Authors: Rosanna Chiofalo

Bella Fortuna (11 page)

BOOK: Bella Fortuna

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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 beâthe 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.

Karma

T
he 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 creamâpistachio 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? âRiffraff'?”

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 newsâ
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 cancerâthat 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.

Maybe he's just thirsty,
I thought. I tried to go back to sleep, but all I could focus on was the sound of the running water.
Why am I worrying?
Ma was sleeping with him on the sofa bed just in case something happened.

I drifted back to sleep but woke up again half an hour later. I could still hear the water. What was he doing? I lay there paralyzed even though a voice inside me was saying,
See what's going on
. But sleep was calling me like the enchanting cries of a siren.
I'm sure it's nothing,
I told myself. Just as soon as my eyes closed, I heard my mother speaking in a low voice to Baba, then suddenly a loud thump.

“Nicola! Nicola!”

I shot out of bed fast and ran down to the basement.

As I came into view of the kitchen, I didn't know what awaited me. My heart had stopped beating. Even my breathing seemed strangled in my throat. I could still hear the faucet running. Splotches of blood dotted the floor. Four blood-soaked handkerchiefs sat crumpled on top of the kitchen counter. Two blood-soaked dish towels lay on the floor. Ma was leaning up against the kitchen sink. Her arms were wrapped around Baba's waist, as she tried to hold him up, but his weight was quickly overpowering her. I ran forward, placing my hands in his armpits to get a good grip to lower him to the ground. But Ma wasn't picking up on my cue. She continued screaming, “Nicola!”

“Ma, help me lower him to the ground!”

“Nicola! Nicola!” My mother didn't seem to hear me. Then, Baba's eyes fluttered open.

“His eyes opened! They opened!” I never heard such relief in her voice as I did in that moment.

“Ma, quick! We have to place him on the floor!” I didn't know how much longer I could support my father's weight, especially since my mother's grip had loosened considerably.

Ma nodded her head as we slowly squatted down, gently lowering him.

“Hold his head while I go get a pillow and call nine-one-one.”

“Rita's on the phone with them right now.”

Connie was standing behind me with the most terrified look I'd ever seen on her face.

“Stay with Ma. I'm going to get a pillow and blanket for Baba.”

Connie's arms were wrapped around her waist. Her face looked as white as the nightgown she wore.

“Don't be scared. He'll be all right.”

I tried to reassure Connie, though I really didn't believe Baba was going to be okay. He'd lost so much blood. And I'd heard that water running for what must've been an hour, maybe more. I tried to push my fear aside along with my guilt for not getting out of bed sooner and ran to the sofa bed my parents had been sleeping on. I grabbed one of the pillows and ripped the duvet off the bed. Even though it was the middle of July and quite warm, sometimes Baba would get the chills.

“They're coming!” Rita shouted out as she ran down the basement stairs.

I placed the blanket over Baba, and Rita took the pillow from me, placing it under his head. But Ma still held onto the sides of his head, not wanting to let go.

“Before your father fainted, he told me his nose was bleeding for almost an hour.”

“Why didn't you call me?” I asked Ma.

“I didn't know until ten minutes ago. You know what a heavy sleeper I am.”

That was true. If it weren't for Ma's cantankerous snoring, we would've thought she was dead since it was near impossible to wake her up.

“When I saw all the bloody handkerchiefs and towels, I knew something was terribly wrong. I told him we needed to go to the emergency room right away. But he kept telling me it was nothing to worry about. The man has cancer and his nose is running like Niagara Falls, and he tells me there's nothing to worry about!”

Leave it to Ma to still make one of her wisecracks during a moment of crisis.

“I'll be okay. Just help me stand.”

We all were startled to finally hear Baba speak. His nose had stopped bleeding.

“You stay right where you are, Nicola DeLuca! I'm tired of you not listening to me and then look what happens!”

“Valentina, help me up.”

“Baba, you're in no shape to get back up on your feet so soon after collapsing. Sorry, but Ma is right this time.”

“What do you mean âthis time'? I am always right!” Ma's eyebrows were knitted furiously together as she gave a sharp nod of her head, indicating she had triumphed.

Sirens wailed outside.

I ran to the front door to let in the paramedics.

“He's in the basement.”

I was about to close the door when I heard more sirens. A police car stopped in front of our house. There was no doubt in my mind that most of the neighbors were probably up now and peering out from behind their windows. The thought of having to explain to everyone once again the details of my father's illness made me feel queasy.

I escorted the police officers inside, leading them downstairs. Their gazes took in our finished, but somewhat crude, basement.

Ma must've also noticed their observations since she quickly came over and said, “Our air conditioner broke. My husband was sleeping down here because it's cooler.”

The police officers nodded understandingly but continued to look around our basement. I could tell they'd seen through Ma's lies and realized the truth was that we couldn't afford an air conditioner. My sisters and I went to Catholic schools, and the tuition on top of the house's mortgage made it necessary for my parents to cut out whatever they could.

One of the paramedics' voices reached my ears. He reminded me of Sonny Bono. He had the same thick brown mustache and hair color, and even his voice sounded similar to Sonny Bono's. Of the two paramedics, he seemed to be the leader even though the other paramedic looked older. Sonny Bono's voice interrupted my thoughts.

“You have CAN-CERRRR? Yes? You have CAN-CERRRR?”

Why do paramedics seem to have a tendency to talk to people who are ill as if they're deaf? I guess it is protocol, and they probably need to be certain the patient is hearing them correctly. Nevertheless, it was infuriating. They were talking to him as if he had a limited mental capacity.
He's not deaf, you morons!
I wanted to scream.

“Tell me where it HURTS.”

I heard Baba murmur something to them.

“You are feeling BETTER? YES? YES?”

Again, my father murmured something, but I couldn't hear. The police had asked us to give the paramedics some space, so we were standing a few feet away. Ma kept straining her neck and looking over, desperate to know what Baba was saying.

“You think you can get up? You want to get up?”

“No!” my mother yelled out.

“It's okay, Mrs. DeLuca. We'll be right by his side.”

The older paramedic held up his hands as if Ma were the one with a gun in her possession and not the police officers.

Ma chewed on her lipâa nervous habit of hers.

The paramedics slowly helped Baba come to a seated position first.

“On the count of three, we'll stand together with you, OKAY?”

I couldn't see Sonny Bono being able to lift my father, even with the help of his sidekick. He was all of 5'5" and looked as though he weighed less than 130 pounds.

“Here we go, Mr. DeLuca. ONE.”

“I can hear you. You don't need to talk so loud,” Baba said. He sounded very weary and frustrated.

BOOK: Bella Fortuna

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