The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy)

by Barone, Nancy

  “We were cleaning out the storage room and found some of Nonna’s stuff that she left for you. It’s time you had it.”

  “Had what?” I asked, curious and intrigued by the whole setting: the empty restaurant, the air of secrecy and the bright eyes. Out of a large cardboard box hidden under the table, they each pulled out a packet as I eyed them, confused. Then they passed me an envelope.

  I stared at them and Zia Monica rolled her eyes. “Come on, will you? I’m dying to see your face!”

  “Why? What is it? Stocks? Bonds? Are we suddenly rich?” Maybe the kids and I could move, lock, stock and barrel, back to Tuscany after all? Maybe find a nice farmhouse and rent out a few rooms? Anything to get away from the rat race.

  Still eyeing them, I carefully opened the envelope addressed to me. It was wrinkled and grey. I froze as I recognized the writing:

  My Dearest Granddaughter Erica, light of my life,

  Although I probably won’t be there to celebrate you coming into womanhood, I wanted to leave you four gifts.

  The first is for your own home one day.

  The second is for your matrimonial bed.

  The third is for you personally.

  The fourth will free you.

  You were not blessed with a good mother and we have all tried to make up for her faults. Use your strength to get through life and to keep it light and think of love—the possibility of real love—when you are down.

  I love you with all my heart,

  Nonna Silvia Bettarini.

  When I finally managed to see through my tears, Zia Maria nudged me softly. “Go on—open it,” she whispered, her voice shattered, her eyes red. On either side of her my aunts nodded.

  The first gift, the one for my own home one day, was a large set of white linen hand-embroidered curtains, signed at the bottom in linen thread by Nonna herself. I stared up at my aunts who were now in tears, patting me. This stuff was worth thousands and thousands of dollars. But to me it was priceless because I knew what an endless feat it was once you started the work, assuming you had the talent to do so. I lightly touched the linen, waves of sorrow passing through me. Nonna. My one and only Nonna.

  “Go on, this one next,” Zia Martina said, passing me the medium-sized parcel.

  I opened it to find a matching linen sheet, pillow cases and coverlet, again all hand-embroidered. The linen was smooth and the embroidery flawless. As a child I’d seen this stuff in my Nonna’s Italian magazines. I also remembered that year in, year out I’d seen her working on them. I hadn’t realized they were for me.

  “And now for your third gift,” Zia Monica whispered, sniffling.

  “But—what did I do to—?”

  “You don’t know?” Zia Maria chuckled. “You’re one of us, Erica—absolutely nothing like Marcy. And Nonna wanted you to know.”

  “But I’m not! I’m nothing like you!” I protested under my breath, and they all laughed at me, patting me on the back and handing me the smallest parcel, which fit in my hands. Despite my doubts I tore at the plain brown paper and stared. Inside was a rectangular blue velvet box. With tight lips and shaky hands, I opened it and peered inside. It was a beautiful pearl necklace, identical to the ones my aunts – and Nonna Silvia—wore on special occasions—but with a gold E hanging from the clasp at the back. Zia Monica slipped it around my neck and the cool pearls nestled under my collarbone.

  “E for Erica,” I choked, and my aunts all looked at one another.

  I sat there like an idiot, trying to make some sense of what had happened, as if from one day to another I had magically become someone else, someone who deserved something so precious, something so rare.

  “There’s still your fourth gift, Erica,” Zia Monica said softly, glancing at her sisters, who winced. “Well, we have to—don’t you remember the pact?”

  Zia Martina nodded and sighed. “I knew this was going to happen.”

  “Pact? What pact?” I asked, raising my eyebrow. Was it true that they really were sorceresses or fairies of some kind? I always knew there was a special, magical bond there and that Nonna Silvia was at the heart of it.

  “Well, we thought Marcy and Edoardo would’ve taken care of it by now,” Zia Maria explained.

