Bella Fortuna

by Rosanna Chiofalo

  Kathleen looks to Tracy for approval. But I quickly jump in before Tracy can take over the reins again.

  “Yes, many brides are going for the simple yet elegant look now.”

  That isn’t entirely true. This trend had been hot about a decade ago. I’m disappointed that Kathleen is going for what I’ve always thought is a bit of a boring look in wedding gowns. But I need to remind myself that this is her wedding, and not everyone has my fashion tastes. I have to fight the urge to tell brides-to-be what I think they should choose in a design. Of course, I can give recommendations. But completely swaying a bride as to what she wants for herself, that’s out of the question. I also must ensure the bride is choosing the dress she likes. Often, their mothers or whomever else they bring to help them with the dress shopping influence their choices.

  “I don’t know if you know anything about Sposa Rosa, but we do offer brides knockoff designs of famous designers’ dresses. Most brides, however, usually want the dress to be slightly different from the original designer dress, but if you saw a dress you liked on a celebrity bride that you want replicated exactly, we can do that. We also do custom-made designs, so if you want us to create a dress that looks like nothing any celebrity has worn or designer has already created, we can do that, too. Lastly, we have a ‘Featured Gown of the Month.’ Each month we display a particular gown. And it just so happens that this month’s featured gown sports a simple yet elegant design.”

  I point to the dress on our mannequin in the center window display. The dress is a clean, strapless gown in satin with a modified A-line skirt and a ruched bodice. No embroidery or beading adorns the dress.

  Kathleen walks over to the featured gown to get a better look.

  “This is very nice, but I’m not sure it’s what I want.” Kathleen says this with uncertainty, looks down at the floor, almost as if she’s afraid she’ll be hurting my feelings.

  Tracy chimes in, “How about a—”

  “Of course, you need to look at several dresses before you decide.” I interrupt Tracy again and take Kathleen’s arm in mine, leading her to our portfolios.

  “We have photographs in these books of all the gowns we’ve designed. Pick a few you like, and then you can try on the samples. Oh, I forgot to ask you. Did you bring any pictures from magazines that you want to show me?”

  “No. I haven’t looked at any magazines yet. I only got engaged two nights ago, and Tracy told me we couldn’t waste any time in shopping for a dress.”

  I wonder where Kathleen’s mother is. Maybe she passed away? Brides always bring their mothers. I don’t ask out of fear of bringing up a sensitive subject on what should be a happy occasion.

  “Well, you can take a seat on our couch, and I’ll bring you a cup of coffee and pastries while you browse through our books. Take your time.”

  “Thank you.” Kathleen smiles at me.

  I bring out a tray with coffee and miniature pastries for both Kathleen and Tracy, although I really don’t want to extend the courtesy to Tracy. God knows she’d taken enough from me when we were friends.

  Kathleen picks up a mini Napoleon, but Tracy shoots out her hand, grabbing her cousin’s arm. “You can’t! You have to be on a strict diet from now until the wedding day or else you’ll mess up your figure! I see you eyeing those tighter mermaid dresses. You’ll never fit into them if you keep eating junk!”

  Kathleen places the Napoleon back onto the tray.

  “Oh, come on, Tracy! One tiny Napoleon isn’t going to kill her. Besides, I’m sure you have plenty of time until the wedding. That reminds me, I haven’t asked you when the date is?”

  Tracy’s eyes are absolutely shooting daggers into me. She isn’t even attempting to keep her trademark frozen smile on her face anymore.

  “We haven’t decided on the exact date yet, but we were thinking maybe six months from now, so I guess Tracy is right. I should watch my figure, but thank you so much for the pastries, Valentina.”

  “You have a beautiful figure. Don’t be too strict on yourself with your diet. You don’t want to lose too much weight.”

  Okay, I’m acting like Tracy now, telling this girl what to do. This is about Kathleen, I have to remind myself, not my battle with Tracy.

  “I’ll give you some time to look over the books. Just let me know when you need me.”

  I walk to the front of the store and check a few e-mails. Since it’s Monday, our slowest day of the week, the shop is empty except for Kathleen and Tracy.

