Full of Grace (23 page)

“I’m so sorry, Michael. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I just wanted to tell you that I love you and that this stinks, I guess.”

“It sure does. I’m so sorry, Michael. Look. I can be there in two hours.”

“No, sweetheart. I don’t want you on the road. It’s dark and that highway is too dangerous.”

“Yeah, and we swallowed a lot of grapes around here. Still, you say the word and I’ll be there, Michael.”

“I know that, baby. It’s okay. I just can’t believe that’s my mother in that bed. It’s just so incredibly sad. I could just—” His voice cracked with emotion.

“Hang on, sweetheart. I love you and we’ll get through this together.”

We hung up and I looked at my mom.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“I’m going home tomorrow morning,” I said. “Something tells me Michael’s mother is at the end.”

I didn’t have to wait that long to find out. I had the same nightmare again—I was going over a bridge in a car with Michael, he disappears, the car disappears, and I begin to fall. I was lying in bed in a sweat, trying to relax, and my cell phone rang. It was five-thirty. It was Michael and he was in shock and huge gulping sobs nearly disguised his voice. His mother had passed away.

“I wasn’t even there,” he said. “I missed her death! I feel so terrible, Grace! I wanted to be there!”

“Hush, baby, it’s all right,” I said. “I’ll be home as fast as I can.”

Back in Charleston, Michael made all the arrangements. His aunt couldn’t come, but she sent beautiful flowers. So did his cousins and many friends from work. Frank and Regina sent flowers, too. Michael’s mother was cremated and her ashes were to be buried in St. Lawrence’s Cemetery, in the same place that held the remains of his father and his brother.

It was a beautiful and chilly Monday morning. The sky was clear and a brilliant blue. We were to meet the minister at McAlister’s Funeral Home and accompany Michael’s mother’s remains. I sat in the limo with Michael. We rode the short distance in silence until Michael spoke.

“You know, it’s funny. I knew she was going to die. There were even a few moments that I wished she would—it was just so terrible to see her that way. But when she finally did die, I think I was completely surprised by it. Isn’t that weird?”

“Not really. I can’t imagine what the day will be like when I bury my parents. It has to be so profound.”

“It is.
Profound
is the word for it.” He was quiet for a moment and then he reached into his pocket and put something in my hand. “I almost forgot. This is for you. It was my mother’s and I want you to have it. She wore it every day from the time she was a girl.”

It was a little gold cross on a thin gold chain. It was very simple and very beautiful. I put it on immediately.

“Oh, Michael! This is so lovely. Thank you. It’s a treasure.”

“She would have loved you, Grace. She really would have loved you.”

He held my hand tightly for the rest of the way, and although he was looking out of the window, I knew he was crying. We finally arrived and our procession pulled in the entrance. We made our way down the bumpy road, passing live-oak trees, draped in torn sheets of Spanish moss. There was no doubt the trees had been planted hundreds of years before.

His family’s plot was surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence with an opening, and the headstones faced the Cooper River. I could think of no site that would have been more fitting and beautiful for Michael’s loved ones. Michael and I stood together by the graves of his grandparents and great-grandparents, and some of the headstones were so ancient, you could barely make out the names or dates. Larry and a few of Michael’s other friends were there and the minister from his mother’s nursing home led a short service and said some prayers.

The group was small, but everyone there meant something special to Michael or his family in some way. When the minister was finished we sat in the folding chairs the funeral home had provided. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my parents.

“Sorry for your loss, son,” my father said, and shook Michael’s hand. “You shouldn’t have to bury your mother without people to help you get through the…the…”

“Thank you, sir,” Michael said.

My mother, who had been known to weep openly in the drugstore from reading greeting cards, welled up and cried quietly. Seeing her cry made me burst into tears. She put her arm around my shoulder and leaned toward Michael.

“I feel so terrible, Michael. I just, you know, wish we were meeting under other circumstances.”

“So do I,” Michael said, and smiled for the first time since I had come home.

“I want you to come for Christmas,” my mother said.

“Yeah,” Dad said, “we talked it over on the way here. My wife and I. We want you to come down with Grace. You’ll spend Christmas with all the Russos. There are worse places to be, right?”

