Now I See You (29 page)

BOOK: Now I See You

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goes her laugh. She gives herself over so fully to the joy of it, and so do I, warm and full with the sound of it.

When she’s finished laughing, I switch her over to nurse on the other side where she tugs away with renewed vigor.

I lay my head back on the blanket that covers the chair, a pink and green striped number that Nonny knit for me when I was a teenager. Nonny is the baby’s best friend. When she sees her great-grandmother, Lucia’s face lights up and she pumps her little arms up and down like she’s about to achieve lift-off. I can hear them singing Italian lullabies together as soon as I get off the elevator to pick Lucia up from my grandmother’s apartment; there’s Nonny’s vibrato on top and Lucia’s just as loud underneath, only without words. Thinking of this puts me in a melodic mood so I start singing Nonny’s favorite
ninna-nanna,
the same one she sang to me, the same one I sang to Rosa and Lorenzo.

E stato il vento che ha fatta cadere la cana
…

Lorenzo always laughs when he hears me sing this, ever since I translated the words for him. He was delighted to discover the lyrics weren’t about stars a-twinkling and cradles a-rocking, as he’d assumed. He likes to sing along but in English: “I walked down the streeeeet and came to a restauraaaaant. Give me half a carafe of wiiiiiine. Daddy wants to goooo toooo sleeeeep.”

As soon as she hears my voice, the baby stops nursing and croons along.

“Ahhhhhhhh,” she intones, like a Gregorian monk. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh.”

Her chanting is interrupted by a yawn. She finds her way back to the breast and nurses again, her rhythm slowing. With one hand, she reaches up toward my throat to grab hold of the necklace she knows is there.

When Rosa was born, David gave me the necklace: a silver chain with two thin disc-shaped pendants hanging off. One disc read “Rosa” and the other “Lorenzo” and on the backs were the kids’ birthdates. When Lucia was born, I added a disc to the mix. Now when I walk, the pendants jangle like bells and the tintinnabulation reminds me of what a full family we are.

David, instead, wears tattoos. On one pec “Lorenzo,” on the other “Rosa,” and for Lucia’s first birthday, he’ll get her name on his left deltoid, opposite the place where my name is. Then he’ll be balanced, a quartet of names making things symmetrical. The tattoos are beautiful and I’ve thought about getting a set of my own. But I don’t need them; my body is already marked by my children. The faded stretch marks on my abdomen. The teardrop shape of my breasts. The creases on my forehead and the crow’s feet. I don’t know the marks you’d find in the cellular material of my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever the loss, it was nothing compared to what I’ve gained.

When Lucia was born, I couldn’t stop crying. I was overcome by hormones and nerves to be sure, but also by gratitude. I just kept breaking down and thanking David. It was different from when I had Lorenzo and Rosa, not because I was happier or more grateful but because I knew how close we’d come to missing this. When I thought of how we almost chose No, almost chose to play it safe, my heart ached with relief. How lucky I was. The word
treasure
doesn’t encompass it.

I feel the same thing now, rocking Lucia in the dark. There is nothing missing from the moment. The fact that I can’t see her takes nothing away. Maybe it’s because in the morning, I will see her again. But maybe it’s because even without my eyes, there is enough. I stroke the curve of her cranium. I breathe in her slightly sour milk smell. I listen to the soft moaning sounds that signal she’s almost asleep. This isn’t just enough. It’s an unimaginable abundance.

From the other room, I hear a lull in proceedings and then David’s voice again reading
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
. It’s Lorenzo’s turn to choose a story. In the chapter I read to the kids last night; Aslan was killed. Tonight, I think, he will be resurrected.

Lucia lets go of my necklace and pulls her tiny fist back.
Thump
. She pats my sternum.

It’s what she does when she’s about to drift off to sleep, a soothing technique like rubbing feet together or twirling hair around a finger. She’s probably mirroring the way I pat her after she nurses, to bring up bubbles. But I can’t imagine my patting soothes her as much as hers does me. She pats my chest again, her own inimitable rhythm

Thump Thump Thump

Her pudgy fist lands a little below my collarbone, on the right side. Just where my heart is beating, slow and steady, full to bursting with wonder.

Thump Thump

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It takes a village to raise a child and nothing less to make a book, Without the tireless support of the following people, and many others too numerous to name, this book would not have been possible. Profound thanks.

