by Marie Meyer
Pulling into the driveway, I waited for the garage door to open, then guided my new car into my space next to Mom’s. I killed the engine, grabbed my purse off the passenger seat, and climbed out of the car.
Shuffling to the door, I went inside. The heavy scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the kitchen, and Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping something from a coffee mug. “Hey, Mom, you’re up late.” I tossed my keys into the catchall dish on the counter.
“How were things at the shop?” She set her mug down on the table.
“Fine. Pretty steady all day. Had a late group come in.” I walked toward the table and rubbed her shoulders. “What’s with the coffee? Pulling an all-nighter?” Usually she abandoned caffeinated beverages before five, claiming they interfered with her much needed beauty rest.
Mom put her hand on top of mine and stared up at me. The look on her face scared me. No smile, no comforting reassurances. Immediately, my mind went to Nonna. Something was wrong with Nonna. I felt sick.
Nonna had been in and out of the hospital over the last year. Her balance wasn’t good; she fell a lot. Couple that with the heavy dose of blood thinners she took and she’d bleed out in record time.
“Mom, what is it?”
She pulled on my hand. “Sit down, hon.”
I walked around her chair and sat down beside her. “Please tell me it isn’t Nonna.”
“Oh no, Nonna’s fine.” Mom patted my knee.
Tension fell off me in waves. I felt lighter. Slumping back in the chair, I blew out a breath. As long as Nonna was fine, I could handle whatever was bothering Mom.
“Dad called again.”
Dammit. “I thought you told him I wasn’t interested in hearing what he has to say.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to talk to him.”
I shook my head. “No. I’m done with this conversation.” I went to stand, but Mom forced me to stay seated, clamping her hand down on my leg.
Even at twenty-two, I felt like I was four years old again when under my mother’s stern glare. “Sophia, he’s not going to stop calling until you talk to him. It’s important.”
What the hell? Hurt and anger pooled in my stomach like acid and burned its way from my core and into my esophagus. Sufficiently riled up now, I couldn’t keep my hands from joining in on the conversation, flailing them wildly. “Nothing that man has to say to me could be important.”
Mom gave me a pointed stare. “Go. Hear him out, then make the decision to never see him again.” She leaned forward and put her hand on my cheek. “Baby, you need to do this.”
“Why—”
She shook her head. “No, let me finish.” Dropping her hand to my lap, she latched on to my fingers. “I worry about you, sweetie. Trust me, once I made peace with Dad leaving, once I forgave him, I was freed. Your hatred of him scares me. I’m scared for you. I want you to have peace. This anger you carry around, it’ll never allow you to have room to love life or, God forbid, love someone else.”
Mom’s words made me ache. “I can’t.”
“Talk to him, baby. Please?” Mom’s voice was tainted with desperation.
Emotions boiled at the surface; I was ready to burst. I didn’t know if I wanted to cry, scream, or run away and hide. How was I supposed to put fifteen years of no contact behind me and pretend everything was fine? “It’s not just that I don’t want to, Mom. I don’t know if I can.”
Mom nodded. “I get it. I felt the same way. For years, I made it my personal mission to convince myself I hated your father. But you know why I couldn’t?”
“Uh-uh.”
Mom sat back in her chair. “I was tired and it hurt too much. Hatred is a heavy, ugly thing, and it will only drag you down. I had to change for me.” She patted her chest, right over her heart. “Do it for you, Soph. You’ll feel so much better.”
I shook my head. With a defeated sigh, I muttered, “Fine.” Neither of them was going to let this go until I caved. I hated when life didn’t go the way I’d planned, and talking to my dad was most certainly not in my plan, ever.
Mom stood up and came to stand behind me. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and propped her chin atop my head. “Thank you,” she whispered.
I stood, forcing Mom to release her hold on me. “I’m going to bed.” I didn’t return her affections, and I could see the sadness in the slump of her shoulders.
“Night, Soph,” she said in that brave mom voice that made my stomach churn with guilt. I wasn’t mad at her, but since she was here, she was the one who got to feel my pain.
