“You did?”
“Of course, honey. I wanted to talk to you and ask you to be patient with him. He’s been more stressed than usual lately with all those hours he’s been putting in at work and the upcoming wedding, of course. He’ll come around. You’ll see.”
“I hope so. I am going to change the dress slightly since he saw it. You know my mother and how superstitious she can be. She insisted on it, but I have worked so hard on this dress. I can’t see myself wearing anything else.”
“Yes, Olivia has always been worried about bad luck. I tried to tell her once it’s all nonsense, and she got mad at me. You can’t change people’s beliefs when they’re that strong. I think you made the right decision—keeping the dress mostly intact. And I know men, especially my Michael, they have the worst memories.”
Mrs. Carello hugs me.
“Thank you. This makes me feel much better.”
“Let’s go back to your shower before your mother thinks someone abducted you!”
“Knowing her, she would think that!”
After cake and coffee are served, it’s time to open my gifts.
“Okay, Vee. Come take your throne!” Rita screams out from Signora Tesca’s living room, where we all follow her booming voice. In the center of the room is a white wicker chair that people rent for bridal showers. I’m registered at Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s, and I pray that most of the guests have honored my wishes by purchasing gifts off the registry. There’s nothing that annoys a bride more than receiving gifts she doesn’t want—or like—just because people are too lazy to go to the store where the bride and groom are registered.
Connie brings over my first gift. I saw Ma hand it to her, so I know it has to be from her.
“Ooh! This is heavy!” I exclaim after taking the gift from Connie.
“Aldo, are you getting what she says down?”
“Of course, Rita. Stop fussing!”
I almost forgot to mention that Aldo is at my shower. He’s the only guy present and seems to be enjoying himself the most out of anyone there. I’m happy my family invited him. After all, Aldo is my best friend.
At the moment, Aldo is scribbling everything I say down in a notebook. Personally, I hate this bridal shower game where someone writes down every word coming out of the bride’s mouth while she opens her gifts. Then later, the words are read back. They do usually prove to be funny, but I think it’s a cheesy practice. But my mother and sisters love adhering to tradition.
I open Ma’s gift. The scent of mothballs greets me, and I see why the box weighs so much. Embroidered sheets, towels, and doilies are wrapped in tissue paper. I already knew I’d be getting this trousseau that every Italian-American bride receives. I’d even seen these linens, since my father had brought some of them back from a trip to Sicily, where my aunts gave them to him. My zia Concetta, Connie’s namesake, still embroiders even though she is in her late seventies. A few of the other pieces my aunt had sent over, and a few Ma had bought on some of her own trips to Sicily.
“Embroidered linens. They’re beautiful.”
I hold up a few of the linens so the guests can see them and do my best to act surprised.
“Are they from Sicily?” Aldo asks.
“Yes. Most of them my aunt embroidered.”
Antoniella and Signora Tesca nod their heads in approval.
“What is Sicily known for?”
I frown. Why is Aldo asking me this?
“Ahhh . . . a lot. Spicier food.”
“That’s good! Keep going. What else?”
“Mount Etna and their volcanic islands.”
“The climate. What about the climate?”
“It’s hot.”
“That’s it! How hot?”
“Very hot!”
“Yes!”
Aldo smiles as he quickly scribbles away.
“Why are you suddenly so interested in Sicily, Aldo?”
He ignores my question. “Would you say it’s big compared to the rest of Italy?”
“No, of course not. You know it’s the rock that the boot shape of Italy is kicking. It’s much smaller.”
Aldo now has the biggest grin as he continues writing in his notebook. It then dawns on me what he’s trying to do. He is trying to get me to say sexually suggestive words so that when he reads back my dialogue it will sound funnier and more risqué. I mentally roll my eyes. Only Aldo would go through so much trouble to make a bridal shower memorable.
Connie hands me the next gift.
“Open this one.”
