The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  But despite her hopes and dreams and prayers, despite her obedience of Gregorio’s rules, that dreaded day always came. No matter how long she would lie in bed with that thermometer in her mouth, the mercury refused to budge beyond the thirty-six degrees centigrade mark; no matter how convinced she was that the uncomfortable feeling in her tummy was caused by something she had eaten, the cramping continue to worsen. When she finally went to the bathroom, the hopes and dreams and prayers fell into the toilet with a splash, and were flushed away with the blood that gushed from her barren womb.

  She prayed that those hopes and dreams might be rekindled through this exam Gregorio had arranged, after a laparoscopy had led him and his colleagues to suspect there was something more amiss than a retroverted uterus. Iris was lying still, trying to obey the white-coated man’s order to relax, recalling how excluded she had felt when Gregorio had conferred with the specialist to whom he had entrusted her case, when the door to the examining room was thrown open, admitting a blast of cold air and half a dozen chatting, white-coated doctors or interns or technicians on the heels of an older white-coated man. Iris shivered, folded her arms across her naked breasts, and stared at the ceiling, chewing her bottom lip.

  “The procedure about to be performed on the patient is called an isterosalpingografia,” the older white-coated man said to the group of younger white-coated men. Iris cocked her head toward the doctor or intern or technician standing between her splayed legs.

  “Mi scusi,” she whispered. “Who are those men?”

  “Just relax, Signora,” the doctor or intern or technician said. “These gentlemen won’t bother you a bit.”

  How would he know what would or wouldn’t bother her? How would he like to be lying there flat on his back, his testicles and penis swinging in the air for a bunch of white-coated women to see? Anger bubbled up inside her, but was deflated by a sharp pain jabbing at a place deep inside her. Her muscles contracted, her knees jumped out of the stirrups.

  “It’s nothing, Signora. You must lie back and relax,” the doctor or intern or technician said, thrusting another instrument into her vagina.

  Pens scribbled on notepads as the group of young white-coated men marked down what the older white-coated man was saying. She wished the anger would come back, but knew it wouldn’t. It was never strong enough or lasted long enough to make her react. It only made her want to cry, like now. She struggled to control her voice as she raised her head again and addressed the bald pate between her legs. “What are all those men doing here?”

  “Please lean back, Signora. Don’t mind them, they are just medical students.” The skull glistened, just inches above her pelvis.

  “But do they really have to watch?”

  The head finally looked up at her, the light reflecting off the lenses of the glasses, eclipsing the eyes. “This is a teaching hospital, Signora. Allowing students to observe firsthand is customary, and vital to their preparation for the medical profession. In your case, we did of course check with DottorLeale as a personal courtesy, and he said he had no objection. Now, you really must lie back, so I can inject the contrast liquid into your uterine cavity. It is imperative that you relax, for us to get a good view.” The head was lowered, as the doctor or intern or technician turned back to his business between her legs.

  Doing as she was told, Iris lay back, holding in the tears.

  “Buongiorno, Iris!” the saleswoman said, waddling across the shop to greet her, nylon stockings whispering of a conspiracy between her plump thighs.

  The clothing store in Recco had been serving the Leale family for years. The shopkeepers were wont to inquire as to the family’s health and well-being, registering news of illnesses, careers, marriages, births and deaths as racks were being browsed, clothes tried on, hems pinned. When the woman’s greeting was accompanied by the question “Novità?” Iris knew exactly what kind of news she was hoping to hear.

