Loose Screws (27 page)

And so am I, amazingly enough. I've danced some myself—you haven't lived until an eighty-year-old man who barely comes up to your boobs has taught you how to swing dance—and generally tried to forget about all penis-enhanced lifeforms under the age of forty.

But eventually, the old guys wear me out, causing me to seek sanctuary in Paula's living room, where she's
lounging on the sofa, her sandaled feet up on the coffee table. The youngest-to-date is asleep beside her, his head in what's left of her lap. His cheeks are flushed pink, his curls tousled, his mouth open just enough to emit soft snoring sounds. Paula is barely fingering his curls, a serene smile on her face.

I flop onto the recliner across from her. She looks up, her smile broadening into a grin. “I can only hope I've got that much energy left when I'm that old.”

“I somehow think you will,” I say, and she laughs. I take a swig of the diet Coke I've been hauling around for the last hour, nod at her belly. “So. You think this will be it for you and Frank?”

“Yeah,” she says on a sigh. “High time we do what every other fertile Catholic couple does and ignore the pope. Six should just about do it.” Her head lounges against the back of the sofa. “But the kids are so excited about the new babies. The oldest two helped me get out the baby clothes yesterday.” Another laugh. “Not that they stayed packed for very long!”

“You don't mind, having so many kids?”

She lifts up her head, her brow furrowed. “Mind? Why would I mind?”

“They don't leave much time for anything else.”

“Anything else…? Oooh, I get it. Look, Ginger, I'm not like you, you know? I was never really good at much in school, never really wanted a career. This was all I ever wanted, to be a mommy, to be a wife. What more could I want, huh?” She looks down at the baby again, stroking his cheek. “Maybe my choice isn't exactly politically correct or whatever you wanna call it, but it's
my
choice. I'm happy with it, and frankly, I don't give a damn what anybody else thinks.”

After a moment I say, “So how does it feel to be the only unconflicted woman on the planet?”

She hoots. “Pretty damn good, if you wanna know the truth.” Then she frowns. “Nick told me you were gettin' back together with your boyfriend?”

I sigh. “I didn't say that and Nick knows it. What I
said
was that I have to give it a chance.”

Her eyes narrow. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning, we're having dinner on Monday.”

Her mouth screws up, as if she wants to say something but is figuring it's better not to. And no way am I going to encourage her. Then she does say, “As long as you do what you want to do, Ginge. You know what I'm sayin'?”

A phone rings from within the pile of purses by the sofa.

“Gotta be yours,” Paula says as the little boy stirs beside her. “Nobody else has a cell.”

I think about not answering—who on earth could it be?—except curiosity won't let me ignore it. So I get up, pawing through a mountain of fake leather handbags with gaudy clasps until I find my trusty Coach bag and the obnoxious, demanding phone that therein resides.

“Is this Ginger Petrocelli?” a man's voice, tinged with Pakistani or Indian overtones, asks.

“Yes?”

“This is Dr. Pahlavi, calling from St. Luke's hospital. Your mother is here, in the emergency room.”

My heart wedges into my throat. “Ohmigod—what's wrong? Is she okay? What—?”

“Please do not trouble yourself, Miss Petrocelli. Your mother is stable for now. Resting. We are running some tests—”

“Tests? For what?”

I feel Paula's hand grasp mine.

“To find out what the problem is, to rule out the obvious. I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone, but Mrs. Petrocelli has asked for you—”

“Yes, yes, of course…”
Shit!
“But I'm in Brooklyn, it may take a while. Is she okay, though? I mean…”

The doctor chuckles. “I doubt her condition is life-threatening. Just some precautionary measures, you understand. Again, please do not worry. We are taking very good care of her. Whenever you get here will be okay.”

I turn to find myself surrounded by the gnome tribe, my grandmother's worried eyes the first ones I see.

“Nedra's in St. Luke's, they won't tell me what the matter is…we have to leave, get there…”

A strong, firm hand grabs my elbow. I look up into determined blue eyes.

“I'll drive you,” Nick says.

 

I am in no condition to argue. Hell, I'm in no condition to do anything. If I'd had to get us back to Manhattan on the subway, no telling where we would have ended up. In the back seat, Nonna is muttering her way through the rosary with enough fervor to raise the dead.

“I don't get it. Nedra's just never sick. Never.”

“It's okay, honey,” Nick is saying, his voice low, calm. The voice a cop uses to keep people from jumping off ledges. And I know he knows he probably shouldn't be calling me “honey,” but right now, I really don't care. “The doctor said it wasn't an emergency, right?”

“Then w-why did she go to the emergency r-room?”