To my agent and stalwart advocate, Michael Bourret: thank you for believing in me even when all I had to offer was a picture book about a disfigured alley cat. To my editor Sara Goodman, for her impeccable guidance and faith. Your vision breathed life into this book; thanks for taking a leap of faith.

To all the big brains at St.Martin’s for their incredible efforts in support of the book: Lisa Senz, Kelsey Lawrence and everyone in sales and marketing, the wonderful Katie Bassel, glamorous Angie Glammarino, and Susannah Noel.

To Ryan Knighton and Jim Knipfel, whose haunting, hysterical memoirs on blindness were revelations, personally and professionally: thanks for letting me join the RP Boy’s Club. To the illustrious Domenica Ruta, Alice Bradley, Rachel DeWoskin, and Jenny Bowman, for reading the book and offering such kind words of support.

To Debra Nussbaum Cohen, for allowing me to imagine the impossible. My youngest child thanks you, too, for that.

To the members of the FFB group, Park Slope chapter, whose generosity of spirit, ingenuity, and courage are an inspiration. Thank you for welcoming me into your folds. You can’t cure my RP, but you may yet treat my whopping case of Denial.

To all my doctors, but especially to Dr. Jacobson and his team of Mensa card-carrying geniuses, who are in the business of making miracles. Thank you, not just for your indefatigable research but for the gift of hope.

To Grace Quinones, sent to my doorstep with her bag of tricks by a higher power. I am profoundly grateful for your kindness, your warmth, and your saintly patience.

To those illimitably generous souls who serve not just as my readers but as my cheerleaders and my dear, dear friends: Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, Claire Lundberg, Emily Raboteau, and the woman who restores my sanity daily, Kimberly McCreight. A million thanks to all of you for suffering through draft upon draft, for answering dumb and incessant questions, for brainstorming, problem solving, and never once saying, “Enough already!” even when it clearly was. Without your sage counsel, my book would be a steaming pile of dung, and without your friendship, I couldn’t make it through the day.

To Michelle Flax, Merrie Kohlert, and Amelia Shaw, for endless encouragement and compassion.

To the world’s greatest in-laws, Dan and Susie Greengold, for their love and unwavering support in every possible way. A special shout-out to Meg Greengold, who rescued the title of this book.

To the fierce and beautiful Cavaricci women—Franca, Alanna, and Sidney—for undying loyalty and faith (and countless hours of babysitting).

To Melissa Harty, my first partner in greatness, who has had my back ever since she sang backup in my Madonna cover band at the age of six. To Courtney Caccavo, for seeing greatness in me. I will aspire to fill the mammoth shoes of the Nicole-saurus you imagined me to be.

I could write a whole other book describing the debt owed to my parents, my indomitable, selfless, loyal parents, Dr. Nicholas and Margaret Caccavo. Thank you for loving me intensely, completely, without bounds or qualifications. Thank you for being there, always—when I needed you, when I didn’t, and when I insisted I didn’t but really did anyway. Thank you for making the right decisions even when they weren’t easy, for working tirelessly so I didn’t have to, for telling me over and over again that I could be anything I wanted to be. Everything I am is because of you.

To my children. Since the moment each of you were born, you have been the cures, the miracles, the reasons why. I’m terrifically proud of this book, but you are my greatest creations, and ever will be. I thank you for bringing a light into my life that can never be extinguished, for blessing my days with boundless joy, laughter, and meaning. More than anything, though, I thank God for giving you to me, my bella, my nina, and my beamish boy, three gifts beyond all imagining, gifts I will work my life to deserve.

To my best friend, my partner in all things, the root of the root and the bud of the bud, my husband, David. There is no force greater than my love for you, except perhaps my debt to you, which defies measure and description. You gave me the seed of this book and the water and sunlight I used to make it grow. Thank you for your keen eye, your discerning ear, your strength, your generosity, your patience, your great, selfless sacrifices. Thank you for our family. Thank you for a love that makes everything always possible. ’Til the wheels come off, and after that, too.

And to my grandmother, Verusca Zangoli Cavaricci, who made me me. You have taught me by example how to be a mother, a daughter, and a sister, a storyteller and a friend, a person of faith and goodness.
Mille graze per tutti i doni che mi hai dato: le canzoni, i racconti, le cene, per le lacrime e i sorrisi, e per il tuo grande amore. Ti voglio tanto, ma tanto bene, per sempre.

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