I left the kitchen, walking through the living room on my way down the hall to my bedroom. Closing myself inside, I went to my dresser and opened my laptop. Once I logged in, Spotify launched immediately. I clicked on Ed Sheeran’s latest album and let his soulful music fill the void.
I flopped onto my bed and threw my arm over my eyes, listening to Ed’s words. His voice soothed over me, extinguishing some of the fire in my veins, but I was surprised to hear some of Mom’s sentiments reflected in the song’s lyrics.
Now Ed and Mom were ganging up on me.
Sure, I loved Mom and Nonna, but they were all I needed. Dad and Penley showed me a side of love that I wanted no part of. It hurt too much. I’d live behind my carefully constructed wall and find solace in the clinical, textbook world of science and medicine, knowing my heart was safest there.
* * *
Lying awake all night did not make getting up any easier. Usually, I was a morning person, ready to accomplish my tasks for the day. Not today. I wondered if Mom magically forgot our conversation from last night. That thought sent a rush of hope through me.
Untangling my legs from the blanket, I kicked them off and crawled out of bed. My bedside clock read 5:30 a.m. Despite the hour, someone was banging around in the kitchen. Probably Nonna. She was an early riser like me. Not Mom, though. She’d sleep until noon if she could get away with it.
Pulling open my bedroom door, a loud crash carried down the hall, and I flinched. With a slight jog, I ran toward the kitchen to check on whoever was in there. When I rounded the corner, Nonna was crouched on the floor, shoving a dozen pots and pans back into the cabinet. For a moment, I paused. There was something so serene about Nonna, angelic.
Her long white hair was piled high on her head in a messy bun. I’d never had the privilege of seeing Nonna when her hair was dark like mine, but Mom always told me I was the spitting image of a younger Nonna. I loved her so much. I could only hope to be as beautiful as her when I reached my seventies.
“Nonna, what are you doing?” I scolded lovingly, shuffling into the kitchen. I knelt down beside her, helping her with the rest of the mess.
“You’re up early.” She pushed a frying pan into the cabinet.
“Couldn’t sleep. Here, let me do this.” I lifted the saucepan from her fingers and put it back in its place before I took her hands and helped her stand.
I crouched back down, holding my weight on the balls of my feet. Shoving the last few skillets into the cabinet, I slammed the door closed and stood.
Nonna leaned against the counter, staring at me. “I need a skillet.” She flashed a quick smile and waited.
I cocked my head, giving her a sidelong glance. Bending back down, I pulled out one of the skillets I’d haphazardly shoved inside. “Here.” I held it up to her.
“Thanks, sweetie.” Nonna grasped the pan’s handle and stepped over to the stove. “Eggs?”
I was hungry but also feeling a little nauseous at the prospect of my day’s plans. “Sure.” I’d force something down. Maybe if I threw up, I’d get out of calling that man.
Nonna prepped the skillet for her world-famous “dunkin’ eggs.” Well, maybe not world famous, but she made over-easy eggs better than anyone, so in my book, they were famous.
While Nonna busied herself at the stove, I went to work on the coffee and toast. Mindlessly, I filled the Keurig’s water tank and loa
ded a coffee pod. I stuck my cup under the spout and pressed the large cup button. The machine whirred to life and filled the kitchen with the strong scent of arabica beans, easily masking the smell of fried eggs.
“I’ll take one of those, too,” Nonna said, flipping an egg in the pan.
I pulled my coffee cup free and started the second one without comment. While the spout shot out dark black coffee, I put my back to the counter, crossed my arms, and waited. My eyes slid closed. I absorbed the comforting sound of the Keurig, along with the pleasant aroma the kitchen was bathed in.
“You’re quiet this morning,” Nonna said, breaking through my attempt at finding Zen in the white noise of the coffee machine.
My eyelids pulled open and Nonna stood before me, a plate of pristine dunkin’ eggs held out for the taking.
I shook my head, trying to clear away the fog. “Sorry, I zoned out for a minute.” I reached for the plate. “Thanks.”
“Want to talk about what’s eating you?” Nonna grabbed another plate and shoveled the spatula into the pan, serving up a round egg for herself.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked, sitting down at the table.
