The Difference

by C. D'Angelo

  He bumps the top of my head with his palm in a playful motion. “Let’s just take it one day at a time. This is fun, remember?”

  I chuckle, but my head is still swimming with ideas. I sit down and grab my pad of paper and pen. “Yes! You are right. And you may have saved me from another panic attack.”

  “Glad to be of service. Come on, Rach, we will be fine. We will figure out every single thing every single time.” He returns to the couch to relax.

  I feel my heart beating steady and in control once again. His reassurance is always appreciated, but especially in these freak-out moments. And I shouldn’t be feeling anything but elation. Gosh, Rachel, you are going to Italy! It’s a dream and dreams should not cause stress.

  “Okay, first things first, let’s get passports this week. We will need to add the numbers to the tickets online.” I write a bullet point on the paper and the words “Get passports” after it. This is such a Rachel move, getting down to logistics, instead of focusing on the fun. But planning is fun. “Step one is done, but we have approximately one hundred more steps.” I turn and smile at him. I hope he knows I’m kidding. Well, partly kidding.

  He returns my smile and nods with a sigh.

  I will be able to do this adventure. I have Brian by my side. And hopefully Grandpa pulling for me from above.

  Chapter 30

  As I wake up on January 31st, I smile before I even open my eyes. Two months! Two months until leaving for Italy. It’s typical lately for my brain to be full speed ahead the second I become conscious, but Italy has me in overdrive. It’s been hard to concentrate on even reading for pleasure this month because all I can think about is the trip.

  Even though it is early in the morning on a work day, the surge of energy drives me to pop out of bed and look at the weather today. The gray cloud-covered sky and bare trees as its companion can’t even take away my uplifted mood. This is strange for me, but I’ll take it.

  I grab my pen and paper from the bedside table and plop back down on the bed. My to do list travels around my apartment with me so I can jot down thoughts. I can’t forget anything for this once in a lifetime trip. Let’s review.

  Things to do to prepare for Italy

  Get passports

  Flights- booked

  Book Hotel Pace

  Add passport numbers to flight info

  Read whether car rental is needed/how do people get around the city?

  Talk to Mags about taking care of Harrison

  View the schedule of bills for home and office/set up payments

  Stop mail delivery

  Plan emergency contacts for clients while away

  Exchange money for Euros

  I wish I could check off more points right now, but the passports, flights, and hotel are the only points that are definite. I love how the hotel is near the central area of Genoa, which seems like an easy location to travel to all of my destinations. The pictures online and the reviews make it appear like a dream. I wonder what our room will look like. And what the food will taste like. And what the people will be like.

  Purr.

  Harrison interrupts my daydream in the best way.

  I roll over to pet him, and he also rolls over on his back and stretches all fours.

  “Yeah, that’s a good stretch, Harrison.” I rub his belly.

  Well, I better get going today. Let me waltz over to the kitchen for my coffee Brian left in the pot. Dragging myself there has faded away in the last month.

  I sip my steaming goodness and walk over to my closet. The last few days have me craving brighter colors in my wardrobe for some reason. I feel like taking small fashion risks even. What’s that about? The rich aroma from my coffee fills my nostrils as I scan my closet for an acceptable sweater. Maybe I’ll try mismatching my purse and my shoes today. Outrageous, I know.

  I wish I could feel this motivated more consistently. I still have my moments of feeling blah, but mostly have been feeling like I have—I’m afraid to say it—more of a purpose of some sort. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel lighter in a way. Maybe even less restricted by me not getting in my own way.

  Take when I told my parents about missing Easter again, last night. Yes, I avoided the conversation for weeks and finally got the gusto to spit it out. It was silly of me. I need to face my fears.

  Turns out that we’ll be able to celebrate Easter a week early, no problem, despite hearing the tinge of disappointment in my mom’s voice. “As long as I can make your favorite, Pizza Rustica, I am okay with celebrating early,” she said. And that’s a wonderful send off for me.

  Focus, Rachel. Back to what I need to wear today. But hmm, I may need a tiny shopping trip. The weather in Italy around those months could still be cold, so I may as well get a few new items.

  I set my coffee on the bedside table, grab my phone, and text Maggie that we’ll need to go shopping. Now I wait for the response, still not getting ready, but oh well. I roll my eyes.

  Maggie: Rachel wants to shop?! What is happening in the world right now?!

  There it is. I knew it.

  Rachel: Yes, she does. I figure I may as well pick up some things, so no time like the present to start.

  Maggie: I’ll text you later to set up a time.

  Rachel: Ok.

  I reach for my plum V-neck sweater, cream colored lace scarf, black slacks, and flat black boots. As for a purse, all of mine are neutral so I can’t mismatch after all. Maybe I’ll buy a non-neutral purse when I shop with Maggie. Mmmaybe not.

  I look in the mirror to fix my hair and decide to keep it down, but with a thin black headband to keep it out of my face. There, done. Not too shabby.

  Finishing my coffee as I walk out the door, I almost forget my coat, so I swipe it from the bench and leave my mug. I wouldn’t have gotten far without that warmth.

