The Namesake (18 page)

“Yeah, Mom. I just … ”

“What is it?”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

“I won’t ever leave you. I promise.”

Her features do that liquid dance again as she tries to keep from crying.

Before she can speak, I say, “I’ll skip encounter. I don’t need to go.”

She stuns me with, “No, Evan. I want you to go. Maybe it will be good for you.”

Back in my room, I realize I never talked to her about Mister Alberti’s daughter, or shared what I know about Father Fran. Maybe it’s best if I keep his secret for now.

I shoot Lex a quick text:
L, mission accomplished. talk soon
. I don’t have the energy for details.

After last night, I felt like we’d made a breakthrough, finally understood each other a little better. Closer.

So I got up early to surprise Mom with her favorite: stuffed French toast. The recipe’s in this cookbook from a B&B where they stayed before I arrived and their marriage imploded. Dad always made breakfast on special occasions: anniversaries, Mother’s Day. Convincing myself there’s nothing creepy about fixing your mother a big morning-after feast, I went all out.

I even used that little plastic tool and carved her apple into a flower shape. Now I’m faced with the consequences of eating double everything: French toast, bacon, yogurt with berries, fruit cup, coffee, OJ. Oof.

As I approached her bedroom with the breakfast tray, I saw a sheet of flower fairy stationery on the hall table. She’d chosen the Forget-me-not Fairy, a blue-petaled infant, nested in a bed of leaves. The fairy tot was certainly cuter than either Evan baby.

The note said:

Surprise. Guess it’ll take more than one night for her to adapt to interacting like real people. I sat on her bed, studying my brother’s baby book, and polished off everything on her tray. Looking at the pictures seemed to make me hungrier, so I went to the kitchen, ate the rest. At this rate, I may end up the subject of a reality show: Ten-Ton Teen.

At the counter, I reread the note, with its tiny x. and o. (who punctuates a kiss and hug?), and say, “Well, it’ll be nice to see Aunt Reg, anyway.” Then I spread Mom’s note in the sink and trickle bacon grease on top, watching how it blooms across the page, darkening the flower babe’s cheeks, smearing Mom’s words.

I soap the dishes. The water’s extra hot; I hold my hands under as long as I can, like a test. After flopping on the couch in my pjs, I veg to cartoons. A couple mind-deadening hours later, I realize Aunt Reg’ll be arriving anytime to taxi me to Alberti’s.

I’m barely through showering when the doorbell rings. Pulling on yesterday’s clothes, I yell, “One sec!” From my bedroom window, I spot Aunt Ro, not Reg, on the stoop, tinged pink with cold. I prep for her gardenia chokehold, the inevitable interrogation: “How do you FEEEEEL, Ev? Okay? Have you asked your little friend out? Do you want to talk about your dad?”

I open the door.

“Hey, Aunt Rosemary.”

“Evan,” she pushes into the living room, “have you eaten? You look so thin!”

I burp in reply, then add, “I’m fine Aunt Ro. We better get going.” Scooping my backpack from the closet, I pull on my coat, flip up the hood to protect against her laser gaze more than the cold.

The second she starts the car, I switch on the radio — great, AM oldies — hoping to deflect her concentration, praying for clear roads and quiet. We pull from the driveway and head slowly up Madison. I feel her watching me from the corner of her eye, sense her emitting waves of urgent compassion. I hum along to “Love Potion Number 9.”

She pushes a button on her steering wheel, the audio commandeer, I think it’s called, silencing the radio. Under other circumstances this would be a mercy (remember, it’s “Love Potion Number 9”), but Aunt Ro’s like nature, only instead of vacuums, she abhors silence. I brace, press my feet to the floor like a nervous driving instructor working the phantom brake.

“So, your mom tells me you’ve gotten a job.”

“Uh huh.”

“Care to tell me about it?”

Now she’s deliberately
not
looking at me, like Grand Duchess Nonchalant. Obviously, she knows all about Alberti’s.
She’s driving me there for cripe’s sake!

“Didn’t my mother already fill you in?”

“Weeeeell,” she stretches the word to about six syllables, annoyed by my smart-ass tone, “I was interested in hearing it from you, but since you’re feeling so put upon, skip it.”

I swear she’s Mom’s sister, not Dad’s. She’s got that whole rigid vibe down.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be pissy. It’s just … can’t we please cut the crap?”

“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Evan.”

“Yeah, fine whatever. Obviously you already know about the mural. Right?”

“Your mother may have mentioned it, yes.”

“So you know I’m finishing it. You probably also know Gramp told me about my dead brother. Can we stop pretending I’m two years old and need protecting? I’m sick to death of it!”

“Okay. I see how it is: Rosemary as Emotional Whack-a-Mole. What else is new?”

