Total Rush (31 page)

Uther stared back at her in disbelief. Then he started to yell.

“You trollop! You and your friend—trollops both! You think I can't do better than you, you base, dissembling harlot? You think you can send me packing just like that? You—”

“I'll give you ten seconds to get out of here,” Gemma said calmly as she picked up the phone. “Then I'm calling the cops.”

“I SHALL NOT BE BESTED THIS WAY, LADY!” he railed as he stormed to the front of the store. “YOU HAVE AROUSED MY WARRIOR SPIRIT!”

“Oh, sweet God in heaven, please get out of here, you raving lunatic,” Gemma moaned to herself as he finally slammed the door, leaving her in blessed silence. Sighing, she put the phone back in its cradle.

“
We go to
Mass.” Nonna sounded peevish as she peered down from the edge of her sagging bed at Gemma, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was gingerly trying to trim her grandmother's yellowing toenails.

“No Mass. I'm doing your toenails. Now sit still.”

“We go to Mass!”

“No.” Taking a deep breath, Gemma gently grabbed Nonna's left foot with her left hand and tried to trim her big toe with the right. But it was no use: Whether deliberate or not, Nonna kicked at her, hitting Gemma squarely in the chest with the heel of her foot.

“SON OF A GODDAMN BITCH!” Gemma yelled, throwing the clipper across the room, where it landed on the wooden floor with a thud. Shamed, she glanced up at her grandmother, who looked on the verge of tears. But it was Gemma who began to cry, covering her face with her hands.

“I'm sorry,” she sobbed through the screen of her fingers. “I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm sorry.” But inside she thought:
Yes, I did mean to yell. It was either that or pop you one. I did mean to yell because you're driving me nuts. I know you can't help it, but my nerves are shot. I'm tired, I'm overworked, I'm alone . . .

She was beginning to understand what drove caregivers to elder abuse. It was desperation. Frustration. Anyone who claimed they could “never do anything like that” was, in Gemma's all-too-expert opinion, lying through their holier-than-thou teeth. Either that or they'd never taken care of someone with Alzheimer's.

“Cara?”
Nonna's voice was nervous, like that of a recently scolded child.

Gemma lowered her hands from her face. “Yes?”

“We go to Mass?” she asked eagerly.

“Oh, God.” Snot was streaming from Gemma's nose. She wiped it onto the arm of her sweatshirt before reaching up to take Nonna's cold, little hands in her own. “It's nighttime, honey. There is no Mass. Plus it's Wednesday, not Sunday.
Capisce?
”

Nonna nodded, smiling, but Gemma could see from the confusion clouding her eyes that she may as well have been speaking Swahili. “Can I finish your nails, please?”

Nonna nodded again. Crawling across the floor, Gemma retrieved the clipper and resumed the task at hand. She didn't mind doing it, though judging by the length of Nonna's nails, she seemed to be the only one willing.

Nonna snorted disgustedly. “I should be doing this myself.”

“It's okay. I don't mind.” Gemma shook her head, mystified. There it was, the old lucidity, the old proudness. It seemed to come and go without any rhyme or reason. Gemma loved when the Nonna she knew and loved suddenly appeared, fully present and conversant. It felt like a gift.

“There. All done.” The last of the toenails clipped, Gemma gathered them up and threw them in the nearby trash can.

“What are you doing?” Nonna screeched, shuffling to the garbage can. Picking it up, she dumped it out on her bed. “You don't throw nails out! You want your enemies to be able to put a spell on you? Burn or bury, burn or bury! What's the matter with you?”

Gemma watched in fascination as her grandmother began picking through the wadded-up tissues and candy wrappers, searching for her nails.

“Nonna,” she asked quietly, “are you a witch?”

Nonna muttered something and continued collecting the nails from among the refuse.

“Nonna, are you?” Gemma asked again, louder this time. “
La Stregheria?
You?
Sì?
”

Her grandmother turned to her.

“Sì,”
she whispered.

“I knew it!” Joining her grandmother at the bed, she began helping her retrieve the nails. “Why didn't you tell me? Why have you kept it hidden?”