  Once I get downstairs, I see the thin layer of sparkling snow on the ground. As I start my walk to work, I notice the quiet slush sound my feet make. It doesn’t annoy me. It doesn’t make me worry I may have to change my shoes or socks when I get to my destination. I just enjoy the brief sinking in when the snow is thicker than I thought.

  When I get to my office, Annabelle calls out, “Sixty!” a new morning tradition we started as a countdown to the Italy trip. Hey, I can be more present in moments and countdown for the future. That’s allowed.

  “Yeah, sixty days too many,” I reply in my pretend exaggerated frustration, changing the day’s number to the correct one for the time.

  We both laugh, without fail. It doesn’t get old.

  Despite my higher mood more days than not and my consecutive humorous exchange with Annabelle, I have to admit, I still don’t want to spend my free time with her and Peter. Don’t hate me! Brian and I have been doing better in our relationship but seeing them together still is a little too much for me. They are just so damn happy. Like, no hiccups ever and no problems at all; movie romance happy. I dislike admitting it, but I’m glad she stopped asking for all of us to spend time together. Maybe she is giving me space. I hope she’s not aware of how I compare my relationship to hers. That’s not her fault, it’s mine. I’m getting there with my relationship security, but it’s too soon.

  “What’s on tap today?” she asks. “I have way too many people on my schedule. And it’s so dreary outside. I just want to be lying in bed watching TV all day.” She’s so bubbly in the morning, even those words have zest.

  “Who are you, me? I don’t think I could ever see you just laying around, relaxing.”

  “Well, you know, I have my chill days too,” she says and grins.

  Sure, Annabelle is human and has down time, but she also could brighten up a room ninety-nine percent of the time. Today she is decked out in a yellow dress, with long gold chains of varying lengths, diamond patterned cream-colored tights with black
gemstones on the points of the diamond shapes, and maroon knee-high boots. It takes so much energy to even think about all those items, let alone wear them.

  I walk to my office to turn on my computer. “So, can you meet me for lunch one day next week? I want to run through some plans for when I am gone,” I call out.

  She pops her head in the door frame and says, “You mean, when you are gone in fifty-nine days or less?”

  We both giggle.

  She continues, “Doesn’t that seem a little far away to be talking to me about office issues? It’s fine and all, especially to have lunch, but you know me, and I’ll probably forget much of what you tell me by then.”

  “True, true. Well, let’s just eat together and as we get closer, I can talk to you about clients’ needs. Like, will you be their crisis contact if something happens and they need a therapist?” I accidentally slip in a question.

  “Love it,” she says while going back to her office. “I can handle that. Even if they are kids. I mean, you don’t expect many crises, right?”

  “Isn’t that the definition of a crisis, not to be able to expect it?” I laugh.

  “I’m just kidding,” she yells out.

  “Are you?” I joke because I know she is kidding. She’s more than capable of crisis work. My kids would be in good hands. But I still hope nobody needs her.

  Okay, it’s showtime for today. Let the day begin.

  Chapter 31

  My eyes widen and my heart stops in syncopation as I see the Italian word “cattedrale” in the sender line of one of my emails. That’s the Italian word for cathedral. This is an email from one of the churches in Genoa!

  Clicking the open button as soon as my fingers can move leads me to see a bunch of words in, you guessed it, Italian. Oh, hurry up, Rachel. Cut and paste into Italian to English translation in Google. And enter.

  Monday, February 11, 2013, 1:03 p.m.

  Subject: Seeking information about my family

  From: Allesandro.Pastorino@CattedraledeiSanti.com

  To: Rachel.Granza@myemail.com

  Greetings Ms. Granza. We are sorry that we are just now responding to your email, but we had a change in office staff over the past few months. Let me introduce myself. My name is Mr. Allesandro Pastorino. I am the person that handles all church correspondence.

  I looked through our church records recently and I am sorry to tell you that I do not see anybody having the last name of Allegranza. My search was thorough, as I asked another church member for assistance. We both concluded that your family did not attend our church in the past.

  You are always welcome to visit if you come to Genoa. Our church staff would love to meet you. I am sorry that you could not find the information you were looking for at the Cathedral of the Saints, but may I please suggest that you contact the Cathedral of St. George? They have the longest history in the city, since they are the oldest Catholic church in existence for our area.

  Please let me know if I can further help you. Good luck with your undertaking. It was a pleasure to try to assist you.

  Kindly,

  Mr. Allesandro Pastorino

  Cathedral of the Saints

  www.cattedraledeisanti.com

  I fall into the back of the couch.

  They don’t have any information on my family as being members of their church. Ugh. I purse my lips.

  I’m forty-nine days from being there, so I still have time to receive a response from the other church. This nice man even suggests it, so I must be correct that my history exists at one of the churches. The oldest section of Genoa isn’t that big.

  I guess if I don’t receive a response from the Cathedral of St. George, I’ll visit when we are there. There’s no way around it. That’s the church.

  And if the Cathedral of St. George is not where my family worshiped, I will have to make it be their place, damn it. It just has to be.