Jabbing a lacquered nail at the wheel, flicking on the radio, she clacks her tongue against her teeth. “Hound Dog” plays, slightly off station, but she makes no move to change it.

I’ll never beat her in a battle of seething. Besides, I have been sort of a prick. I lower the volume and my hood.

“Look, Aunt Ro, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I appreciate the ride.”

She doesn’t respond; keeps her eyes bolted to the traffic light; rapidly nail-taps the wheel. We finally get a green, and turn onto Aurora, her rhythm slowing.

“So, work’s okay. The Alberti’s are wild, like the anti-Galloways: all noise and big emotions. Funny as anything. With the fireworks in the kitchen, it’s remarkable they serve a single meal, but — ”

“They should’ve told you.”

“Excuse me?”

“About the baby. I always felt they should have told you.”

“Thanks.”

Then, as I’m about to bring up Father Fran, a slab of ice hits the windshield. Aunt Ro shrieks, pumping the brakes. We fishtail into a snow bank, back bumper whumping crusted snow. As I jump out, a couple kids, probably fourth or fifth graders, skid around the corner.

Aunt Ro joins me on the sidewalk to inspect her Saturn — no damage. I grab my stuff and give her a quick hug. Alberti’s is only a block away; she seems relieved to be rid of me.

At the front entrance, I sense something’s wrong. The closed sign’s still up. I slide on ice by the kitchen entrance. It’s wide open and I can hear Angie yelling inside.

When I walk in, she and Lupo are toe to toe, like they’re about to slow dance. I hesitate for a second, ’til Lupo embraces her. Afraid to witness some icky, cousin-on-cousin action, I clear my throat. They turn. Silence. Normal for Lupo. But a speechless Angie cannot be good.

Something’s up. The kitchen even smells off. It’s obvious! Nothing’s cooking. I stammer into the odd tension.

“Hey, uh. Sorry I’m late. Mom left early this morning. Had to get a ride from my aunt.
That
was a fiasco; some kids nearly put an ice grenade through her windshield.”

I pause for some reply, but they just stare, and I realize Angie’s been crying.

She says, “You’ll need to get a ride back home. Lupo and I are leavin’.”

Lupo nods, actually starts to speak, but Angie stops him with a yank on his apron.

“Oh — everything okay?”

“Fine.”

It’s a three-way staring match. Angie’s got this you-can’t-make-me-talk look; I just plain don’t know what to say; and Lupo, well, he’s just Lupo.

I’m starting toward the dining room for a quick look at the mural, when Angie suddenly comes to life, grabbing my wrist.

“What do you think you’re doin’?”

“I wanted to check the mural before I go, get some ideas. I’ll only be a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute. Go!”

“Angie, you can’t just throw me out. At least tell me what’s going on.”

She loosens her grip and says, “We need to get to Saint Luke’s, okay?”

Quick-scanning for visible signs of kitchen injury — sautéed forehead, missing thumbs — I ask, “The hospital? Jeez, what’s the matter?”

“It’s my dad.”

As I glance at Lupo, he looks away, head shaking slightly.

“Is he all right?”

She just looks down, twists her gold bracelet.

“Angie, is he all right?”

“I don’t know! Evan, Lupo found him this morning in the yard. In his pajamas again, all tangled in this plastic tarp. I think he was tryin’ to get at my mother’s roses. He had the pruning shears out — in the middle of winter! He don’t know what he’s doing anymore. God knows how long he was out there, practically froze solid.”

“But he’ll be all right?”

“They’re not sure. He’s unconscious. He opened his eyes in the ambulance, tried talkin’, but he wasn’t making no sense. Not just screwy the way he gets either, the words were all mangled, like he couldn’t remember how to talk. I hope to God it’s not a stroke on top of everything else.”

“Well, we should get down there. I’ll go with you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

She purses her lips so tight they’re rimmed white. “Just NO. Okay?”

Before I know what’s going on, Angie’s Honda’s gone, and I’m solo on the sidewalk.

The car shrinks to nothing as she coasts through the intersection and heads downtown. I begin walking after them. Shoving hands in pockets, I count the change there. Down the block, I duck into a bus shelter. Won’t be long before one comes; I’ll thaw on the way.

There’s a preponderance of marble; the escalator’s gigantic, like something from Ancient Rome. I half expect Christians and lions to descend in tandem. Comfy chair, though, like sitting in a giant catcher’s mitt. Of course, I’ve never seen a catcher’s mitt in lavender.

It’s a pastel oasis, everything muted to uniform value. Muted = soothing, soothing = good. I guess. But this intentional quality — this forced calmbience — makes me nervous.

I mean, I know color theory. Hit me with cool gray-greens, hints of placid blue, a dollop of beige, I think,
Okay. You want me sedate
. And that makes me freakin’ nervous.

