Bella Fortuna

by Rosanna Chiofalo

“I’m the parent. It is fair!”

  After we hang up, I wonder if my sisters know what’s going on. Stefano kisses me on the cheek while I’m talking to my mother and leaves for work. He’s a saint. He understands about my needing time to tell my family about him. I throw a sundress on and pile my hair on top of my head, securing it with a clip, and head over to the closest Internet café to e-mail Rita and Connie.

  As I walk to the Internet café, I glance down at my engagement ring from time to time, still in shock that I’m engaged again. But my heart swells every time I glance at my ring and think of Stefano. I’m so in love with him. Though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help comparing how different this feels from when I was engaged to Michael. I had loved Michael. There’s never been any doubt of that. But something had been missing throughout our relationship. And now I know what it was—passion. My love for Michael had started as a girlhood crush. Then he’d been there for me when Tracy had betrayed me and had me beaten up. And of course, he was there for my father’s death and afterward, when I was grieving. Though he’d been the first man whom I’d made love to, I never experienced the strong desire I now feel for Stefano. I finally feel like a woman with Stefano. That’s the only way I can explain it. A large part of me had always remained that childhood girl whom Michael had rescued in Mr. Li’s grocery store even though my body had matured.

  Suddenly, my bitterness for Michael softens a bit. He’d been ahead of me. He’d sensed that we were different in spite of our shared pasts growing up. And he’d realized that I was still the little girl he’d been protecting throughout her childhood. But out of not wanting to hurt me any more than he had, he’d withheld from telling me this. Can I finally forgive him? My mind immediately answers the question. No. I’m just not ready to pardon him for the mountain of grief he’s caused me even if he’d been right in canceling our wedding. I guess my mother—or the Calabresi—aren’t the only stubborn ones.

  Today is a very gray, foggy day with intervals of mist. Normally, I don’t mind the overcast days Venice is known for, and I’d been lucky coming here in the middle of summer, when it rains only occasionally. But for some reason today, the cloudy weather is casting a gloom over my joy of being engaged. And as I near the café, my unease grows. My mother’s behavior has really bothered me.

  In order to get to the Internet café, I have to pass the Parco delle Rimembranze. Stefano and I love to take some of our daily passeggiattas through this park, which isn’t far from my hotel room in Castello. The Parco delle Rimembranze, or the Park of Remembrance, memorializes the soldiers that died in World War II. Full of immense trees and lush foliage, the park almost makes me forget that I’m in a city surrounded by water.

  I arrive at the Internet café and order a double espresso macchiato, an espresso with just a drop of milk. The café’s owner, Frederico, has come to know me. His nickname for me is L’Americana, of course.

  He walks over to the bin of fresh brioches, takes one out with his tongs, and then pulls a tall glass from the shelf of just washed glasses. I hold up my hand.

  “Grazie, Frederico, ma non voglio granita oggi.”

  “Ma quando mai lei non vuole una granita?”

  “Non ho fame. Ma grazie. L’espresso basta per oggi.”

  “Si, si. Com’é vorrei.”

  I still find it amusing how Italians take personal insult when you don’t want food they’re offering you. To ease the pain I’ve inflicted, I say to Frederico, “Prepara mi un kilo di biscotti con mandorle per mi portare con me.”

  Bingo! That does the trick as Frederico’s eyes light up, and he immediately gets to work taking a few biscotti out from his display shelf and weighing them on his scale. I overhear him say to one of the locals who is sipping espresso at the bar, “L’ Americana non puo resistere i miei dolci.”

  He’s right. Normally, I can’t resist his sweets or any desserts for that matter—one thing I share in common with my sister Rita. But today, I don’t have much of an appetite.

  I haven’t signed on to my e-mail account in over a week. My in-box is showing that I have ten unread e-mails. I’m relieved there aren’t more messages than that. Stefano has been distracting me. But I must admit, I haven’t wanted many reminders of home while in Venice. I scan through the subject lines of the e-mails. My stomach immediately coils into knots when I notice the first three e-mails all have urgent subject headlines.