  Everyone she came across these days was either having babies or asking why she wasn’t. Even Lily, who was a year younger and had married a year later than Iris, had managed to get pregnant before she did. Iris still cringed whenever she recalled Gregorio’s chillingly clinical assessment of Lily’s loss when they had visited after her miscarriage. Gregorio was certainly an expert when it came to medical knowledge, but what would he know about the emptiness a woman felt when the baby (or cluster of cells, as he put it) growing inside her failed to thrive, and was simply expelled, along with her dreams? The frustration Iris felt each month was torture enough; she could hardly imagine the suffering Lily must have endured. But at least Lily had had the chance to rejoice at the news that she was carrying a baby, wonder whether it would be a boy or a girl, try out possible names on her tongue to see how they sounded. She wished there had been some time for them to talk about their experiences more, sister-to-sister, but it had hardly seemed like a suitable moment, with Gregorio and Auntie Rosa listening and commenting on everything that was said. Iris might have even shared some useful advice with Lily, but felt uncomfortable, after noticing the way she was looking at her, her eyes zooming in on her clothes and jewelry with that mixture of smoldering envy and irritation that she had begun to display more frequently since high school - to be precise, ever since Dolores had died, and James Gentile had gone away to college. As if Iris were somehow to blame for Dolores’s suicide, or for the fact that James couldn’t love Lily the way she wanted him to, or that they had both disappeared from Lily’s life right around the same time Iris herself had gone off to Buffalo. Still, thinking back on the dirty ashtrays and the stale air and the Coke cans sitting on the kitchen counter, she knew she should have told Lily what Gregorio always told her: a healthy lifestyle was indispensable for a healthy pregnancy.

  But she probably would have mistaken her concern for meddling, and resented the interference. The last thing Iris wanted to do was give Lily another reason to not write to her. She had always been careful to downplay descriptions of her life in Italy in her letters to avoid stirring old resentments, but it was no use. Lily obviously thought Iris was the lucky one; the one who had more, the one who had it easy, the one whose privileges were served up on a silver platter with her morning cappuccino.

  Lily would never understand that Iris had her problems, too, and that she would rather buy her clothes off the racks of SaveMart than from a boutique where she would be forced to make small talk and try on things she didn’t need. It was sweet of Gregorio to want to buy her something to cheer her up following that awful procedure at the hospital the previous day, even though he had continued to insist all evening as she hugged her hot water bottle that the exam was painless and non-invasive. She could hardly think of anything more invasive than having foreign objects shoved into her uterus, but by now it was a moot point. The fact was, he was being thoughtful, and she didn’t want to disappoint him by appearing uninterested.

  “Buongiorno, Signora Luisa,” Iris replied, smiling courteously. “I’m fine, thanks. Nothing new.”

  Luisa clasped Iris’s hand between both of hers, a doleful look in her eyes. “You’re still so young. Enjoy yourselves a bit longer. Look at Cinzia, with three little ones. I don’t know how she manages!”

  “Iris needs a coat, Signora Luisa,” Gregorio interjected, walking in the door. He had let Iris off before going to park the white Fiat station wagon he had recently purchased as a second car, in anticipation of their future needs. Iris was grateful for Gregorio’s timely appearance, and for his diligence in shielding her at least from this sort of indiscreet probing. Iris still didn’t think she needed a new coat, though; the one she had bought during her last winter in Rochester was still in perfectly good condition.

  Iris had never been very interested in shopping, even as a teenager, when the first suburban mall had opened, probably because she had always lacked the three basic elements required to make it enjoyable: free time, spending money and girlfriends. Fashionable boutiques could be found in every town along the coast where she now li
ved, and until a baby came along, she had plenty of free time, though her main provider of money and friendship was Gregorio. She did have another girlfriend besides Deirdre, now that she had met Liz, a sculptress from California married to a ship captain from Torre del Greco, at the Foreign Women’s Club in Genoa. But Iris knew that Gregorio would feel bad if she were to choose their company over his. He seemed to truly enjoy choosing her clothes for her, and watching her model them, and she had to admit that seeing the glint of approval in his blue eyes when she emerged from the dressing room in an outfit he had selected made her feel pretty special.