“Oh, Daddy…” If I didn’t get a grip on myself, I was going to lose it.

“Thank you, sir. I’d like that very much.”

I squeezed Michael’s hand and thought, at last, my parents were finally beginning to understand. Big Al, the mighty oak, had decided to bend with the wind.

H
e said it’s as clean as a whistle!” Michael was referring to the MRI he’d had earlier in the week.

“No sign of anything suspicious?
Nothing?
”

“Nothing, nada, zilch,
zero
.”

“Oh, Michael! This is the very best possible news. Now we can have ourselves one absolutely fabulous Christmas! Want to meet me at Saks?”

His news gave me chills all over my body. I was so relieved I felt like I could fly. I knew that when I hit my bed that night, I would have the first sound and restful sleep I’d had since we began to think that Michael might be ill.

I had never told Michael about the nights I spent tortured by nightmares. The same horrible dream. Over and over—the same terrible scene would play out, night after night.

But the days weren’t much better. When I tried to work, I had these continuing visions of Michael in a casket, pale and cold to the touch, and me, all alone in the funeral home. I would be undone by it. On television or in a magazine I would see an ad that showed old people walking the beach, holding hands, happy that they had done careful financial planning. Thinking that might never be Michael and me, I would feel the tears sliding down my face. I never told Michael or anyone about these terrors because it seemed like recounting my horrible
imaginings would only make them worse. All these weeks, I had been holding my breath for his test results.

The news of a clean MRI was of colossal proportions; the alternative would have meant sure disaster. For the first time since his diagnosis, we had real hope. And just by the way, if I never had to make chicken soup again, it would be just fine with me.

Michael found me at the men’s fragrance counter at Saks. I had just chosen aftershave for Frank, Nicky and even for young Tony, which I thought he might consider a compliment.

“Come see what I picked out for Big Al,” I said.

“I didn’t know Saks sold muzzles.”

“Oh, God, you are so bad!”

“Get him a karaoke machine.”

“Stop!”

I had chosen a beautiful lamb’s-wool cardigan for my father and leather slippers I knew he liked because I had seen them in a catalog my mother was browsing through. She had pointed them out and said, “See if you can find them cheaper in Charleston. He never buys anything for himself except golf shirts. He must have a hundred golf shirts.” But that’s how my father was. He would pay for a block of hotel rooms for people he’d never met so he could thrill Nonna with a trip to a shrine, and then he would go around without slippers. Actually, that’s how both my parents were. They spent their money on things that were important to them, leaving the rest of us to wonder.

Michael and I were walking down King Street, window-shopping and musing about who might like to have this set of bar glasses or that wallet.

I was quiet for a while and he said, “What are you so deep in thought about?”

“Christmas makes me sentimental, that’s all.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“It’s just that this has been an amazing year, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, it has. Losing my mother was the worst thing ever, next to my brain cancer, of course.”

“Absolutely. Losing your mother
was
tragic, but at least she’s not suffering anymore.”

“Yeah. God, I miss her. When I was a kid, every Christmas she would decorate the house like something out of a magazine. She and my father would have these huge parties and my father would make eggnog. He had an old recipe that was his father’s and it went back to his father and who knows?”

“Was it, like, fabulous?”

“You’ve never had homemade eggnog?”

“Are you kidding? The closest we ever got to homemade was when Welsh Farms started putting it in bottles. We thought a glass bottle made it, you know, real.”

Michael laughed and said, “My dee-ah! You have been deprived! I will make eggnog this year and your little heart will sing ‘Dixie’!”

“Better yet, make it for my whole family. I
really
wanna hear them singing ‘Dixie’!”

“I’ll do it!”

I saw Michael look up at the sky and a wistful expression came over his face.

“She’s in a better place, Michael.”

“Let me guess. You think she’s in heaven with my father?”

“Maybe. I would
like to think
something wonderful happens for you when you die, especially after suffering a long, terrible illness. Or after a long and worthy life. Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course I would. It’s just that intellectually I know the afterlife is a bullshit concept. Emotionally? I love the idea. Love it.”