  “So I see congratulations are in order for you, too.”

  I look up to see Tracy staring at my engagement ring. The expression on her face is equivalent to a dog staring at a juicy hunk of raw meat.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “So you got him after all.”

  Of course she must’ve heard from someone in Astoria that it’s Michael whom I’m engaged to. I pretend not to hear her, focusing my attention back on the computer screen, hoping she’d get the message and leave me alone. No such luck. I should’ve known the inevitable was coming as soon as I saw her drag her bony butt into Sposa Rosa. She’s still a very unhealthy-looking size zero.

  “I guess I was wrong that he would never see you as more than just a little sister. My bad.”

  Something in her voice makes me look up. She is wearing that same warped smile she had on the night she was making out with Michael. And her nostrils are flared slightly, just like on that night, giving her the appearance that something smells really bad. Flashing back to that image makes my blood boil. I feel territorial toward Michael, especially now that he is my fiancé.

  And then she pushes my fury over the edge by adding, “I’m very happy for you, Vee. You deserve to be happy.”

  That’s it. I can’t hold back any longer.

  “Thank you, Tracy. You don’t know how good that makes me feel to know that you of all people are concerned for my happiness, especially since you never seemed to want anything for me but misery when we were friends.”

  I didn’t have the nerve to stand up to her when I was a teen, but I’m not that helpless kid anymore.

  “I don’t understand, Vee. I thought we’d put everything behind us. I thought you’d forgiven me. But it’s obvious you haven’t.”

  “I’m not getting into this with you at my workplace, Tracy. Besides, this was over fourteen years ago. I did forgive you. But don’t expect me to be thrilled whenever I see your face or even think that we’re going to pick up our friendship. You know those days are over.”

  Tracy actually looks like she is going to cry. Crocodile tears. That’s all they are. She’s a good actress. I know that now.

  “It’s because you’re engaged to Michael, isn’t it? You’re still mad about that night you saw us?”

  “This has nothing to do with Michael, and you know it. Stop trying to shift the blame for your ugly actions onto others.”

  “Vee, I’m so sorry over how things ended with us in high school. I don’t know how many times I have to apologize.”

  “Let me make this easy for you. Stop apologizing. I told you this all those years ago, and I’ll say it again. I can’t ever be your friend. I don’t hate you. I just don’t care about you. You don’t exist for me anymore. Being friends with you gave me nothing but grief. All the times you lied to people and told them I said things about them when I hadn’t. You always competed with me—my grades, my family life, my friends. I could go on and on. I have no interest in being friends with someone I can’t trust. How could I be friends with you again when just the sight of you brings me back to that horrible day when my father died?”

  Tracy’s tears spill down her face. She grabs a few tissues from the counter.

  “I shouldn’t have come in here,” she whispers, glancing nervously at her cousin, obviously not wanting her to see how upset she is.

  “Then why did you?”

  “My cousin.”

  “There are other bridal shops in Queens.”

  “Okay, I’ll ad
mit it. I was hoping things would be different after all this time. I was hoping you’d see I was a kid who made a lot of stupid mistakes.”

  “See, that’s what got to me even after all those other times I forgave you. You never really seemed sorry for what you did. And there was always some excuse. I was a kid, too. I didn’t act the way you did. I never hurt you. You don’t deserve my forgiveness.”

  “But that’s not like you, Vee. You always forgave me.”

  “Well, things change. I’m not that naive girl anymore who lets others take advantage of her. Look where my forgiveness got me. You just kept treating me like a doormat. You never changed your ways. No wonder. By constantly forgiving you, I just made you think it was okay to act the way you did. ‘Vee will just forgive me if I lie to her again or make out with her crush. It doesn’t matter what I do to her. She’s a sucker, and she’ll always forgive me and be my friend.’ Well, not anymore.”

  “I know I hurt you, and I messed up big time, but you think you’re so perfect?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. You were always lording it over all of us in high school. You were such a Goody Two-shoes. You wouldn’t even smoke a cigarette, for crying out loud. You thought you were better than us.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it.”