I read the card aloud. “ ‘May you have the “time” of your lives in your marriage. Love, Betsy and Mitzy.’ ”
Gee, let me guess? A clock? I open the box. An exquisite brass mantelpiece clock is carefully wrapped in bubble wrap. It looks like Betsy has added the bubble wrap herself out of fear that the original packaging is not sturdy enough to keep the clock from breaking. It’s lovely, but it wasn’t on my registry. The clock also doesn’t go with how Michael and I have decided we’ll decorate our new apartment. We’re going with an Asian-inspired theme. Betsy is sweet, though. Maybe I can find a place where the clock won’t stand out in stark contrast to our décor.
“Thank you, Betsy! It’s gorgeous. And please thank Mitzy for me.”
I stretch my neck trying to make eye contact with Betsy, who’s sitting at the back of the room. I spot her double Ds poking through the space in between Ma and Signora Tesca. She stands up and waves to me, then turns around, waving to everyone else who has applauded her gift.
I unwrap several more gifts, all of which are not on my registry list and run the gamut from a vibrating massage chair to a dual WaterPik to monogrammed his and hers bath towels. Whatever happened to functional gifts like a toaster? But just when that thought pops into my head, the cheap toasters and electric can openers make their appearance. About half of the gifts aren’t from my registry. But as I open the latter half, I finally start seeing items that I had registered for: Waterford crystal glasses, Noritake china, 500-thread Egyptian cotton sheet sets, a Ralph Lauren comforter set.
Michael’s parents have been very generous and will buy our living room furniture set. My mother and sisters are chipping in to buy our bedroom furniture. Photos of the furniture are passed around for everyone to see. Mrs. Carello has also bought me a Lavazza coffee maker, which I almost hadn’t put on my registry list out of fear that it was too pricey for any of my guests to buy.
I see Rita and Connie whispering to each other and laughing. They must’ve known which of the guests were less likely to schlep to Bloomie’s and Macy’s and they’d given me their gifts first to scare me. They notice me staring at them. I shake my index finger at them and mouth the words, “I’ll get you.”
“Rita, give that box next to Valentina.”
Ma points to a box that resembles most of the other boxes with Showers of Happiness scrawled over the wrapping paper. But this one has a huge gold bow on top, probably to distinguish it from the rest. Rita begins pushing it toward me.
“Don’t push it! Lift it!” Ma yells at Rita, who places her hand over her mouth and says, “I forgot.”
Of course, that’s my clue that something very fragile is in the box. Connie opens the card and hands it to me. She and Rita are working at lightning speed as they bring the gifts to me, clear the torn wrapping paper, and help me with the boxes that are tougher to open.
After I see whom the card is from and what it says, I can’t read it aloud. Tears spring into my eyes. The guests’ laughter and talking subside. Everyone’s noticed the change in my expression.
I remove the gift wrap. Lladro is imprinted on the top of the box. The Spanish company is famous for its exquisite porcelain figurines. I gingerly take the item out of the box.
“Careful, Valentina!”
“I know, Ma.”
Connie and Rita grasp the sides of the box, keeping it firmly planted to the ground as I pull out the Styrofoam brackets that hold snugly the figurine of a
mermaid. It’s useless fighting the tears as they quickly race down my face. Rita pulls from her cleavage a tissue and hands it to me. Even in my distress, I’m amazed that she’s thought of everything.
I wipe my eyes. “I’m sorry. This is a gift from my father. It was a private joke we had about a mermaid.”
“Ohhh!” The guests exclaim around the room.
Betsy lifts her glasses and rubs her eyes. Even Aldo, who never cries, looks like he’s about to bawl. I am embarrassed even though I know I shouldn’t be. I’ve always hated being the center of attention and now everyone pities me. Sensing my feelings, Rita quickly takes the reins.
“Isn’t the figurine beautiful? It’s Lladro.”
“It’s gorgeous. Yes, beautiful.”
The guests immediately pick up on Rita’s cue and are doing their best to move on with an awkward moment.
I look at Ma, who is wiping away her own tears. I mouth the words, “Thank you” to her. I start welling up again after seeing Ma cry.