We were standing in front of Berlin’s clothing store on the corner of King and Broad. And I don’t know what made me say this, but the words just tumbled out of my mouth like someone else had put them there. I said, “Well, let me ask you this, okay? If stage-four glioblastoma kills every single person who is diagnosed with it, why were you spared? Maybe there
is
a God out there.”

“Or maybe we just got the right team of doctors? I mean, who knows?”

“Perhaps. But you have to wonder, Michael. If you’re spared and hardly anyone else ever survives, doesn’t that give you some kind of re
sponsibility to do something really spectacular? I mean, Michael, a lot of people would say it’s a miracle.”

“Grace, I don’t want to cast a pall…”

“A pall?”

“Yeah. A pall.”

“Who the hell says
pall
?”

“Old people and me. It’s like a shroud. Anyway, I don’t want to be depressing or ruin the holidays, but the truth is, I’ve only been clean for a short time.”

He was right. It wasn’t such a long time. But I was having no part of anything pessimistic.

“But clean is still clean, Michael.”

“Let’s be realistic, Grace. If we pass a year and nothing grows back,
then
we can go crazy celebrating.”

I looked him deeply in the eyes. “You’re not leaving me, Michael Higgins. Ever.”

“That’s a deal. I don’t want to go anywhere. And by the way, Miss Grace Russo, I happen to think the work I do
is
rather spectacular.”

“Sorry. That didn’t come out right,” I said.

“I know. I have to go back to the la-borrrr-a-tory, Nurse Franken-stinkel, and save the human race. Give me your bags. I’ll throw them in the trunk and bring them home later.”

“Thanks, baby.” I giggled, gave him a kiss on his cheek and watched him walk away.

There was no doubt that Michael Higgins was in possession of the best-looking rear view in Charleston, if not the entire state of South Carolina.

I continued to shop, trying to find one really fabulous gift for each person on my list that was within my budget. I was saving the biggest chunk for Michael. I found an antique wristwatch at Crogan’s that was so beautiful and symbolic. After all, our life was about time and how much we had, wasn’t it?

The wrapped presents continued to pile up on the floor next to the sofa and then under the sofa and in the coat closet until finally I was all done.

It was just a few days before Christmas Eve. Michael and I were having dinner in a booth in the bar at Peninsula Grill. I loved to eat there so I could watch everyone who came and went. By their mannerisms, you could tell who had been there before, who the regulars were, who the tourists were and who was there to celebrate a birthday or some landmark occasion. And it was the kind of place where you might just stop in for a drink and then be on your way. Between Cypress and Peninsula Grill, there was some of the best people-watching in the city. And it was decorated for the holidays with fresh garlands and flowers everywhere, which I loved.

“So we have to make a decision about something,” I said.

“What?”

“My mother wants us to come Christmas Eve. Every year she makes this huge dinner with seven kinds of fish and then they all go to midnight Mass. She
says
she doesn’t care if we don’t go to church with them, but
I know better.
”

“Want a bite?” Michael filled his spoon with onion soup and fed it to me.

“Mmm.”

“Why not eight kinds of fish?”

“Tradition. Why else?”

“Well? What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Another option is that we could go there early on Christmas morning and spend the day or the night or stay until New Years’. Frank and Regina are coming with their kids and you’ll like them. I’m sure of that.”

“I’m sure I will. Look. Here’s what I think. I think we go Christmas Eve and stay until you can’t stand it anymore.”

“What about Mass?”

“We’ll go to Mass, Grace.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sure. Look, if my friend dropped dead and they had a service at the Baptist church, wouldn’t I go even though I’m not a Baptist? You go out of respect.”

“Yeah, but this is different.”

“No, it’s not. Look. It’s one hour out of a long family holiday. We’ll do what the family’s doing and that’s it. No big deal.”

“What about Communion?”

“You want to see lightning strike the church and set it on fire?” He laughed. “You just sit back and let the others pass. That’s all.”

“Maybe if we put a fifty in the collection basket, they won’t say anything.”

“I’ll make it two fifties and pass them under Big Al’s nose.”

“Okay,” I said, “okay.”