  “It was true, and it’s still true. You’re just as bad as me that you can’t even show me some compassion.”

  “You have a lot of nerve. Where was your compassion when my father was dying, and you sent those little skanks to my house? If it weren’t for your cousin, I’d throw you out of here right now.” I struggle to keep my voice low, not wanting Kathleen to hear our argument.

  The front door swings open. It’s Rita. She freezes when she sees Tracy.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Her cousin is shopping for a wedding dress.”

  I tilt my head toward the back of the shop where Kathleen is. I know if Kathleen weren’t there Rita would make a scene.

  “You okay, Vee?”

  Rita scowls at Tracy as she walks over to us.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Tracy and I were just clearing the air. Excuse me. I just remembered I have an important phone call to make. I’ll check in on you and Kathleen as soon as I’m off the phone.”

  After I walk past Tracy, I can’t help muttering under my breath, “Slut.”

  Not long after Tracy made out with Michael, she developed her rep as “The Slut of Astoria. ”Almost every guy in Astoria was dating her. Even though Tracy had transferred to a different high school in her junior year, I still heard about her notorious rep for going through guys like yesterday’s dirty laundry. Most of the girls in town both despised and were in awe of her. She wasn’t that pretty, so why were all the guys drooling over her? What did she have that the rest of us didn’t? Of course, soon the other girls and I figured it out. Tracy was easy with a capital E. Tracy had even confided in me about many of her sexual exploits. I had tried to talk some sense into her, but she’d laughed at me and said, “Oh, Vee! Just lose it already so you can stop preaching to me!”

  I hadn’t liked hearing the way people talked about her in high school. She was my best friend, after all. Now, I looked at her and couldn’t believe what poor judgment I’d had in staying friends with her for so long.

  I didn’t really have to make a phone call, but I need a few minutes to compose myself before it gets ugly. And I refuse to let Tracy make me lose my professionalism. I go to the restroom and count to ten, making sure I take extra-long, deep breaths. This is a calming technique I learned from Connie. Maybe she is the smartest of us DeLuca women for taking up meditation and yoga. I make my way back out to where Kathleen is pointing to a dress in the portfolio and chatting animatedly with Tracy.

  “I see a dress has got your attention, Kathleen?”

  “I really like this mermaid gown. But I’m still not sure. All I know is that I don’t want anything too poofy, but I am open to trying a couple of fuller A-line gowns.”

  “No problem. I can give you a few modified A-line gowns, which aren’t as full as a traditional A-line, and we’ll definitely steer you away from the ball gowns. So let’s get you into a few sample gowns. And then we can talk about the specifics of the design. Remember, you can change any elements of the dresses you see in the pictures.”

  “I don’t think an A-line gown would look good on you, Kathleen. It’ll make you look shorter than you already are.”

  “That’s why I mentioned the newer modified A-line gowns, which are more fitted.” I say this as sternly as I can without giving away to Kathleen that there is animosity between Tracy and myself.

  “Whatever. I’m just trying to help you out, Kathleen. Go for a sexy, body-hugging mermaid dress! Have a little fun!”

  I leave to pull the samples before I lose my professional demeanor altogether. Tracy is trying to push my buttons in front of her cousin, and I won’t let her. As I walk past her, I notice her eyeliner is a bit smudged from the crying she’s done. But I feel no sympathy that I am the cause of her tears. Part of me almost relishes the suffering I’m causing her.

  As I riffle through the samples, I can’t help but wonder what Tracy’s choice in a wedding dress would be—the Trashy Trumpet? And with that thought in mind, I suddenly have no doubt as to whether I’ll change my gown from an A-line to a trumpet. A-line it will stay.

  6

  Karma

  The oak trees are dancing the mambo, swaying side to side, letting the winds coming off the East River’s currents choreograph their movements. Four seagulls circle overhead, squawking to one another. I love watching them whenever I go to the beach. But in this urban setting, they appear menacing and out of place.

