’re heartbroken.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “There’s a difference.”

  “Dad, I did everything wrong.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He wanted to raise Alfie in Italy. I worked too much. I didn’t pay enough attention to him. I was a terrible wife.”

  “So what?”

  “I blew it! That’s what.”

  “He chose you, didn’t he?”

  I nodded.

  “So he got what he wanted. He had his dream. A man who gets his dream in this life has everything.”

  My dad helped me walk across the snowy roof. It was freezing cold, but I didn’t mind. The air felt good. When I inhaled deeply, it made me cough. I realized that I’d barely been breathing since Gianluca died.

  The Hudson River was frozen except for a strip of water flowing in the center. I’d never seen this configuration on the river before. It was odd to me, but it was also intriguing.

  Why didn’t the river freeze completely over? And how was there one small strip that did not freeze? What did it mean?

  I pondered this as my father held my hand.

  “You have a daughter, Val,” he said. “She’s your gift and your miracle. You know, a gift isn’t owed you. You don’t get a healthy baby just like that. But you did. And she loves you. She needs her mother. I want you to get your life back on track so you can bring her home.”

  “I want her to come home.”

  “Then show us that you want to get better.”

  “Can you and Mom come and stay for a while?”

  “Here? Sure, sure. Whatever it takes.”

  My parents moved in. I didn’t invite them as a daughter. I needed them as grandparents. I needed to surround Alfie with chatter and noise, gatherings and meals. With family. I had to make her feel a part of something now that we were all alone. I would look back on my parents’ generosity and understand it one day. There isn’t anything a parent won’t do for her child. There is no limit on love.

  My mother was thumbing through a magazine late one night when I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

  “Are you okay, Val?” she asked.

  “Mom, please stop asking me that.”

  “Come here.”

  I sat next to my mother with the glass of water. “What is it?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That I did everything wrong. Every decision I made was wrong. I never compromised. I insisted. I ruined my husband’s life. I didn’t change my name. He wanted me to change it, and I wouldn’t. Why wouldn’t I do it? I want every piece of him I could possibly have now.”

  “You didn’t know he was going to die.”

  “I should have lived knowing that he would. I should have been aware. No, I was too busy defending my turf, climbing the ladder—to what? There’s nothing but air up there. There’s nothing to hang on to. There’s no Gianluca.”

  “You made him happy.”

  “Did I? I thought nothing would change when I married him or had his baby. But whenever one person takes on caring for another, all lives change. Those who provide the care and those who receive it. And I acted like that wasn’t true. I acted like I could handle all of it. What made me think for one second that opening a factory would fill me up?”

  “I am not going to let you sit here and denigrate yourself like this. You’re an artist. You have talent. A lot of people put a lot of effort into you, not the least of whom was me. I know you. I’m your mother. And you didn’t do anything wrong. You were strong and assertive and ambitious. Since when is that a crime? And if your work was such a nothing, then why did Gianluca spend so much of his time helping you realize your dreams? If you’re an idiot, then he was a bigger one. But I don’t think he was an idiot. I think he was marvelous and kind and he loved you. Why won’t you think of that?”

  “Because when I do, my heart breaks a little more.”

  “Valentine, I am going to say something that will shock you. It’s time for you to go back to work. Enough weeping and wailing—you can do it over the leather, but not the suede.”

  “Ma . . .”

  “I am giving you a gift with this advice. Do you ever wonder why I am constantly redecorating?”

  “I think Dad wants to know more than me.”

  “I redecorate when my artistic spirit needs to take flight to lift me up in my life. Every time I change the wallpaper or redo the yard, it’s when I don’t have control of the world around me. When your dad got the prostate cancer, I went English country. When he left me for that spell, I did the house in Louis Quatorze. You see, we all run. We all hide. When we’re disappointed or heartbroken or grief-stricken, we all bury ourselves in our version of living. We want to outrun the pain. But honey, it’s one wily bastard. You can’t catch up with it to stop it. So you have to live. That’s how you beat it. You have a business to run and art to share. You need to go back and do that again. It’s the only thing that will heal you.”

  I gave my mother a hug and went back upstairs. I checked on the baby, then crawled into bed. I stayed safely on my side, where I could pretend that nothing had changed. And that’s how I went to sleep that night, and for many weeks following it.

  13

  Gianluca’s death happens all over again, every day. There’s an e-mail or a letter or a piece of mail from a cousin or a tool company that arrives, and I see his name and my heart stops.

  I’m not far from his passing yet. Six months later, the pain is fresh. The only passage of time that uses months as markers is when you have a baby—She’s sixteen months old, or S
he’s twenty-three months old—or when you’re a widow—It’s been two months, it’s been eleven months. How bizarre that I am both new mother and widow.

  Caring for a baby is happy exhaustion; grief is debilitating. The ache and sadness dulls over time, but it hasn’t left me. Sometimes real life intercedes, and for a moment I forget the story that led me to this day. As soon as I’m reminded he’s not coming back, I remember the moment I lost him.

  The ache returns, and I let it.

  The only time I really let go of the pain is when I’m creating.

  Creation is the opposite of destruction. The first lesson I learned in Catholic school still applies.

  Somehow, sketching, drawing, drafting, cutting, sewing, buffing, and measuring lift me out of the moment and into the sacred place of imagination, where all that is required of me is to feel the textures of the leather, observe the drape of the fabric, and imagine a finished shoe.

  The grief is like unwieldy fabric, familiar in my hands now. Sometimes it lies flat. Other times, I cannot for the life of me manage it into the desired shape.

  I am most bereft when I can’t sleep in the middle of the night, when panic and fear join me in bed. It’s as if there’s no room for me there. No one ever told me that grief moves in and becomes a permanent resident in your life. And no one told me that you have no choice in the matter. It’s there.

  And it’s not going anywhere.

  I get up when this chain of thought rattles loudly in my head. I go into Alfie’s room and watch her as she sleeps, something my husband no longer has the luxury of doing.

  I know then that happiness is not getting what I want or missing what I had, but in being useful, in being her mother. I must carry the story of her father forward in her life. That thread must not be dropped. Not his intent, not his aim, not his acumen, not his leatherworks or his point of view, but the essence of him, the love he had for her. That living love must be nurtured and kept alive and real so she might turn to it and know him as if he were still here.

  My happiness will not come in the nourishment of the appetites I have fed all my life, but in meaning. I didn’t get a long life with my husband, but that wasn’t promised to me. I haven’t been cheated out of anything, I just didn’t get the big prize.