Total Rush (15 page)

“Gem.” Michael's voice was gentle. “One of us can always call to speak with the doctor afterwards.”

But Gemma was adamant. “I'm going, Michael. To hell with hurting my mother's feelings. This is Nonna we're talking about here.
Nonna.
No way am I going to rely on Heckle and Jeckle to come back and give us a report. You and Theresa call me when the appointment's made and I'll go with my mother and Millie.”

“Okay,” said Michael, sounding dubious. He checked his watch and stood. “I hate to depress and run, but I've got to get to Met Gar.” He rustled Gemma's sleeve. “You gonna be okay, chooch?”

“Yes. You?”

Michael nodded, wrapping his arms around her in a big bear hug. “As soon as Theresa gets an appointment, I'll call you. Meantime, try not to worry.”

But that was easier said than done. Gemma decided to visit her grandmother.

 

 

Ever since she
was little, Gemma loved the smell of Nonna's house. It smelled fresh, as if her grandmother had just finished spring cleaning right before you visited. It wasn't until she was older that Gemma realized the scent permeating Nonna's home was rosemary. Nonna grew it in pots around the house as well as outside in her postage stamp-sized yard. Gemma loved to sit on the front stoop on summer evenings and wait for a passing breeze to help envelop her in its scent. Even now, no matter where she was, the smell of rosemary always brought her straight back to her childhood, and to happy times spent in Bensonhurst with the woman who made her feel special.

Gemma phoned ahead of time to let Nonna know she'd be stopping by the next evening. Even so, Nonna's face creased with surprise as she swung open the front door.

“
Bella!
I wish you'd told me you were coming, I'd have bought some biscotti!”

Gemma's heart sank. “I did tell you, Nonna. Last night. On the phone. Remember?”

“Oh, right, right,” Nonna said hastily, ushering Gemma inside. Gemma sensed Nonna knew she was starting to forget things but was trying to cover up.

Gemma held up a paper bag. “I brought the biscotti, so you don't have to worry.”

“Perfetto!”
Nonna clasped her gnarled hands together in delight. “Come, we'll make some espresso, yes?”

“Okay.” Gemma wasn't sure her nervous system, only recently introduced to the world of caffeine, would be able to handle Nonna's espresso. The family joke was that it could be used to tar roofs in an emergency. Screw it. One cup of espresso was not going to kill her.

Following her grandmother into the kitchen, she was shocked by the sight of the sagging, water-stained ceiling.

“Have you called Mr. Rosetti yet?” Gemma asked, referring to the sheet rock contractor whom her father had known for years. “You really need to get the ceiling replaced as soon as possible, Nonna.”

Nonna glanced up at the ceiling. “I will, I will. Everything in its time.” She fluttered her hands at Gemma. “Sit, sit.”

Gemma sat, carefully watching her grandmother prepare the espresso. Her movements were as steady and sure as ever. She knew where the coffee was kept, she measured out the right amount, she knew how to turn the machine on. So far, so good.

“So,
bella,
” Nonna said as she arranged the biscotti on a plate, “tell me what's new and exciting.”

“Nothing. Well, something,” Gemma amended. “Someone.”

Nonna's eyes lit up. “Yes?”

“His name is Sean Kennealy. He's a firefighter.”

Nonna's face fell. “Irish?”

“Yeess,” Gemma chastised, half rising from her chair in case Nonna needed help getting into hers. But she was fine.

Nonna sighed. “I guess it's too much to hope for that you would find an Italian boy.”

“What's wrong with an Irish boy?”

Nonna's tiny, gnarled fingers curled around a piece of biscotti. “They drink too much.”

Gemma frowned, disappointed. “Not true and you know it.”

Nonna bit down on her cookie. “I know what I know.”

“In this case you're wrong.”

“So, this Irish boy.” Gemma loved that her grandmother referred to a thirty-five-year-old man as a “boy.” “Are you making sex with him?”

“Nonna!” Gemma couldn't believe her grandmother would say such a thing.