  Chapter 32

  Arriving in Philly’s 30th Street Station forty-three days away from going to Italy is long overdue. I need to see my grandpa’s old stomping grounds and this cold, but sunny February day is the time.

  The train ride was not so sunny, though. With this thick sweater, the heat was in overdrive and I couldn’t get comfortable the whole time. I didn’t have a chance to eat much before leaving, so I snacked on a tiny bag of mixed nuts I picked up in the station, needing a pound more. The combination made me feel sick. Heat and hunger, yuck. I am more than ready to get some fresh air.

  “Finally, we are outside again.”

  “Is that Rachel or an imposter?” Maggie laughs.

  “Well, my God. That was a ride from hell.” I look up at the clear blue sky and take a huge whiff of…urine. “Ew. I guess we need to leave the train station.”

  “Yeah, come on.” Maggie yanks my arm and hails a cab to bring us to Philly’s Little Italy.

  She’s talking a mile a minute on our ride, but I am in more of a contemplative state, taking in all the sites. What was the ride like for my grandpa and his family when they arrived in New York? I don’t even know how they traveled from there to here. It must have been grueling to travel long distances in those days. Then there’s me, who got crabby for the comparably slight discomfort on today’s train. Sorry, Grandpa.

  Driving into the Little Italy vicinity, I have vague memories of some of the sites from when I was a child. Maybe Grandpa showed us his old business, or even still owned it at that time. Maybe he showed us his first apartment too. I don’t remember and I wish I could. But this time, I am looking at every inch of the places surrounding us.

  We’re dropped off at the Italian Market, which looks like the hub of the entire area. I read how this market and Isgro Pastries are still huge tourist spots, and I can see, I mean smell, why. The flavorful cuisine’s aromas hit me as soon as I open the car door. I take a large sniff and beam from ear to ear. “Mags, we…are…here.”

  After experiencing the brief olfactory food coma, I realize I need to get some actual food into my body. “I can’t wait to explore a little, but first things first Mags; we have to find somewhere to eat lunch,” I say rubbing my stomach.

  “I’m into it.” She takes her phone out of her purse, ready to search reviews, I know.

  “Are you okay with getting quick slices of pizza somewhere? Let’s come here after we have eaten so we can take our time and walk through the whole area. I can’t handle the temptation of being in here without having eaten anything yet.”

  “You know I will eat whatever, wherever,” she says while starting to scan her search results. She looks up at the street sign and confirms, “This place on the corner has good ratings, so you want to check out the menu in the window?”

  She can eat “whatever” yet only when from a place with acceptable online ratings. At least it makes us have better odds to have a good meal though, so I don’t mind. Oh, my Mags.

  We walk over to glance at the menu, but I’m already convinced that I’ll stay. I just need something as soon as possible.

  We are seated at a picturesque, but also stereotypical Italian table for two with a red and white checkered tablecloth. I love the tradition. Straightaway, a waiter comes by with water and tray of shakers filled with parmesan cheese, crushed red peppers, and garlic powder.

  “Two slices of cheese pizza for each of us, right?” I ask Maggie not to delay at all.

  “Yup, let’s do it.” She hands both menus to the waiter and he’s off to put in the order.

  As we sip on our water and talk about our plan for walking around after lunch, Maggie surprises me with news about her and Ray. “You know how I was telling you about some things about him that bother the livin’ hell out of me?”

  Amused, I answer, “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, I decided that’s all fine now. Well, not fiiine, but at least all right. I’ve been enjoying our time togethe
r a lot and I have slowly moved on from some of that BS I was stuck on. That was old Mags anyway. This new Mags is trying to be a proper adult.” She straightens the imaginary collar of her shirt.

  Even more entertained now, I say, “Uh-huh,” while shaking my head in hesitant agreement.

  “So, that’s it. I just wanted you to know what’s up since we haven’t been able to hang as much lately. I really am falling for this one, Rach.”

  “I am so excited to hear that! Also, I guess I need to wish you congratulations on your adulthood?” Smiling, I wait for her quick retort, but it doesn’t happen. She seems to be in her own pondering state of daydreaming. When I snap my fingers close to her face, she comes back to me.

  “Thanks for saying that. I’ll keep you posted.”

  The thin crust cheese pizza is everything I hoped for in this Little Italy. Being a true New Yorker now, I have high expectations for pizza. Not only do we have mouthwatering slices in New York’s Little Italy, but also in the city in general. Philly doesn’t disappoint, though.

  We’re almost finished eating when I notice a bulletin board in the corner of the room. There’s neighborhood announcements, flyers, and business cards. And I see posters for the South 9th Street Italian Market festival I went to as a child. “Mags. Oh wow. Look.” I point to it.

  She looks over her shoulder and reads out the title “Everyone’s Italian.” Then, she looks at me and says, “Great. That’s settled. I’m Italian.” She smiles, taking a sip from her straw.

  “Well, you are sure welcome to be Italian, but what I’m trying to show you is that the poster is advertising the festival I used to go to when I was a little girl. Grandma and Grandpa would take Dylan and me many years in a row. We would walk around to see all the craft booths and I remember being mesmerized by all the colors and sparkles. Ooh, especially when I got my face painted.”