Nonna cast her a knowing, sidelong glance. “You knew. I didn't have to tell you.” She chucked Gemma's chin. “
Stregheria,
we know one another, yes?”

“Yes. But why did you keep it hidden? And why do you go to church?”

“Because I love God. One is the old way; one is the new way. When I came to this country, I took up the new way, but didn't forget the old. Who says you have to worship in only one way? Besides, my boyfriend doesn't mind the old way.”

Gemma froze. “Your boyfriend?” Nonna was obviously sailing off into the outer dimensions of her own mind again.

“Him.” Nonna pointed to the picture of Christ hanging above her dresser, one with dewy eyes that followed you wherever you went. It had always given Gemma the creeps.

“That's your boyfriend, huh?”

“I love him and he loves me. Here.” She held out the collected toenails to Gemma. “You'll burn these, yes?”

Gemma took a fresh tissue from the nightstand and wrapped the nails in them before pocketing them. “Yes.”

“One more thing.” Nonna fumbled at the neckline of her shirt, pulling out the
cimaruta.
“I want you to have this.”

“What?”

“Go on,
cara,
take it. It belonged to my mother.” Her eyes twinkled wickedly. “She was one of us, too. It will protect you.”

Speechless, Gemma helped her grandmother remove the amulet from around her neck and put it on her own. “How does it look?”

“Beautiful.
Buon compleanno!
”

Happy Birthday.

“Thank you,” Gemma whispered, hugging Nonna as she slipped away again. It was nowhere near her birthday.

Nonna looked into Gemma's face happily. “Now. We go to Mass?”

 

 

When her mother,
not Aunt Millie, showed up the next morning to relieve her, Gemma sensed immediately that things weren't right. For one thing, her mother never took care of Nonna if she didn't have to. For another, her mother was cordial. After running through the preliminaries (“How did she sleep? How much did she eat? Did she recognize you?”), she actually asked Gemma how Frankie was, and how business was at the store. Gemma answered, then waited for her mother to lower the boom.

“Listen, your aunts and I have to ask you a favor.”

“What's that?” Gemma asked, trying to quell the rising resentment hissing through her.

“Your Aunt Millie was toodling around online and found a great two-night package deal to Atlantic City. We were wondering if you wouldn't mind bringing Nonna into the city with you for a few days.”

Gemma stared at her mother. “Mom, I do run a business, you know.” Her voice was strained.

Her mother's lips set in a hard line. “I know that, Gemma, but this is a special request.”

“Can't Angie do it? Or Theresa? Mikey?”

To Gemma's surprise, her mother's expression softened slightly. “She loves you best. You know that. Last time Theresa was here, Nonna just cried and cried. She was afraid of her.”

“Jesus.” Just picturing it broke Gemma's heart. How awful it must have been for Theresa. And Nonna. “Why couldn't I watch her here?”

“Because if we can get her out of the house for a few days, we can finally get the ceiling in the kitchen properly fixed. You know how she'll react if workmen come here while she's home. She'll go gaga.”

“Mom, Alzheimer's patients can become very agitated if they're put in unfamiliar surroundings. You know that.”

“But she'll be with you,” her mother insisted.

“Why is this so important?”

“It's for Betty Anne. She's going to be sixty-five and she doesn't have a pot to piss in. All she's ever wanted her whole damn life was to go to Atlantic City. So Millie and I want to surprise her and take her there.”

Gemma was touched. “That's so sweet, Mom.”

“Can you help us,
Gattina?
”

Gattina.
Pussycat. Her mother hadn't called her that since she was a little girl. It was one of the “before” words: Before her father died and her mother turned bitter. Before she told her mother she was a witch and her mother cut her off. Was her mother trying to manipulate her, or had the nickname slipped out in a moment of unguarded affection?

“When would this be?” Gemma asked cautiously.

“Next month sometime.” Her mother looked defensive. “Don't worry, I'm not asking you to do it for us tomorrow.”