  The first one is from Aldo: WE MUST TALK—NOW!!!

  The second e-mail is also from Aldo: CAN’T GET THROUGH ON YOUR CELL—CALL ME ASAP!

  The third e-mail is from Rita. Though it’s more subdued and isn’t in bold caps like Aldo’s e-mails were, the message is enough to convey urgency: Some Bad News . . .

  I quickly scan the subject lines of the remaining e-mails and notice there are three other e-mails from both Rita and Connie imploring me to call them. They have the number of my hotel room. If they can’t get through on my cell as Aldo hadn’t been able to, why didn’t they just call my hotel? What the hell is going on? And why didn’t Ma tell me when I spoke to her this morning?

  It can’t be that bad if Ma hadn’t mentioned it—unless this is what she’s keeping from me. But no, it’s not. Her secret seems to have to do with her and no one else. But still, wouldn’t she have told me of any bad news that my sisters and Aldo know about? Can she possibly be in the dark about this bad news like me?

  I click first on Rita’s e-mail titled “Some Bad News,” since it seems like I will get the most info from that e-mail, and begin reading. My heart stops. I do not believe what I’m reading even though it’s staring back at me in black and white on the computer monitor.

  Hey, Vee. How are you? I hope you’re having a blast in Venice. I probably should have waited to tell you this when you were back in New York, but something told me I should tell you now even though Ma didn’t want me to. Connie and I tried to call you, but as you’ve probably noticed by now from your earlier e-mails, we haven’t been able to get through on your cell in the past two days. I know. You’re probably calling us idiots right now for not calling you at your hotel room. But we were torn between even giving you this news now while you’re in Venice trying to have a good time. But the more we thought about it, the more we thought you’d want to know in spite of everything that happened between you guys.

  Okay, here it is. I hope you’re sitting down. You’re not going to believe this. And again, I probably shouldn’t be telling you over e-mail, but . . . anyway, it’s about Tracy. She died. It happened over the weekend—on Saturday. Her family hasn’t made funeral arrangements yet. She had a heart attack. I know. We didn’t believe it at first when Michael told us. Oh sorry. I probably shouldn’t be mentioning him, but Connie and I ran into him at Anthony’s Salumeria on Saturday. You know Astoria. Word spread quickly even though she died only that morning. And then yesterday Tracy’s cousin Kathleen, you know the one who’s buying her wedding dress from us, came by the shop for her final fitting. We were shocked that she still made the appointment. She was a mess. Of course, we convinced her to come back for the fitting when things were calmer. The poor girl. Her wedding is only a month away. She told us she’d have to find another maid of honor now that Tracy is gone. Anyway, when Michael told Connie and me, we didn’t believe she’d had a heart attack. She was too young and a workout addict. That’s why there aren’t any funeral arrangements yet. Her family is waiting for the autopsy results to come in. Her doctor suspects she might’ve been born with a congenital heart problem.

  God. I don’t know what to say. I know you haven’t—I mean, hadn’t—been friends with her in years, but I thought you’d want to know. I’m sorry. Call me if you want.

  Rita

  My attention has been so fixed on the e-mail that I don’t even notice Frederico has brought my espresso and left the bag of biscotti I asked for by my side. I take a long sip of the espresso. It’s very strong, which is just what I need.

  Rain droplets are beginning to form on the window
s of the café. I just sit there for I don’t know how long staring at each of the droplets as they get bigger and the rain becomes heavier. Numbness is all I can feel.

  The memories come rushing back. Endless phone calls at night . . . trips with her family to Sunken Meadow Beach where she let me ride her bike as much as I wanted . . . reading in secret the book I bravely borrowed from the library on menstruation and sex . . . shopping together for our first training bras . . . double dating on our first dates behind our parents’ backs . . . her lies . . . Michael kissing her in that dark alleyway . . . her having me beat up as my father lay dying . . . her coming to Sposa Rosa and asking for my forgiveness . . . my stubborn refusal to give it. And to think, it all began with shoelaces.

  “Tracy, please tie Valentina’s laces.”