  Each shopping expedition provided an opportunity for the wide-hipped Luisa and her sparrow-like sister-in-law Mina to infuse the youngest woman in the Leale family with the impeccable style and classic elegance that had always distinguished Signora Isabella in the courtroom, and Signora Cinzia in the classroom. Iris didn’t preside over anything or anyone, but once sequestered in the fitting room, she was relieved of her jeans and blouse, and coaxed into pleated skirts, twin sweater sets, tailored jackets and cuffed trousers. Luisa and Mina buttoned and zippered her into tweeds and twills in somber colors and sensible cuts, until the lack of oxygen in the close quarters made Iris reel. Sweaty and dizzy, she became disoriented to the point where she was rendered incapable of indicating any preference at all, and succumbed to the consensus of whatever pleased Gregorio and the ladies.

  “How about a nice loden, Iris?” Gregorio asked, holding up a dark green woolen overcoat with leather buttons.

  “A loden?” Iris asked. She recalled seeing dozens of coats identical to the one Gregorio showed her, during a stop they had made in Innsbruck while returning from a ski vacation in Tyrol.

  “Why not?” Gregorio replied. “Of course, you have your fur coat for special occasions, but lodens are so practical. Mamma has one just like this, and she loves it.” Iris only wore the silver fox Gregorio had surprised her with when it could not be avoided. The coat made her sweat, partly out of guilt for being an accomplice to the pointless slaughter of innocent animals, partly because the coat was far too warm for the mild Ligurian climate.

  “Venga, Signora Iris. Si accomodi,” Luisa said, slipping the loden from the hanger and sliding Iris’s arms into the sleeves. At least lodens all looked alike, she thought; it couldn’t take long to pick one out.

  “Oh my, green certainly does suit you. Doesn’t it suit her, Dottor Gregorio?”

  “Absolutely!” said Gregorio, his eyes twinkling. “And lodens last forever!”

  Iris stared at her reflection in the mirror: boiled eyes, boiled wool, boiled nerves. “I’m all for things that last forever,” she said, coaxing the corners of her mouth into a smile as she shrugged the coat from her shoulders.

  “I need a drink,” Iris said. “And I don’t mean a cup of Earl Grey.”

  “To be sure,” Deirdre said.

  “I’ll order. Gin and tonics all around?” Liz said, signaling to the waiter.

  The three sat at a table at the rear of the café which hosted the weekly meetings of the Foreign Women’s Club, where a consolidated core of stoically non-integrated British expats and bored Genoese Anglophiles imparted survival tips to fresh arrivals, such as where essentials like baked beans and Marmite could be purchased, or where one might find an English-speaking veterinarian. The sensible suits hanging in Iris’s armoire and the prim sweater sets with mother-of-pearl buttons that crammed her dresser drawers would have been perfect attire for the afternoon teas, but Liz, whose Californian penchant for doing as she pleased without a care for what others thought, such as using the bidet in her seafront villa as a planter for her philodendron, always wore jeans to the gatherings. If Liz, at forty, said they could wear jeans, Iris and Deirdre, still in their twenties, were happy to oblige.

  The room was abuzz with a British version of excitement as the president announced the program of the Queen’s upcoming visit to Genoa, then introduced the guest speaker, who began by assuring the ladies of the immense pleasure they would reap through participation in the origami course scheduled (only she pronounced the word “sheduled”) to commence in one week’s time. Liz leaned close to Iris and Deirdre and raised her glass. “To the privilege of not being born British,” she said. Deirdre giggled and clinked her glass against the others; Iris managed a half-smile, then took a long sip from her drink.

  “So what’s the craic, Iris?” Deirdre said.

  “What do you mean?” Iris said.

  “Yeah, what’s going on, Iris?” Liz said. “You’re looking a bit down in the dumps today.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, you are. Is Doc Greg putting in too many hours and neglecting you?” Liz said.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just …” Iris took another sip of her drink, then touched the knuckles of her index fingers to the corners of her eyes, hoping to block the tears forming there before they could smear her mascara.

  “What the bejesus is wrong with you?” Deirdre said, placing a hand on Iris’s arm.

  “What’s wrong with me is that I’m not pregnant.” Iris sniffed, and rummaged through her purse for a hanky.