“That's all men want, the sex,” Nonna groused. “You tell them no, they say yes. Poking, poking, poking until you give way.”

Gemma stared at her grandmother in disbelief. Who was this woman sitting across the table from her? She had never heard Nonna talk this way. Never. She knew her grandmother was devilish and irreverent, but this was something different. Correction: This was someone different.

“Nonna,” Gemma repeated, her voice gentler this time. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I'm feeling fine,” Nonna snapped. “Why?”

“Nothing, you're just talking strange, is all.”

“Nothing strange about the truth,
cara.
”

Perhaps it was cruel, but Gemma decided to conduct a little test. “What happened to the ceiling, Nonna?”

Ignoring her, Nonna rose from the table to check the espresso machine.

“Nonna?”

“Someone left the water running,” Nonna mumbled. “That's what Michael says.”

“Someone?”

Nonna was silent.

Gemma rose and put her arms around her grandmother. “You don't remember, do you, Non? You don't remember leaving the taps on.”

“No,” Nonna whispered. Her expression was desperate. “But don't tell. Don't tell.”

“I won't tell,” Gemma promised, steering her grandmother back to the table. “Here, you sit. I'll get the espresso.”

“I keep forgetting things. But I don't remember forgetting. Maybe I'm
ubatz.
Who knows?”

“You're not crazy.”

“Then why else—?”

“I don't know,” Gemma said, preparing the espresso. “But we're going to find out.” She turned around to check her grandmother's expression, surprised to see the suspicion in her eyes.

“Who's we?” Nonna demanded.

“Me, mom, and Aunt Millie. We're going to take you to a special doctor and we're going to get to the bottom of what's wrong.”

“I'll tell you what's wrong,” Nonna said, huffing. “Your mother comes creeping around here every day, poking, prying, asking questions. She thinks I don't know she steals my tomatoes, either. She should mind her own business, that one. And Millie! I should have drowned that one at birth. Her and Betty Anne.”

Gemma flinched. Some alien had possessed her grandmother. That was all there was to it.

“Don't say things like that,” Gemma admonished. “It's not nice.”

“I'm old. I don't have to be nice.”

Gemma laughed. Now that sounded like her grandmother. Maybe all wasn't lost.

Nonna took a sip of espresso, declaring it splendid. Gemma did the same and almost passed the black sludge through her nose. It was beyond horrible: It was toxic. Her first sip would be her last.

“Do you want to hear more about my boyfriend?” Gemma asked, trying to get off the topic of her mother and her two aunts, who apparently were lucky to have survived infancy.

“Sure,” Nonna said eagerly. “I want to hear every blessed detail.”

Gemma told her as much as she deemed necessary and flattering.

“Does he know about
La Stregheria?
” Nonna asked.

Gemma nodded.

“And—?”

“He's a little confused by it,” Gemma admitted.

“Confused you can work with. Fear you can't.” Nonna reached across the table for Gemma's hand. As always, Gemma was shocked by how cold it was. Cold but soft, the sweet scent of Jergen's lotion wafting up to her nostrils. Gemma loved that scent. Almond. It was Nonna's scent.

“This is what I'm going to do,” Nonna said, squeezing Gemma's hand. “I'm going to light a candle for you at St. Finbar's on Sunday, and pray to the BVM that all your dreams come true.”

Gemma was touched. “Thank you.”

“And then,” Nonna mumbled, turning away as she rose to get a refill of espresso, “I'm going to say a special prayer to the
querciola
for you.”

Gemma leaned forward, straining to hear. “What did you just say?”

Nonna looked confused. “What?”

“Just now. Who did you say you would pray to?”

Nonna looked thoughtful. Then her expression faded into one of blankness. She shook her head slowly. “I don't remember.”

Gemma let it go. But the word—
querciola
—stuck in her mind. It sounded familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. She'd have to poke around, do some research when she got home.