Or maybe the situation’s got me frazzed. After waiting sixteen minutes, I was chanting, “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” when the bus appeared. I was the lone passenger, and the driver went out of his way to be nice, apparently enjoying the company. He kept asking: Was I warm enough? Did I want a mint? Was the radio too loud?

I wanted to yell, “Drive the f@*king bus, already!” but, figuring that was a mite rude, I just clenched him a smile. He finally dropped me at the stop closest to the hospital.

Bolting off, I heard him call, “Have a sparkling day!”

But now, after nearly breaking my neck running the last icy block, I’ve stalled in the lobby. Scared, I suppose. I doubt Angie will welcome me; plus, I’m not sure what I’d hoped to achieve by coming. But I needed to — just in case. I’d hit the chapel, but I forget where it is.

Incredibly, I’m hungry; it’s been a while since mega-breakfast. I consider paying a visit to the mauve-and-beige vendor cart; it’s like a snack Xanadu at the foot of the escalators. You can get warm pretzels, ice cream bars, and cappuccino. They also offer organic treats and sugar-free diabetic options. This is a hospital after all.

I decide against purchasing for two reasons: 1) I’m flat broke (the bus ride did me in), and 2) I’m a little shell-shocked. So I just sit, reluctant to leave my cushy chair embrace for the soothing-shade-of-green info desk. What would I say? “Good afternoon, tranquil-hued volunteer, can I get the room number of a patient I’ve been told not to visit?”

Yeah, that’d go over big.

This is really not how I’d envisioned today. Wonder what Lex and Tyler are doing — yish! — best not go there. Instead, I focus on the people sharing my serene digs: A group across the lobby, circled in their own pleather mitts, converse in animatedly hushed tones. Their demeanor screams support group — but quietly.

To my left, a procession of fretful relatives. Shoulders shaped like worry, they glide toward an arch marked (uh oh) Oncology. I’m relieved when they hesitate, change course, pass through a door etched Rheumatology instead. Better chronic than terminal.

On the wall opposite the info desk are two doors. One bears the universal men’s room sign. To its right is another, marked Hospital Chaplain. I briefly mull approaching one, but I’m not sure which I need most. I’m recalling Gran’s horror stories about hospital restrooms — “germ incubators,” she calls them — but the chaplain’s door has visible cobwebs. I stay put.

“Inertia, thy name is Galloway.” Crap, I said that out loud, judging by the faces of the support circle, anyway. Embarrassment urges me toward the horseshoe-shaped counter.

“Can I help you?”

I hear Mrs. S-B-C’s voice in my head:
I don’t know; CAN you?
I resist flaunting my grammar skills. I mean, the old lady’s just trying to help. Can? May? Who cares?

Her nametag says Iris in jiggly cursive. She’s taken obvious care matching the ink to her earrings and eye shadow, all a suitable-to-the-pastel-environs blue.

“Um … yes, I … I hope so. I’m here to visit a patient.”

“Name?”

“Evan Galloway.”

“One moment.” Twisting in the violet rolly-chair, she scans her monitor, apparently finishing what I interrupted. About three minutes in, lower lip pooched like a tiny, pink diving board, she says, “Sorry, there’s no one by that name. Maybe you want Bradford.”

“What?”

“Hospital. Maybe you want Bradford Hospital,” she wrinkles her nose in distaste, “the
other one
. Across town.”

I just blink, positive Angie said Saint Luke’s, then I repeat, “What?”

Huffing, sliding her glasses down her sizable nose, she glares over pale lilac rims. “Young man, I have no one named Ethan Gallaghan on the patient database.” She seems to savor the words “patient database” on her tongue.

I’m wondering if she’s an escapee from the idiot ward, then I realize I’m the one having a brain stutter. “Oh, sorry!
I’m
Ethan Gallaghan.” It’s best she doesn’t know my real name.

Her lips tighten into a perturbed o.

“When you said, ‘Name?’ I thought you wanted
my
name. But you meant the patient’s name — obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Ignoring her withering tone, I say, “Right, the patient’s name, Giuseppe Alberti.”

Immediately efficient, she tabs down her screen. “Alberti? Like the restaurant? Okie-doke. Just gimme a sec. Yep, I’ve got a Joe Alberti. He came in around eight this morning, through the ER. He’s in ICU. You’re family?”

I don’t hesitate; thanks, amygdala. “Yes. I’m his grandson.”

Her eyebrows stretch to their upper limits. “Gallaghan?”

“Yeah,” I match her snippiness quotient, “my mom’s his daughter, Theresa Alberti
Gallaghan
.”

“Okay then. You’ll find him on nine. Down the hall. Take the Father McGivney elevator to three, hook a left past the cafeteria. Then take the Pierpont elevator. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

I sprint down the hallway, surrendering to the urgency that’s been nibbling my brain since the restaurant.