  I could tell Tracy had taken great pride in being singled out by Sister Irene to tie my shoelaces. Though she’s a year younger, she seemed more mature than me.

  She bent down and tied my laces quickly, showing off her skill. When she was done, she smiled at me, immediately erasing my humiliation. After all, I should’ve known how to tie my own shoes in first grade.

  “Hi, I’m Tracy.”

  “I’m Valentina.”

  “I know. Just let me know if your shoes get unlaced again.” Tracy smiled tenderly at me.

  And that was all it took—shoelaces and a smile—for us to become the best of friends. Who would have thought all those years ago in first grade that someday we would also become the worst of enemies?

  After my father died, Tracy did feel horrible about what happened to me. She called me the morning of Baba’s wake. At first, she tried to deny that she was the one who had gotten Cheryl and Lauren to beat me up. But she didn’t realize that Cheryl and Lauren had told me they were beating me up because of the rumor I had supposedly started about our mutual friend Miriam and her boyfriend, Pat, being drug addicts. Tracy was the only person I had told that my neighbors all thought Pat was doing drugs because he hung out with Brett, a known drug addict. And because Miriam was dating Pat, my neighbors had also jumped to the wrong conclusion about her abusing drugs. I never thought that Miriam—or even Pat—was doing drugs. And I never told Tracy that I thought they were, but of course, she twisted my words and made it sound like I’d said it. When I told her I knew it was her because I hadn’t told anyone else what my neighbors had said, she knew she couldn’t deny anymore her involvement in getting my ass kicked. But even if I had told someone else, I would’ve still found out that it had been Tracy since everyone at school knew she got Cheryl and Lauren to beat me up. Cheryl and Lauren loved to brag after they kicked ass.

  Tracy broke down crying and pleaded with me to forgive her. After a week of her calling me repeatedly, I finally caved and told her I forgave her. But they were just words. I didn’t feel forgiveness in my heart toward her, and she knew it. Our friendship was never the same again. I couldn’t forget what she’d done to me, and she couldn’t get over her guilt. I saw it in her eyes whenever we’d run into each other. I was polite when I did see her, but little by little, I distanced myself from her. She still called me from time to time, lamenting over whoever was her current guy at the moment. I could tell, even then, that she missed me and the long phone conversations we’d had since we were in grade school. I listened but never really offered much. Once I started college, I stopped returning her calls. She finally got the hint. Though we lived in the same neighborhood, fortunately for me I never ran into her again until she came to Sposa Rosa with her cousin a few months ago.

  Tracy had done more damage to me than just the physical injuries I’d suffered at Cheryl’s and Lauren’s hands. For she made it hard for me to trust, and though I formed friendships with other women, I never completely let my guard down around them.

  Tracy had been my best friend. She’d made me laugh, and we’d had the best time just being girls as we grew up. The old Tracy I’d known was young, innocent, and looking to be loved.

  That was it. She was looking to be loved—by her mother, who doled out discipline with a belt . . . by her father, who was emotionally distant . . . by the cool kids whose inner circle she always strove to be in . . . by all the boys she dated . . . even by me. But she’d had my love. Why couldn’t she do right by me as I had done by her? Why had she betrayed me so many times? Maybe she’d felt that she didn’t deserve my love or friendship so she hurt me before I could hurt her. After all, if the one person who was supposed to share the closest bond with her—her mother—could make her feel unloved, how was she supposed to give and receive love?

  And with that last thought, I finally understood Tracy.

  23

  Sleeping Beauty

  It’s strange being back in New York after being gone for almost a month. A fine mist is coming down as my plane lands at JFK. Every time I fly back from overseas, the weather at home is overcast, matching my sad mood that my trip is over. But now, I’m down for reasons other than vacation being over.

  I had decided to fly back home for Tracy’s funeral. Stefano couldn’t understand why I felt compelled to pay my respects to a former friend who had betrayed me so much. My family and Aldo were also shocked by my decision. But what disturbed them more was when I told them that I needed to finally forgive her. This would be a very small way for me to do so, as I had explained to Stefano.