“Okay, next gift.”
Rita begins unwrapping the gift and blocks me from the guests until I have fully composed myself. I look up at her gratefully. She simply nods her head.
When I see the next present, I realize how brilliant Rita is.
“Whoa!!! Look at what we got here.”
Rita pulls out a racy, sheer, red teddy followed by a matching thong. The box is full of different-colored teddies and negligees.
The guests instantly applaud and laugh. The sexy lingerie on display now overshadows the sadness that had been in the room a few seconds earlier.
“Michael is going to have a heart attack when he sees me in these!”
More laughter and rounds of applause ensue.
“Vee, what are they?” Aldo asks me. A few of the ladies look at him as if to say, “What’s the matter with you? Are you that stupid?” But I know he’s playing his game again.
“They’re hot! And they’ll make me feel sexy!”
“How sexy are they?”
“Very sexy!”
Ma is blushing, but she’s also smiling.
“Who bought them?” Aldo asks.
“We did!” Connie and Rita sing out in unison.
“You girls are so naughty! I love it!”
Aldo gives my sisters a thumbs-up.
“Well, you have to start off the marriage right or else it’ll go downhill even faster!” Connie says, giving Rita a high five.
“Yeah, Vee. You can tell Michael to thank us after the wedding night.” Rita laughs.
The lingerie wasn’t on my registry list, but I should’ve known my wacky sisters would think of everything for my wedding. I stand up, hugging both of them, and whisper, “You’re the best kid sisters in the world.”
“Yeah, we know!” Rita says.
“Okay, that’s it for the gifts, folks!” Connie claps her hands, signaling the shower’s end.
“Wait! What about that one behind Vee’s chair?”
Aldo points to a small box.
“Oh, we must’ve not seen it.”
Connie walks over and picks it up.
“I recognize it. I can’t believe I forgot. It was part of my other gift.”
Antoniella quickly comes over.
“I should’ve tied them together with the ribbon.”
“Antoniella, you didn’t need to get me a second gift. The Mikasa platter you bought me would’ve been enough.”
Of course, the platter was one of the gifts not on my registry list. I would never choose Mikasa.
“It’s nothing much.”
The guests who are getting ready to leave stop to see this one last gift. I tear off the wrapping paper and freeze. I turn around quickly to throw the gift into one of the shopping bags that contains a few of the smaller gifts, hoping Ma hasn’t seen it. Too late. Her anguished voice reaches my ears.
“Coltelli? Erano coltelli, vero?”
“No, Ma. They’re not knives. They are . . . cooking utensils! Yes, you know those cooking utensils that are safe for nonstick pans?”
I pray my mother’s nearsighted vision will lead her to believe she’s seen incorrectly. She pushes through the crowd, making her way over to me.
“Rita, Connie, quick. Take this bag out of here.”
Rita and Connie have the same frozen look of fear on their faces I’d had when I saw the knife set.
Connie grabs the bag from me and walks the fastest I’ve ever seen her walk.
“Connie! Aspetti! Let me help you. I’ll carry that bag for you,” Ma calls out, but Rita jumps in front of her and asks for help with a huge box she’s carrying, giving Connie enough time to scramble out the door.
I make my way around the guests, thanking them and saying good-bye. When the last guest has left, my mother comes over to me.
“They were knives, weren’t they? Tell me now. I’ll find out sooner or later. I can always ask the Hunchback if you and the girls hide them from me.”
“Ma, just let it go. Antoniella didn’t mean any harm by it. She probably doesn’t know about that stupid superstition.”
“It’s not stupid! What is the matter with her? She’s Italian! Every Italian, no matter if you are from Roma, Calabria, Abbruzzi, Sicilia, knows it’s bad luck to give knives as a wedding gift. It means the marriage will be cut. It will either end or not be a happy one.”
“I know, Ma. You’ve told me about other showers you went to where someone gave knives. And every time, you were outraged and told me what it means when a bride receives knives.”