 

 

“
That was Peter
Gabriel with ‘Shock the Monkey.' Before that, Elvis Costello told us to ‘Pump It Up'—Yes, sir!—and we started the set with a classic from AC/DC, ‘You Shook Me All Night Long.' Stay tuned, weather coming at ya in just five minutes.”

Going to commercial, Frankie whipped off her headphones and stared at Gemma in disbelief. “Excuse me, what did you just say?”

“I think my grandmother might be a witch.”

Frankie looked doubtful as she hopped off her chair to load a stack of CDs back in their cases. It was Saturday afternoon, and she was filling in for another jock. It felt odd to Gemma to see her in the studio in the daytime.

“I told her about Sean, right? And in addition to telling me she'd say a prayer to the BVM—”

“Who?”

“It's Catholic shorthand for the Blessed Virgin Mary: BVM.”

“Sounds like a terrorist group, but go on.”

“She mumbled something about saying a special prayer to the
querciola.
So I looked it up. According to one of my books on Italian witchcraft, the
querciola
are special spirits who look out for lovers.”

“Gemma, no way is your grandmother a witch. The woman practically lives at St. Finbar's.”

“Maybe she's both.”

“Wouldn't that qualify as a ‘Pass Go, Proceed Directly to Hell'-type situation?”

“How else would you explain it, then?”

“She's old and she was born in Italy, right?” Frankie trekked across the worn carpet of the studio and began putting CDs away. “It's probably something she heard about when she was a child, some old superstition.” Gemma frowned. “C'mon, Gem, think about it. Your grandmother's house has more religious imagery per square inch than the Vatican.”

“True.” She shrugged. “I just thought it was interesting, that's all.”

Her eyes followed Frankie as she hustled back to the control board, pressing a button that launched into another commercial. She loved watching Frankie at work—she had impeccable timing honed after years of practice, not to mention between-song patter she made look effortless. Frankie was in her element in the studio.

“I see you're not wearing your hat,” said Gemma.

“Nope.”

“The baldness has cleared up, then?”

“Scoff all you want,” Frankie said heatedly, “but my hairline is receding. Just not as badly as I thought.”

“And the sunglasses? Are you hung over?”

“No.”

“What's the deal, then?”

“I think I'm developing cataracts.” She slipped her headphones back on. Gemma held still while the ON AIR sign above the studio door lit up. “It's fifty-five degrees and sunny in Midtown Manhattan on this glorious Saturday afternoon. Don't know about you, but I can't think of a better way to celebrate the day than with a little taste o' the Fabs.” Frankie hit a button and the opening chords of “Good Day Sunshine” filled the studio. She turned to Gemma. “Go ahead and laugh. Accuse me of being a hypochondriac.”

“I didn't say anything!”

“You didn't have to.” Frankie lowered the sunglasses, squinting. “Bright lights hurt my eyes. That's one of the symptoms.”

“You know, God forbid you ever do have anything seriously wrong with you. No one will believe you.”

Frankie stuck out her tongue before pushing the glasses back up her nose and turning to a nearby computer. “What did your grandmother have to say about Sean?” she asked, typing.

“What do you think? She's disappointed he's not Italian.”

“Have you met his firefighting buddies yet?”

“No.”

“I'm surprised. I always thought firefighters thought of their comrades as their second family.”

The observation pricked at Gemma. She'd met his flesh-and-blood family. Didn't that count?

“
You
still haven't met Sean.”

“Correction: Sean hasn't met
me.
Let's not get confused over who's more important here.”

Gemma chuckled. “True.” She took a sip of the tea she'd brought with her in a thermos. “Think I should say something? About meeting his friends?”

“Absolutely.” Frankie turned to her. “And find out if he has any single friends while you're at it.”

“You serious?”

“I wouldn't mind putting an end to my dating drought.”

“Hhmm.” In all honesty, Gemma couldn't imagine Frankie with a firefighter. She tended to be attracted to more flamboyant types: musicians, foreign jugglers, performance artists who smeared their body with crude oil to protest foreign cartels, that type of thing. The more offbeat the man, the more intrigued Frankie was. And that's when it hit her.