“Ginger. Breathe. No, not gulp…
breathe.
”

“Dammit! What are all these
cars
doing on the road?” I flap frantically. “Why can't you put the red light dealie on the car roof, do your siren, you know,
get the freakin' lead out?
”

That elicits a gasped,
“Per Dio!”
behind me, followed by a marked increase in rosary recitation speed.

“Because,” Nick says calmly, stopping for a red light, “that would be abusing my position.”

I fold my arms across my chest and glower.

A scant half hour later, I burst into St. Luke's ER like a crazed woman, Nonna tottering along behind me, Nick bringing up the rear.

“I'm looking for Nedra Petrocelli!” I practically yell at the poor nurse or aide or whatever the hell she is at the desk.

She doesn't even look up. “Down the hall, second exam room to your right.”

I shoot down the hall and into said room to find my mother on her feet, clothed, and looking slightly…stunned.

“Nedra! What happened? Are you okay? They called and said they were doing some tests…”

Her hand goes to her heart. “Christ, Ginger—how did you get here so fast?”

“Nick was there, at the party. He brought us back to Manhattan.”

We're in each other's arms now, she's stroking my hair and trying to shush me out of my anxiety attack. “It's okay,
bubelah,
it's okay…”

Whoa. I don't think I've ever heard her call me that.

I pull back, look her in the eyes. “What's…wrong?”

A funny smile plays across her mouth. “You know how I said my stomach was bothering me? Well, then I got dizzy and I thought, okay, this is dumb, but what could it hurt to come over here, see what's going on? I mean, just to be on the safe side, right?”

She pauses. I freak.

“Ohmigod, it's your heart, isn't it? Do you need surgery? What—?”

“No, honey, it's not my heart.”

Relief rushes through me, only to be immediately followed by an even more sickening dread. “Oh,
shit!
Is it…is it…?”

“Ginger, stop. I'm perfectly healthy. In fact, a helluva lot healthier than I thought I was.”

What
is
with that weird expression on her face?

“Okay. I'm lost.”

My mother hands me something. A photo…of…

Of…?

My eyes shoot to hers. She gives me a wobbly smile.

“Congratulations,
bubelah.
You're going to be a big sister.”

W
hat the hell is this, an epidemic?

“You're
pregnant?
” This last word is screeched.

“Seems so.”

My knees give way. I sink into a molded plastic chair nearby. “But…but…you said you hadn't had a period in more than six months.”

Nedra shrugs.

God, I so don't want to hear this. Be living through this.

“How…how far along?”

“Six weeks, maybe? Eight at the most.” She goes over to a mirror in the exam room, pulls a comb from her purse, runs it through her hair. Her hand is shaking, as is her voice. “For thirteen years, Leo and I tried to have another kid, and nothing. And now…” She sighs. “God, life is weird, isn't it?”

To say the least. “Is it…this whoever it is you've been seeing, is he the father?”

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, a wry smile twisting her mouth. “You think I'm sleeping with more than one man?”

I cross my arms. “Think maybe it's time to tell me who he is? Maybe even introduce him to Nonna and me?”

She turns, twin wrinkles marring the space between her heavy brows. Then, shaking her head, she lets out a short laugh.

“What?”

“To say my getting pregnant wasn't part of the plan is a gross understatement. To be honest, I haven't gotten that far in my thinking. So all I can say is…I'll keep you posted.”

“Are you going to tell…the father?”

“Eventually. Not yet. Not until…”

But she doesn't get to finish whatever it was she was going to say because a short, chocolate-skinned doctor with a white turban comes into the room, just as cheery as he can be.

“Ah,” he says, extending a delicate-looking hand. “You must be Mrs. Petrocelli's daughter.” At my expression, the smile vanishes. “Oh, dear.” He looks from me to my mother and back again. “She has told you her news?”

I nod.

“Ah.” He links his hands together over his crotch. “I suppose finding out one's fifty-year-old mother is pregnant would come as a bit of a surprise.”

You could say that. Which is more than I can, because, right now, I can't say anything. So I slip into a nice catatonic trance while the doctor chats with my mother for a few more minutes.

“Ginger?” I look up at my mother, realize we're alone again. “I can go now.”

I try to get to my feet, but my legs aren't sure they want to support me.

“Hey,” Nedra says. “
I'm
the one who just found out she's pregnant. Not you.”

“I know, but—”

“Would you rather it
had
been a heart attack?”

“No, of course not. It's just…God. What are you going to do?”

“Start shopping for baby clothes?”

“That's not funny. Jesus, Nedra—how can you even think of having a baby at your age?”

Her expression turns to stone. “How can I think of embarrassing you, you mean.”