  “Well, they didn’t, as Mamma had predicted,” Zia Monica answered and then turned to me, a hand on my knee. “Nonna must have forgotten to do this—she was not well toward the end and it must’ve slipped her mind.”

  “What? What must’ve slipped her mind?”

  At that point, Zia Maria reached into the box and pulled out another parcel. I unwrapped it to find an old, leather-bound family album. One I’d never seen before. Now pictures of Marcy, I’ve seen a million times, but family pictures, where they were all together, were a rarity because Nonna had always taken them, but never been in them. But she was in many here, I noticed with satisfaction as I flipped through the album.

  There were pictures of a beautiful medieval town, San Gimignano, from where the Bettarinis had originated. I’d recognized the old towers that the most powerful families had built to assert their commercial and financial prowess among their rival families.

  There were pictures of their large farmhouse, the stables and stalls, the cheeses and hanging prosciuttos. A family that had been doing well. And then the war had come, taking my grandfather away from Nonna, leaving her no choice but to sell up and go.

  But something made me stop and go back to page one, as if I already unconsciously knew that there was more. One particular picture had caught my eye. The women were there in their Sunday best, all pretty and frilly, between five and fifteen years of age, standing on the steps of an old Medieval church in Tuscany. I smiled, recognizing younger versions of Marcy (whose name back then was Marcella), Zia Maria, Zia Monica, Zia Martina and… Marcy again?

  I looked back at the Marcy on the left, then at the Marcy on the right. It was an old photo that had been folded and had a crease down the middle to show for it. Had the image on the left bled onto the background of the right-hand side, producing a copy of Marcy?

  I now know that in my mind I was trying to come up with the easiest, less painful solution.

  I took a closer look. There was no mistaking it. There were two Marcys. And dressed exactly the same. Twins.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked my aunts, who were all holding their breath. “How come we were never told we had another aunt? Where is she now?”

  “Her name was Emanuela. And she had a baby.”

  I stared at them. “We have a cousin and we didn’t know? Where do they live? In Tuscany?”

  “Manu—Emanuela—died,” Zia Maria croaked as if it was difficult for her to speak. “She was your mother’s twin. They were physically identical, but on the inside they couldn’t have been more different. Manu was sweet, selfless, a hard worker. She had excellent grades. And a young man who loved her and was going to marry her. But she got pregnant before that and died during labor.”

  Oh my God. “Where’s the child? Was it a boy or a girl?”

  They turned to stare at me sadly and I understood. “It died too?”

  Zia Martina shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving mine, until I got this real creepy crawly itch at the back of my neck where the gold E hung. And then I understood. This was her necklace—Emanuela’s.

  I am the daughter of Emanuela Bettarini. My mother’s dead twin. I was never Marcy’s daughter. “I am Emanuela’s baby,” I whispered and Zia Maria sobbed, reaching for me as the other two hugged me and stroked my hair. Dumb-struck, my mind on pause, frozen in time, I tried to thaw the concept, to accept it into reality.

  I was Emanuela’s daughter. I was not Marcy’s daughter. And that, precisely, was why she had never loved me. Not because I was unlovable or unworthy of anyone’s love, but because I didn’t belong to her. I n
ever had, and never would. I swallowed and looked up at my aunts’ beaming faces. “And my father? My real father?”

  “Edoardo is your real father, sweetie. He was Manu’s husband to be. He loved her completely. And still hasn’t gotten over it.”

  My father, in love with another woman. In love with my real mother. That certainly explained my father’s melancholic sweetness.

  “Marcy had been in love with your dad for years,” Zia Monica explained. “And when he chose Manu she was heartbroken. But when Manu died—”

  “Marcy saw her chance to swoop in,” I finished for my aunt, who nodded and bit her lip.

  I finished the sentence for her. “The only catch was she had to take care of me. Jesus, what a price to pay for a husband, huh?” As if I hadn’t known.

  All this time… all this time she had resented me because I’d been the deal breaker in her marriage. If she wanted my dad, which she did, she had to take me on as her daughter. A child she had never wanted.