Nonna shrugged. “Getting ready for work?” She joined me at the table, reaching for the saltshaker.
As I poured a copious amount of creamer into my coffee cup, I watched Nonna coat her eggs in a generous layer of salt. “Want some eggs with your salt?”
“Want some coffee with your creamer?” she countered, gesturing to my heavy hand as well. Then she flashed me a quick smile and continued salting. “I fully intend to enjoy my golden years.”
I took a bite of eggs and washed them down with my coffee-flavored cream. “Do you know what too much of that stuff does to your blood pressure?”
“Don’t you go all doctor on me, missy.” Nonna pointed her fork in my direction. “I may be proud as hell of you, but that college degree of yours is not going to stand between me and my food.”
I saluted her with my fork. “Yes, ma’am.” With Nonna, you had to know what battles to pick. I was not about to stand in front of a proud Italian woman and her food.
For a few quiet bites, Nonna and I enjoyed our breakfast. Then she put her fork down and gave me a questioning look. “Did you make toast?”
“Oh, goodness! I forgot!” I dropped my fork. It clattered onto the plate, and I slid my chair back on the linoleum, screeching loudly.
“Soph, sit down. It’s okay. I’m nearly finished anyway.” She waved me to sit.
I plopped back into my chair and scooted toward the table. “Sorry, Nonna.” The talk with Mom last night had me off my game. It wasn’t like me to forget.
“Don’t worry about.” Nonna patted my arm. “Nothing to get your panties in a twist about.” She smiled widely.
Nonna was beautiful. Her thick, long silver-white hair curled gently at the ends just enough to make the prettiest of women jealous, despite their age. It framed her heart-shaped face perfectly, giving depth to her olive complexion. But of Nonna’s features, it was her eyes that spoke the loudest (which was amazing, because Nonna was loud by nature). Her emerald eyes held so many stories.
Pushing away from the table, Nonna grabbed my empty plate along with hers. “What’s eating you, Principessa?” She walked our plates to the sink, rinsed them off, and added them to the dirty lot in the dishwasher.
I watched, unable to do much else. A sick feeling pooled low in my belly like it had right before I took the MCAT. The only difference was that I wanted to take the MCAT. I didn’t want to see my dad.
Ugh. I hate this.
“My dad keeps calling. Mom wants me to go see him.”
Nonna shut the dishwasher and turned around. “Hmm.”
Hmm? That’s all the sage wisdom she could come up with?
“Can I show you something?” Nonna asked finally.
“What?”
She started toward the living room, calling over her shoulder, “You coming?”
Feeling like my veins pumped lead instead of blood, I sluggishly got to my feet and trailed in her wake. Down the hall, Nonna turned left, into her bedroom. I followed right behind and saw her standing on her tiptoes in front of the closet.
“Nonna, what are you doing?”
She craned her neck to look over her shoulder. “Don’t just stand there—get over here and help me.”
Nonna’s neatly made bed took up most of her small room. I skirted around it, running my fingers over the sateen burgundy bedspread. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Nonna, I reached up and helped her pull down the spiral-bound notebook she was fingering. Of course, the one she wanted had to be at the bottom of a large stack of other, larger notebooks.
“Just hold the top ones back while…uhh…,” she grunted. “While I yank.”
Her small fingers hooked inside each end of the wire spiral. Not much taller than Nonna, I had to stand on my tiptoes, too. I put both my palms against the teetering stack, keeping them still while Nonna pulled the one she wanted free.
“Almost…got…it…,” she groaned. “Uhh.” She blew out a breath and dropped back to the flats of her feet with the notebook in hand. “Got it.”
I gave the disheveled notebook tower a shove to realign it and took a step backward. “Whatever it is you want to show me, it must be good.”
Nonna patted the bed, beckoning me to sit beside her. “I haven’t looked at these for the better part of twenty years.”
With her knobby, arthritic fingers, she flipped the cover over, revealing yellowing paper marked with black lines. “What’s that?” I asked, inching my butt closer to her. I stared at the paper…the sketches.