“This isn't about me—”

“You're right. It's not.” She grabs her purse, slings it over her shoulder. “I'm sure they need the room. We'll talk about this later.”

My head spinning, I follow her out of the exam room. When she spots my grandmother and Nick in the waiting room, she says, “Not a word to anyone. Not until I've decided how to handle this. Understood?”

I nod, even though, right at the moment, I don't understand
anything.

 

Nick insists on driving us back the few blocks to the apartment, my mother in front, Nonna and me in the back seat. Once Nedra assures my grandmother that she's fine, she's sorry she called us away from the party, a silence thick as smoke settles inside the car. I can practically hear the gears grinding inside Nick's head.

Nick pulls up in front of the building; my mother and grandmother get out first, head inside. But I stay behind for a moment, leaning on the open window to say thanks. Nick startles me by reaching for my hand.

“Look, I just want you to know…you need someone to talk to, about anything, whatever, I'm here.”

I smirk. “Believe me, you don't want to get mixed up with this crazy family.”

He shrugs, does that crooked grinning thing again that makes me nuts. “What family isn't?”

I look at our layered hands, slip mine out from underneath his to fold my arms across my stomach. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

On a half chuckle, he straightens up behind the wheel, gazing out the windshield. “Damned if I know,” he says, then pulls away from the curb.

 

I go straight to the freezer when I get inside, chomping down into the Häagen-Dazs bar before the paper's even
all the way off. Since I've sworn off booze and it doesn't look good for sex within the next twenty minutes, fat-laden empty calories will have to suffice.

Except they don't. Because—I finally realize as I stamp back to my room, Geoff trotting at my heels—this frustration isn't going to be eased by putting something
in
my body, but by letting something
out.

But what? How?

And what is it I'm so frustrated about, anyway?

Nonna and my mother are in her room, arguing. I only catch snatches, like wisps of smoke coming down the hall. Then, silence, followed seconds later by a low, shocked,
“Per Dio!”

Then it hits me: my mother is pregnant, and probably needs me.

My eighty-year-old grandmother has just found out my mother is pregnant. She probably needs me, too.

And maybe they could both use a Häagen-Dazs bar.

I go back to the freezer, pull out two bars, then continue on to my mother's room. Geoff opts to stay outside the door, since the rooster, though securely caged, is giving him the evil eye.

“Here,” I say, handing each of them an ice cream. “Won't solve anything, but it beats the alternatives.”

My mother is sitting on the edge of her unmade bed, Nonna on a stool at its foot. There being no other uncluttered surface on which to plant my tush, I sink cross-legged onto the floor, glowering at the rooster. We sit in silence for some moments, licking our ice cream bars and thinking our thoughts, until Nedra says, “I've never been more scared in my entire life.”

We both look at her. And my mother, who's yelled at politicians and policemen, who's spent more than one night in jail, who's never been afraid to confront anybody about anything, is crying.

Holy shit.

I'm instantly beside her on the bed, hugging her to me. My grandmother sits on the other side, stroking her hand.

“It's gonna be okay,” I say, but she shakes her head.

“I'm fifty freaking years old. I know how high the odds are that something could be wrong, could go wrong.”

Wow. “You really want this baby, don't you?”

She nods, wipes at a tear. “It's crazy, I know, but I really do.”

I reach up, sweep her hair out of her face. “Well, then. Odds are higher that everything will be fine, you know.”

“I know, but…” She stares at the licked clean Häagen-Dazs wooden paddle in her hand, then lets out a long sigh. “But what if they aren't? What if…?”

I exchange glances with my grandmother, who looks as though she's ready to cry, too, and I think, no, Nick. Women don't
make
things complicated. Life just
is.

 

The next day, I popped—okay, dragged—myself out of bed with Big Plans, the most immediate of which was to take my grandmother to mass, something I hadn't done in, gee, years.

When I was around six or so, long before Nonna came to live with us, she apparently decided she could no longer tolerate what she labeled my parents' spiritual neglect of their only child, so she hauled her then-bony little butt all the way up from Brooklyn to in turn haul my bony little butt to my first mass. Not to be outdone, the instant my maternal grandmother got wind of this,
she
decided it was high time I began to appreciate my Jewish roots, as well, never mind that up until then my heathen upbringing hadn't seemed to bother her one way or the other. Hence, the following Saturday I set foot in a synagogue for the first time.

My parents, devout agnostics both, didn't seem to care one way or the other as long as it was understood that this was simply for exposure purposes and not a sign-on-the-dotted line kind of thing. Since I got to spend precious alone time with each of my adored grandmothers, I shrugged and went with the flow for several years. Then adolescence reared its doubting, secular head, and I discovered I'd rather spend my weekend mornings with my friends than God, it never occurring to me at the time that the two weren't mutually exclusive.