  Instead of going home directly after work that night, I had decided to walk to Astoria Park. When I need to think and be alone, I often come here. There is something about the landscape of the East River running beneath the Triborough Bridge with the Manhattan skyline off in the distance that calms me. It’s also a great place for coming up with new design ideas.

  A white limo pulls up, and a bridal party gets out. The bride is wearing an organza overlay mermaid dress. I smile, suddenly remembering how I used to tell my father when I was a little girl that I wanted to be a mermaid. When he’d come home from work, he’d shout out, “Where’s my mermaid?” I’d run out and rush into his arms, giggling.

  A few boats sail by on the East River. My father, or “Baba” as we called him in our Sicilian dialect, used to take me to Astoria Park when I was a kid and always pointed the boats out to me. One time he drove to the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where we stopped and took pictures of the freight ships. On our way back home, he always bought my favorite ice cream—pistachio on a wafer cone.

  He tended to spoil my sisters and me, buying us little gifts on a regular basis.

  “Nicola, you’re not teaching these girls the value of a penny.”

  “Relax, Olivia. They’re my girls. How can I not treat them like princesses? And I am teaching them something.”

  “That money falls from trees?” Ma scowled.

  “No. I’m teaching them how a man should treat his woman. If they see how well I treat you and them, they will stay away from the, what do the Americans call them? ‘Riffraff’?”

  Ma sighed. But even she saw the wisdom in his words. And from that day forward, she never complained to Nicola again about him spending money on my sisters and me. She often told me this story after Baba died. She wanted me to know how much he loved us and how he was thinking of our future even when we were little girls.

  Baba’s cancer seemed to have sprouted overnight, though we all knew that it could take years for cancer to manifest itself. He began coughing uncontrollably one day after mopping the floors.

  “Nicola, you’re going to kill yourself with all that ammonia you put in the pail. One little cap is all you need. I keep telling you, but you never listen to me.”

  Ma handed my father a glass of milk
to help “coat his lungs,” but he spit it all up as his coughing spasms continued. He dismissed Ma with an angry wave of his arm as he bent over the kitchen sink.

  About two weeks after the first attack, my father started coughing violently every morning, and sometimes even in the middle of the night. We all could hear him hacking away in the bathroom.

  “Nicola, something is wrong. You need to go see a doctor.”

  “I’m just getting old, is all it is. Haven’t you noticed all the old men in the neighborhood coughing and spitting on the streets?”

  Italian men are very stubborn, more so than the women. They also like to think of themselves as invincible. It wasn’t until a month later that Baba finally made an appointment with Dr. Serafino, our family doctor. Dr. Serafino sent Baba for an X-ray. As soon as he got the results, he called Baba and told him he was referring him to a pulmonary specialist.

  To Italians, specialist is one of the most dreaded words in the dictionary. It’s one thing to go to your family doctor, but when the specialist is brought in, it can be nothing but bad news. And in my father’s case, it did turn out to be bad news—very bad news.

  We were all stunned to learn he had lung cancer. Today, everyone knows someone who has cancer. But when my father was diagnosed, it wasn’t as prevalent as it is now. People regularly came up to my family and me, telling us they didn’t know anyone who had cancer, which only made us feel more alienated. Of course, in my mother’s case, she felt cursed.

  Baba began the full round of chemo and radiation treatments. Of course, there were numerous surgeries. In the beginning, Baba tackled the illness head-on, never once showing any fear or doubts that he would beat the cancer—that is, until close to the end.

  Often many cancer patients seem to rebound toward the end of their illness, but then have a relapse. Such was the case with Baba. About two months before he died, he woke up in the middle of the night with a nosebleed. Just like the coughing that wouldn’t stop at the start of his illness, his nose now bled endlessly.

  I remember the sound of the rushing water coming from the kitchen sink, awakening me from my deep slumber. Why is the kitchen faucet on at three a.m.? I wondered. My heart started to skip a beat, but I convinced myself it was nothing, even though I knew my father was sleeping in our finished basement because it was cooler. It was one of those sweltering July nights for which New York City is notorious. We didn’t own an air conditioner, and our basement was the only place where we could get some relief from the heat in the summer.