I wasn’t sure how to prepare Michael for the realities of the Russo household. I knew the tree would be too big for the living room, but it would smell heavenly. I knew every end table would hold tons of biscotti, plates of dried figs and nuts, and the candy dish would be loaded with torrone and candied almonds. The panettone—which was our version of fruitcake—would be so deadly dry it would be like eating Styrofoam. Dad would be sitting at the kitchen counter with Frank, both of them dipping chunks of it in wine. There would be struffoli in a sticky sprinkled mound on my mother’s Spode Christmas china platter right in the middle of the kitchen counter. The miniature crèche set would have replaced the cornucopia on top of the entertainment center and Nonna would have covered every piece of upholstered furniture with red-and-green afghans. And all day, every day, Frank Sinatra, Al Martino and Jerry Vale would be singing Christmas carols—ones that were popular during World War II—on their stereo when
Holiday Inn
or
It’s a Wonderful Life
weren’t running on the DVD player.

I told Michael all these things as we made the drive to Hilton Head and he laughed and laughed.

“It sounds like the Hollywood version of the ideal American family at Christmas.”

“You don’t understand.”

“What?”

“I’m just telling you, that’s all.”

“You’re more nervous than I am! Relax! I love you!”

“It’s that house on the right.” Michael shot me a look and I could feel my cheeks getting hot. “Yes, the one with the multicolored blinking lights, which are on at ten o’clock in the morning…”

“And Santa and the reindeer on the roof…”

“And the life-size Nativity scene in the yard…”

“Without the baby Jesus…”

“Because it isn’t Christmas morning.”

“And the candy canes lining the walkway…”

“Yep. This is the house. Okay. We’re home.”

We went in through the front door—it was Christmas Eve, after all—and the scene was basically a repeat of Thanksgiving, right down to the Xbox, except, of course, for the decorations. And Michael. Michael Higgins was in my parents’ house with every one of my immediate family except for my aunt and uncle and their kids from up north. I was excited and I was very nervous.

“Hello, sweetheart!” my mother said, coming toward me, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She hugged me and then, to my relief, she hugged Michael. “Welcome, welcome! And Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas! Where should we put Michael’s stuff, Mom?”

Michael already knew we weren’t sleeping together. I wouldn’t have considered it in my wildest dreams. Michael had said he’d be uncomfortable about it, too.

“He’ll sleep in Nicky’s room with him. You’ll have to share a bathroom, Michael. I’m sorry the accommodations aren’t more glamorous.”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Russo. I lived in a dorm not so many years ago.”

“Then you’ll be right at home here,” she said, and then added, “I’m so glad you’re here, Michael.”

“Me, too, Mrs. Russo. Thanks for having me.”

“Call me Mrs. R. You make me feel like I’m a thousand years old!”

I could see Mom staring at Michael’s blue eyes and slipping through them the same way I had so many times. They were like water at the perfect temperature and they called you as though a swim in them would make you feel better about everything in your life. Maybe more important, he had this way of looking at you and making you feel like you were young and beautiful even if you weren’t. And without being bold or
brash, he made you think that you were desirable. I had seen Michael’s charm at work again and again. He was never out of line, but he loved women and it showed.

We put our things away and I introduced Michael to everyone. Frank took an immediate liking to him, and the next thing I knew all the males were in the backyard playing two-hand touch football and drinking beer. Michael was giving Tony and Paulie throwing lessons. Even through the glass doors I could see that he had taken a shine to them.

Mom was draining spinach to stuff the flounder that was laid out on waxed paper. Marianne had yet to arrive and compromise my mood. But Regina was there arranging antipasto platters. Nonna was still using a walker, but she had it parked by the kitchen counter. She was perched on a barstool, chopping green and black olives to mix in with the baccala salad.

“He’s cute!” Nonna said. “He’s Irish, huh? He could pass for Milanese.”

“How’s he doing, Grace?” Regina said. “I mean, this is his first Christmas without his mother, so that’s gotta be tough going for him.”

“You know, he hasn’t said much about it except that he misses her. It’s really nice that you invited him, Ma. Otherwise it would have been a lousy Christmas for us.”

“Is that oven hot yet?” Regina said. “I want to throw in another batch of cookies before we start frying.”