“Back in the day I used to be a pretty decent artist. Before this, of course.” She held out her hand. “Damn arthritis.”
“May I see?” I touched the side of the sketchbook and she passed it in my direction.
On the page before me was a beautifully rendered charcoal sketch of my mother, a much younger version. I wanted to touch the lines that made up her face but feared I’d mar them, so I refrained. I admired with only my eyes. “Nonna, this is exquisite.” I looked up and met her eyes.
“Your mamma was one of my favorite subjects, but not my ultimate favorite.” She rested her hand on mine, gently brushing my fingers away from the side of the notebook. “Let me show you.”
With the book still perched on my lap, she paged through a few other drawings, mostly still-life sketches of flowers, until she stopped at an illustration of my mom and dad cradling a swaddled baby.
Nonna touched the delicate lines of the infant. “This one’s my favorite.”
My eyes traced the precise delineations that intertwined to create a masterpiece of my once-intact family. “I never knew you drew.” I was in awe of my grandmother’s talent. I glanced up from the portrait. “How did I not know this?”
“I gave it up a long time ago, Principessa.” Nonna looked lovingly upon her creation. With a shaky hand, she touched the paper again. “Did your mom ever tell you about the day you were born?” Lifting her verdant eyes to me, she awaited my answer.
I shook my head. “Uh-uh. Mom doesn’t talk much about when Dad was around.”
“You’re right. Your mamma has a tough skin, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t deep scars. Let me tell you what I know.”
“The day you decided to make your appearance, you were two days late.” She winked. “It seems like you’ve spent your whole life trying to make up for the two days you lost.”
I shrugged my shoulder and nodded. “I could have used those forty-eight hours.” My lips curved up at the corners and Nonna pressed her hand over mine and squeezed.
“Your mamma and daddy were so excited. When labor finally started, Andrea called me, flustered out of her mind. I told her to take a deep breath and get her butt to the hospital.” Nonna chuckled at the memory. “When I walked into the hospital room, your dad was right at your mom’s side. I’ll never forget it.” Nonna smiled thoughtfully. “He had
his forehead pressed to her temple, whispering assurances into her ear, helping her through a contraction. When it was over, he swept his hand across her forehead and tucked a sweaty piece of hair behind her ear.”
Nonna’s features were soft as she recounted her story, her eyes focused on something that happened twenty-two years ago.
“I’d always liked your dad.” Nonna looked me in the eyes. No, more like pierced me with emerald daggers. “But it was in that moment I knew how much Gio loved my Andrea…and you. I could see it in his eyes. I could feel it pouring out of him. It warmed the room.”
At first, there was a pinch in my chest as Nonna spoke of my dad. But hearing how much he loved Mom…and me, the pinch intensified. It felt more like a screwdriver being wedged between my ribs. If he loved us half as much as Nonna said he did, why wasn’t he still here?
I loved Nonna, but she watched too many soap operas, read too many romance novels, and subsequently turned my birth into both. I didn’t interrupt, but I may have rolled my eyes at her last comment.
“Yeah, you roll those eyes, girlie. I speak only the truth. You were being a stubborn little thing and refused to come out. Put your mamma through her paces.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I nodded. “Sounds like me.”
“Every time your mamma pushed, your heart rate would drop. Scared everyone to death. That’s when they prepped Andrea for surgery, an emergency C-section. I thought your daddy was going to have a heart attack, he was so worried.”
“Nonna, does this story have a point?” Since when had she turned into the leader of the Giovanni Belmonte fan club?
She waved her hand. A trait I’d gotten from her, talking with my hands. “It does, and I’ll get there. Anyway, when you were born, there were more complications. You weren’t breathing on your own.”
The screwdriver burrowed deeper, twisting on its way in. “Mom never told me that.”
“Ah, well, it’s all water under the bridge now, Principessa. You’ve been breathing just fine for quite some time.” Nonna gave a thin-lipped smile and continued. “They had to send you to a hospital that was equipped with a neonatal facility. Your mamma couldn’t go, so your daddy went with you.”