“No, no, I know that.” Gemma wracked her brains, trying to figure out how to make this work. She supposed she could take off two days in a row, leave the running of the store to Julie. It would be a pain in the neck, bundling Nonna up and taking her into the city, but anything was endurable for two days, right? And it was for a good cause. Two good causes.

“All right. I'll do it.”

Her mother's face creased with a rare smile. “We knew we could count on you.”

Gemma snorted derisively. “Yeah, because I'm a total patsy.”

“No, because”—her mother broke eye contact and looked at her own hands, seeming almost reluctant to continue—“you have a good heart.”

“Even though I'm a witch?” Gemma said, unable to resist.

“Even the devil used to be one of God's angels.”

Instinctively, Gemma fingered the chain of the
cimaruta
hanging from her neck, the amulet hidden inside her shirt. Shouldn't she tell her mother she had it? It was a family heirloom of sorts, after all. She didn't want to be the potential cause of acrimony between her mother and her sisters, nor did she want to be accused of perhaps taking it without permission when Nonna wasn't in her right mind. Feeling it was the right thing to do, she pulled the necklace out from beneath her shirt.

“Mom, Nonna gave me this this morning.”

Her mother, who was now at the kitchen table thumbing through the
Daily News,
barely glanced up. “That's nice.”

“Are you sure you don't mind?” Gemma came closer to the table. “It's an antique. It belonged to your grandmother.”

“I don't want it.” Her mother seemed repelled by the idea.

“What about Aunt Millie or Betty Anne?”

“They're not going to want it either, believe me.”

“Are you sure?” Gemma asked uncertainly.

Her mother peered up from the paper. “Why are you so concerned about me and my sisters and the locket? What, did you steal it from her?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“Geez, Mom. I'm trying to be nice. I thought it might have some sentimental value.”

“None.” Licking the index finger of her left hand, Gemma's mother turned a page of the paper. “But feel free to tell my mother that if she doesn't want that antique bureau in the spare bedroom, I'd be glad to take that off her hands.”

Gemma marveled at her mother's crassness and put the
cimaruta
back under her shirt, where it nestled comfortably between her breasts. “Do you know what the necklace means?”

Her mother's eyes remained fixed to the paper. “What are you talking about, ‘means'? It's some superstitious old medal from Italy. Ugly to boot.”

“It's Pagan,” Gemma corrected softly. “It has to do with
La Stregheria.
Nonna is a witch. So was your grandmother.”

A bitter laugh burbled up from the back of her mother's throat. “She told you that?”

“Yes.”

“Gemma, Nonna is demented now. You know that.”

“She still has moments of lucidity!”

Exasperated, her mother pushed the newspaper away. “Fine, my mother is a witch. What do you want me to say?”

“Say it's okay.”

“It's not okay. It's evil. Period. God forbid this ever got out at St. Finbar's. Father Clementine would have her excommunicated.”

“She calls Jesus her boyfriend,” Gemma revealed tenderly. “Isn't that sweet?”

Her mother slapped a palm to her own forehead. “She's nutty as a goddamn fruitcake and so are you. No wonder you two get along so well.”

Gemma frowned. “That's a nice thing to say. How about ‘Thank you, Gemma, for offering to watch your grandmother for two whole days'?”

“Thank you,” her mother muttered begrudgingly.

“You're welcome.”

Her mother rose and went to the stove to begin making coffee. “Anything else before you go?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Gemma.

Gemma swallowed. “Did you mean it when you called me
‘Gattina'
?”

Her mother turned back to the stove. “I haven't called you that since you small. You must have imagined it.”

 

 

“Nonna? Are you comfortable?”

Gemma's question fell on deaf ears as Nonna's eyes remained glued to the television set, all her concentration focused on
The Wiggles
. Ten months ago, Nonna would have waved a dismissive hand and muttered
“Feh!”
at the idea of wasting her time in front of the TV. But that was before the plaque clogging her brain became her master. Now, the children's show, with its quick skits and lively songs, was one of the few things that could completely absorb her attention. Though she felt guilty about it, Gemma found herself sticking Nonna in front of the set more and more, especially when Nonna became anxious. It provided respite for both of them.