  I looked up at my aunts through a swell of tears.

  “We were there, every step of the way, you know that,” Zia Maria said defensively. “All of us. That’s why you lived in the same building as us. So we could all keep an eye on Marcy and…”

  “And love me like she never could?” I whispered and, after a few moments, they all nodded simultaneously.

  That was why Marcy never appreciated her sisters—but heavily depended on them all the same to take me to school and back, help me with my homework, growing pains and… life in general. They had represented, in Marcy’s little mind, a necessary evil. But she got away when she could, with what she could, by ignoring me most of the time. Living under the same roof so that everyone would think she was acting as my mother. Everyone, I’m now sure, knew the truth. Everyone from Bartolo the butcher to Mirella from Mirella’s merceria knew my family’s story. The story of how I was born. Everyone except for me.

  It all finally, finally, made sense. I looked down at the album and leafed through some more while they each told me stories about my real mother, of how she loved my father and how he was going crazy after her death. Emanuela.

  She had been the smartest in her class. She loved sports (I sure hadn’t inherited that from her), painting (that I did) and was training to get a junior flying license. Now that was something I would love to do myself.

  Although Emanuela and Marcy were like chalk and cheese, they were sent away together to England (didn’t Marcy hate England?), perhaps to help them bond. It had only been a waste of time and money.

  And now suddenly I didn’t know who I was anymore. And I’d thought I’d been doing just fine with the divorce thing. Being really strong and determined and all. Who the hell was I? I didn’t know anymore. I’d never known. And now I felt… lost.

  I gathered my things and stood up slowly, feeling a hundred years old.

  “Are you okay?” Zia Monica wanted to know.

  “Leave her,” Zia Maria ordered. “She needs time now.”

  I nodded. “Time.” I knew exactly what I needed.

  * * *

  A couple of hours of brooding later hadn’t been enough so I went to my parents’ home and used my key. Thinking of Marcy as my non-mother was surprisingly easy. And uplifting.

  She was lying in bed, leafing through a magazine. The pose that I would always remember her in. She looked up, startled. “Erica, what are you doing here?” No, Hi, sweetheart, how nice to see you. It was yet another piece that fit the puzzle.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me you had a twin sister?” I whispered.

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Where did you get that crazy idea from?”

  “From this,” I managed, shoving the album in her face. Marcy pushed the album away from her nose to focus and suddenly paled.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. We wanted to tell you, your dad and I, but no time ever seemed right.”

  I rubbed my face in exhaustion. Why oh why was everything always so difficult?

  “Sit down, sweetheart. It’s time you knew.”

  Sweetheart? Now she calls me sweetheart. “I already know. I want to know why you never told me. Why the big secret? Why have we never seen any pictures?”

  To which Marcy sighed. “Your dad has tons of them, only he keeps them to himself. I don’t interfere with his lost dream.”

  I was surprised Marcy could admit defeat so easily. “He loved her very much and I was nothing.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Dad treats you like a princess and he always has.”

  She looked up at me. “Because I’m weak, Erica. I’m not like you. You are like my mom’s side of the family. You’re all strong. Fighters.”

  Marcy admitting her weaknesses? Had I somehow ended up on The Twilight Zone? This was getting weirder and weirder. And better.

  She groaned softly, as if in pain, and I suddenly realized how painful it still was for her too. Knowing you were never someone’s first choice hurt. I knew what that was like.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” Marcy asked, reaching out to rub my back. Although I was getting spooked, I let her. It was a rare moment of contact between us. It felt nice.

  But on the other hand, the only feeling I could muster was relief. Relief that my mom didn’t love me like other mothers love their children simply because she wasn’t my mom—and not because I was unlovable or that there was something very wrong with me, as I’d believed my whole life. All those years of begrudging me a single ounce of affection and now I finally knew why. I represented Marcy’s failures and weaknesses. Just like I represented Ira’s failures. A part of both of them would always resent me for being stronger, more capable.