  “It’s time I let go of what she did all those years ago. I’ve never really left it behind.”

  Stefano hugged me. “Va bene. Go. Do what you have to do. I’ll be in New York in a week and a half. I can’t wait to meet my future mother-in-law who thinks so highly of Calabresi.” Stefano smiled at me. He knew just the right moment to make me laugh when I needed it most.

  “I can’t wait for you to meet them and my best friend, Aldo. I also can’t wait to show you my city. Oh—and take you to all the museums!”

  Stefano drove me to the airport the following day. We kissed about ten times or more before we parted. Tears were streaming down my face. He looked just as sad but tried to conceal it.

  “Stop crying! I’m flying to New York in just ten days!”

  “It’s going to feel like forever!”

  I finally smiled through my tears and blew a kiss to him. He blew one back to me and then crossed his arms over his chest.

  “You’ll be right here until I see you again.”

  I copied him and crossed my arms over my chest. “You’re in my heart, too.”

  We kissed one last time, before I finally walked toward the security lines. I kept looking over my shoulder. Stefano stood there waving and smiling until I was out of sight.

  Just thinking about my fiancé makes me tingle all over. I catch my smile in the rearview mirror of the taxi that’s driving me to Astoria. But instead of going directly home, I decide to visit Tracy’s mother first.

  The cab pulls up in front of the two-story brick house that is mostly obscured by azalea bushes. Tracy’s mother, Mrs. Santana, has a green thumb, but she takes it overboard. The little garden in front of her house is teeming with flowers and foliage. Gargantuan sunflowers tower over the little wrought-iron fence as if they know they don’t really belong in such a tiny garden and are trying to escape. A rose trellis stands at the center, vying to be noticed. Tomato and zucchini plants occupy the back of the garden, along with basil, mint, sage, and thyme plants.

  Weathered statues of dwarves and gargoyles that Mrs. Santana had first placed alongside the porch steps when Tracy and I were in grade school still sit in their same location. I walk through the enormous gate of Tracy’s house, another element that seems out of place and should belong instead in front of a mansion. The rain starts coming down heavier, and a gust of wind blows the numerous wind chimes that hang at random spots in the garden and on the porch. Lifting my luggage up the steps, I notice the lights are out in the house. Maybe Mrs. Santana isn’t home. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. But just as I’m having this thought, the front door opens.

  “Valen
tina! I thought that was you. I was in my sunroom, watering my plants, when I noticed the taxi out front. I didn’t recognize you right away. I thought whoever it was had the wrong house, especially when I saw your luggage. It’s good to see you. I’m sure you heard?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Santana. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I was in Italy when my sisters gave me the news. I just came straight from the airport. If this is a bad time, I can come back.”

  “No, no. Please come in. My husband needed to get out for a bit. He’s been beside himself and so restless since this happened. I’m all alone.”

  The weight of her last sentence seems to have struck with her. Her eyes get this faraway look. Just when I think Mrs. Santana is handling Tracy’s death with amazing calmness, I see she’s not.

  I follow Mrs. Santana into her kitchen, and although I insist I am fine, she still decides to brew a fresh pot of coffee. I suppose it helps to keep busy. Her kitchen looks as immaculately clean as it always has. Her hands are shaking as she measures the heaping teaspoons of coffee. Adjusting to the time zone difference and now with that strong coffee Mrs. Santana is making, there’s no doubt that I’ll be up all night. But I don’t say anything.

  “It’s really so kind of you to come here, Valentina. You’ve always been my favorite of Tracy’s friends. I don’t know if you ever knew that.”

  “Actually, yes, I did. Tracy told me that you and Mr. Santana approved of me.”

  “Oh, we did, especially in high school when she began to hang out with some of those other characters. I guess I can understand why the two of you grew apart. You always had a good head on your shoulders and would never get yourself mixed up with such trash. But not Tracy.”

  Mrs. Santana gets that faraway look from earlier again.

  “Well, she was young, and a lot of young kids rebel.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I wasn’t like most typical teenagers. You really can’t go by me, Mrs. Santana.”