In any case, neither grandmother—or dogma—“won.” Oh, I believe in God, even if I do think He has a perverse sense of humor at times. I've just never declared any party loyalty. I have no qualms about putting up a Christmas tree
and
attending Shelby's elaborate Seders every year. Some years I go to Easter mass, then the following fall observe the High Holidays. I'm cool with all of it…from a careful distance. I haven't yet decided what to do if I have kids, but I suppose I'll figure it out. After all, I turned out okay, didn't I?

Don't answer that.

Anyway, it occurred to me that Nonna probably hadn't been to church in a while, a suspicion proved true by the way her eyes lit up when I asked her if she'd like to go. My chest ached at that—attending daily mass had been part of this woman's life for so many years; not going at all must've been killing her. Yet I knew my mother would have taken her, at least occasionally, if she'd asked. Except that would be putting someone out, a far worse sin in Nonna's book than missing mass. Which got me to thinking again about how much my grandmother gave up, coming to live with us. And wondering why she stayed on after my father died.

So I ask her, sitting across from her after church at the Hungarian Pastry Shop at Amsterdam and 111th Street, one of our favorite haunts when I was little. She looks at me, clearly startled at my question, then sets down her teacup, folds her hands in her lap. She's wearing her new dress; I've taken the curling iron to her silver hair to make it wave softly around her face. I see the cute, headstrong young woman she must have been.

“Your mother, she needed me,” she says with a shrug. “That is why I stay.”

Now it's my turn to be startled. “Nedra doesn't need anybody.”

“She isa good actress, yes?”

“But you yourself said how strong she is—”

“Ah…” One bent, knobby finger comes up in a point. “But that strength, it would crumble without other people around her.”

I sit back in my chair, my arms folded over my floral sundress. Well, duh, Ginger. I'd said it myself, that Nedra derives her energy from the people around her, just as I need my solitude.

“But that still doesn't explain why you thought you had to stay. After all, she was almost never alone in those days. I was still there, for one thing.”

“But I was the one who was
always
there. Inna spirit as well as body. Like your father. You were there, yes, but you don' wanna be, and your mama knows that.” She carefully cuts a corner off her Napoleon; the whipped cream squishes out from between layers of flaky phyllo pastry. “When you go, she miss you more than she can say.” Her eyes float to mine. “But she won' say anything, because is what children are supposed to do, leave the nest, go out onna their own. So I stay, be her strength.” Her mouth pulls up into a wide grin. “She cannot suck Renata Petrocelli dry, eh?”

I laugh, poke at my own pastry with the tip of my fork, then ask, “But did you stay because you felt you had to, or because you wanted to?”

She looks at me. “I don' understand.”

I look back. “I saw your face at that party yesterday, Nonna. How happy you were. Like…like you were home.”

She quickly lowers her gaze back to her half-eaten pastry. “It wasa nice, seeing everybody again. Thatsa all.”

I reach over, take her soft hand in mine. “If you could do whatever you wanted, would you move back there?”

She snatches her hand from mine. “Why you ask me these questions?” she says, her words trembling around the edges. “Did you hear Sonya ask me to move in with her? Is that what this is all about?”

Sonya, my grandfather's younger sister. Now widowed herself, she and my grandmother had been very close before Nonna moved from Brooklyn, more like sisters than sisters-in-law.

Behind Nonna's glasses, tears shimmer in her eyes. “How can I do that, with your mother having a baby?”

“Nonna, for God's sake—you're eighty years old! No
body, least of all Nedra, would expect you to help raise another baby at this point in your life! Hey, you want to go live with Sonya, you go live with Sonya, okay?”

“And who will be there for your mother?”

I cross my arms, my mouth thinning. “The one who should have been there all along. Me.”

“But you will get married someday, move out again—”

“Hey, not your problem, okay? My mother, my responsibility.”

Nonna lifts a napkin to her nose, honks into it, then nods. “Your mama, she isa very lucky.”

“Damn straight. Now let's go pick out a few of these to take home, okay?”

Unable to decide what Nedra might like, we get a half dozen different goodies so she can choose. I suggest a taxi—it's only five short blocks north, but the two long crosstown blocks are killers—but Nonna insists she'd rather walk. So we do, Nonna completely hidden from me by the beige umbrella she's carrying to shield her from the sun. Which suddenly shifts to one side so she can squint up at me through her glasses.

“In church, I light a candle for your mama, pray to the Virgin Mother. I hear the Holy Mother whisper your mama will be fine. Baby will be fine. You will see.” She squints at me. “Is a gift, this child. Like Sarah's Isaac, in the Bible.”