  I tried to feel anger, as was my second nature, but still relief flooded my heart, over and over, like fresh spring rain washing over me, cleansing me inside and out. All the times when she didn’t praise me or encourage me or cheer me on—all those moments I couldn’t justify or explain now made sense, in a Marcy-logic sort of way. Any other woman would’ve been moved by her dead sister’s newborn, taken it in (especially after having married my dad) and loved it twice as much. But not Marcy. In Marcy’s heart there was no room for anything but her grief and herself. Because she was weak and had no choice but to cover herself with lies, which she also told others every day.

  Like all those stories about him choosing her because she was the prettiest. Marcy had been heartbroken surely when Dad had chosen my real mother. But when all that ended, Marcy had foisted herself upon him, and he’d agreed, with the proviso that everyone else would stick around to help take care of me.

  And now I was no longer trapped in a relationship with an unloving mother. I thought of Emanuela—Manu. She would have been exactly like Marcy on the outside, only loving. Undoubtedly she’d be running Le Tre Donne with her sisters while Marcy skulked around some other guy’s apartment in her shiny kimonos and sleepy eyes.

  “All these years I’ve had to stay on my toes to keep up with Emanuela’s memory,” Marcy whispered. “It was a lost race from the start. There was no way I could ever be as important to your father as you were. So I simply gave up.”

  I searched her face, understanding her for the first time in my life.

  “I gave up because I knew whatever I did wouldn’t change the facts. But your father is a good man. He dedicated extra attention to me so I wouldn’t feel left out. But no matter how many flowers and gifts I got, we both knew it was to fill a great big gap that could never be filled.”

  My eyes blurred. “It must have been difficult looking me in the face every day. I wondered why you didn’t love me...”

  At that, Marcy sat up. “Oh, no, Erica! Never think that I didn’t love you. I do. But you understand you represented for me the greatest hurdle for a woman’s pride.”


  Boy, did I know a little something about hurdles. But I had evolved, moved on, while Marcy was forever stuck in this rut if she didn’t get over it once and for all.

  And to think how many times during my childhood I had found my mother standing, or rather slumped, her red eyes lost on the expanse of the back lawn, and for many years I couldn’t figure out why she was so afflicted, and what dark acid was consuming her. While growing up, I always thought that if I’d had Marcy’s looks, her clothes, her husband and her home, that I would’ve been happy and managed to love myself.

  And now I knew. I didn’t need anything but my loved ones and my own inner strength. And that would always be my starting point in life, no matter what happened to me.

  “Can you forgive me?” Marcy whispered, big tears plopping down onto her purple and black kimono. I looked into her face, slowly riddling with wrinkles. I saw the vacuity of her eyes, the decent person she was trying to be despite her fragility. She would never be my mother. But maybe we could bury the hatchet now that I knew I was the stronger one. Now it was my turn to act the grownup.

  “Silly Marcy,” I said, and she smiled up at me. “There’s nothing to forgive. Now get up, have a shower, and let’s go out to lunch. My treat—okay?”

  She nodded and smiled, like a little girl who’d been promised a lollipop if she stopped crying over her scratched knee.

  I smiled back and silently slid to my feet, holding on briefly to her hand before I slipped from the room. Now no longer trapped by false ties, maybe one day we would be friends.

  * * *

  Once back in the security of my own home, I crept up the stairs as quietly as I could and opened Warren’s door. He was fast asleep, lying on his back. As I watched, he rolled over and mumbled something about baseball. I kissed his soft cheek and tiptoed out the door to Maddy’s room.

  Her fairy light was on, projecting images of gossamer wings around the walls. Pink reigned everywhere, from her coverlet to her rug, to her curtains. Hanging on her door were the angel wings I’d made for her (with Zia Martina’s help, of course) out of tulle on a thin wire frame. Oodles of starch kept it in shape. Maddy. My little fairy. My little angel.