  “Neither are we!” Liz said. “And you don’t see us crying. Seriously, Iris, what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is, it doesn’t look like it’s ever going to happen. Not unless I have surgery,” Iris said. There was nothing like the sympathy of girlfriends to trigger a cry, but this was neither the time nor the place.

  “Surgery? Why?” Deirdre said.

  “We got back the results from the hysterosalpingogram.”

  “The what?” Deirdre said.

  “It doesn’t matter. The fact is, my fallopian tubes are almost completely blocked. The chances of me getting pregnant are practically nil. Gregorio says there is a very good microsurgery team at the Policlinico. He’s going to set it up.”

  “And how do you feel about that, Iris?” Liz asked.

  “I want to get it over with as soon as possible.”

  “You know, there’s no law against not having children,” Liz said.

  “But I want children. Gregorio wants children. Everyone wants to have children. It’s only natural.”

  “Is it? Look at Salvatore and me. We never had children. He’s away on those container ships for months at a stretch, and every time he comes back, it’s like another honeymoon, only better.”

  “Really?” It sounded romantic, but, quite honestly, one honeymoon had been enough for Iris. She wanted to get down to the business of real life.

  “Really. Of course back in the beginning, each time he would disembark, we would get all those romantic notions about having a little baby to love and raise, but each time we decided to hold off till the next time. We still had so much to discover about each other, so much of the world to see. Before I knew it, I was forty, and then it was too late, but I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s been a great life, a satisfying marriage, and it keeps improving with time. Everything would have been different with kids. I’m not saying better or worse, I’m saying different.”

  “But don’t people give you a hard time?”

  “Oh, yeah. Especially back home. But not so much anymore. It’s astonishing how people think they have a right to pass judgment on such a personal choice. Friends, family, even casual acquaintances seem to think they have a moral duty to protect you from a life they consider selfish and shallow. Oh, the looks on their faces! Accusatory. Contemptuous. Distrustful. As if I were less of a woman for following any instincts that were not of a maternal nature. As if they were somehow personally threatened by our honesty to ourselves and each other, and our desire to live our lives with the spontaneity the responsibility of children inevitably takes from you.”

  Provided that you had any spontaneity to work with, Iris thought. Lately, she had begun to wonder what had happened to the spontaneity Gregorio had demonstrated when they first met. He had been the one to surprise Iris by kissing her on that day on the boat on Lago Maggiore. He had been th
e one to astonish her by flying across the ocean to ask for her hand in marriage when they hardly knew each other. If that wasn’t spontaneity, or maybe even recklessness, what was? Now she couldn’t get him to stroll a few steps on the seafront promenade in Nervi after Sunday dinner unless they planned it at least a day in advance, or hop in the car and drive to a pizzeria on a weeknight to satisfy a sudden craving, instead of eating dinner in front of the evening news. Had she imagined that spontaneity at the beginning, or had it simply vanished? Unless it hadn’t been like that at all. Unless his actions had been dictated by some premeditated strategy. He had been well over thirty, and launched in a career with a promising future at the Policlinico. The only thing lacking was a wife and children. Perhaps Iris had just crossed his path at the right time? She wondered if he ever regretted his choice, considering the outcome. Or whether Liz and her husband regretted theirs.

  “Do you ever regret it?” she asked her.

  “To tell the truth, no. Especially when I take a closer look at my inquisitors when they ask me about my life, and I see their haggard faces, with the wistful looks and the bags under their eyes. They act as though they didn’t have the same choices as me.”

  “But it’s natural I should want a baby. I grew up in a big family.”

  “And was that so idyllic?”

  “Most of the time,” Iris said. She thought of the dime-store presents piled under the Christmas tree, and of the charred hot dogs on the Fourth of July, and of fourteen people gathered around one big table, fourteen sets of elbows rubbing as fourteen forks fed fourteen mouths that talked and chewed and laughed and screamed and fought and cried. “But maybe there were just too many of us,” she added.