“This is not good. First Michael sees your dress, and now the knives. These are signs.” Ma whips out her rosary beads and crosses herself repeatedly, whispering, “O Dio mio!”
Though I try to ignore Ma’s worries, the knives have struck a chord with me, too.
10
The Power
When a woman is going through the worst, she often confides in her best friend first. So it was natural that Olivia had called Raquel on that exceptionally sunny day in April, two months before Valentina’s wedding, to say, “I found a cyst in my breast.”
After Olivia had made the discovery, she immediately called her primary care doctor, who gave her the name of a breast cancer specialist. The specialist’s office wasted no time in fitting Olivia into the schedule for the following afternoon. Dr. Preston was a female breast surgeon in her early thirties, but Olivia’s primary care doctor had assured her that Dr. Preston was one of the best doctors in the field, despite her age. Olivia could see that she knew her stuff and was being very thorough. She was impressed that Dr. Preston could perform on the same day a fine needle aspiration. The procedure consisted of a needle that was inserted into the cyst to withdraw fluid. The fluid was then examined under a microscope for cancer cells. Dr. Preston and a pathologist by the name of Dr. Muhammed each studied the cells on a small microscope right in front of Olivia in the examination room. Her heart was pounding so loud that she was convinced the doctors could hear it. She almost fainted when they told her that they could not determine that the cyst was benign. Some of the cells were questionable. The only way they’d know for certain if she had cancer was after the entire cyst was surgically removed, and the cyst was sent for a pathology workup.
Olivia would never forget the irony that she had received such horrible news on a beautiful day. When she’d left the cancer center that Dr. Preston worked out of, she couldn’t help but notice the clear blue sky and comfortable, mild temperatures. Everyone was enjoying the day and looking happy while Olivia felt so sad. She wanted to be like the other people she saw on the street—happy and seemingly without worries. And all she could think about was that she would not be around long to enjoy warm days like this anymore.
“Basta!” she muttered aloud.
She was feeling sorry for herself and acting as if the death sentence had been decreed already. After all, Dr. Preston had told her that there was a good chance it was not cancer. But Olivia had learned from Nicola’s illness to not
put too much of your trust in the words of doctors. She needed to stop. The day Olivia DeLuca pitied herself was the day she might as well die.
When Raquel Sutton heard Olivia so distraught, she immediately asked her to spend the weekend at her apartment in Greenwich Village. Raquel’s husband, John, had died of a heart attack a year ago, leaving the responsibility of running Sutton’s Restaurant solely to his wife. The Suttons had never had children.
“I don’t want to be a burden. You have your own problems.”
“Olivia! Don’t be silly. What are friends for? And I know you. You haven’t told your daughters yet, have you?”
The silence on the other end of the line confirmed Raquel’s suspicions.
“Besides, you’ll keep me company. This place is getting too quiet with just Mr. Magoo and me.”
Olivia heard a bark, as if he was objecting to Raquel dismissing him as an acceptable companion. The Scottish Westie had grown on Olivia. She couldn’t resist sneaking some Palline di Limone biscotti to Mr. Magoo, who seemed to swallow them whole. Raquel kept him on a strict diet and never gave him food other than dog food. No wonder the poor dog followed Olivia around whenever she visited.
“Ahhhh . . . Okay. I will come over, but first I have to pay someone else a visit.”
The steps leading up to the fortune-teller’s shop were enough to kill Olivia right on the spot. She had to stop and take a deep breath after reaching the eighth step. She used to be able to climb the fifteen steps all the way to the top before she needed to take a break. She’d been feeling very drained for the past three months. But at first, she wrote it off to all the preparations for Valentina’s wedding and the increased clientele at the shop after they were featured in Brides magazine. So she’d started sleeping in on Sundays, opting to go to the eleven a.m. Mass instead of the eight a.m. Mass she went to every week. But that didn’t seem to help her fatigue. She began going to bed two hours earlier than she normally did, and she even left the shop for lunch, using the excuse that she had to run errands, so she could rush home and take a nap. But the tired feeling would just not go away.
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