April 21, 2019

Easter Sunday

“Christmas with your mothers,

Easter with your druthers!”

Mirella turned and gave her brother Giampaolo a sharp look.

“Would you rather be off someplace else? It’s not like you’re doing very much.”

”What do you mean? I made it down last night in time to get to the hospital for visiting hours.”

“And the only thing you could think about was getting your shirts to Papà’s maid in time for her to wash and iron them for this afternoon when you go back to Ferrara. Don’t you know, I spent the whole day there and you couldn’t even be bothered to get a bunch of flowers?”

“Oh, why don’t you just shut up? I’ve really had enough of you for today.”

“Enough! You don’t know what enough is. All you know is yourself.”

They turned the corner and saw their mother in her room at the very end of corridor, propped up in a wheel chair, a distant pained look on her face. They turned their tiff to smiles as they walked toward her.

“Happy Easter, Mamma!”

“Not much of a happy one here. That’s for sure.”

“Didn’t you sleep well?”

“Of course not, with all these old ladies snoring and stumbling around in their ratty bathrobes. Ugh!”

Giampaolo and Mirella looked at their mother and winced. Until a few weeks ago, she had still been wearing the blonde wig that the doctors suggested she have made up with her own hair before she underwent chemotherapy. Now her hair had grown out too much for the wig to be comfortable and for the first time in their lives, they saw the real color of her hair: the gunmetal gray of country women who never colored their hair. Even the maid used something like shoe polish on her wispy hair to make her look like she was in her forties from across the square. Mamma’s end was near.

Mirella walked over to her mother and took her hand. Her mother retracted it. When Giampaolo did the same, she held on and pulled him towards her. Mirella turned and started tidying up the things on her mother’s nightstand.

“You be careful when you drive back to Ferrara this afternoon Giampaolo; the rain isn’t going to let up until tomorrow. It didn’t rain on the palms, so now it’s raining on the eggs.”

“Mamma, it’s only fifty miles; I’ll be fine. I do wish I could get a new car. But that’ll have to wait.”

“Until I finally die and you get my pension.”

“Mamma, what are you talking about? I can’t get your pension.”

“Oh yes but you will. I’m still married to your father and I’ll see to it that he doesn’t line his pocket with that little sum.”

“Mamma,” Mirella turned and held up a woolen sock. “Do you know where the other one is?”

“Goddam it, will you stop prattling about like some housewife and listen to what I’m telling your brother?” Mamma’s mood was unlikely to improve at this point unless someone else arrived. Fortunately, Mamma’s companion Leone appeared around the corner, holding a single potted Easter lily.

“My Love! Happy Easter!”

Leone walked over and embraced Mamma in front of the children. Leone had been a real saint through all her bouts with cancer, accompanying Mamma to Texas and Turin and getting medication sent in from England and India. Mamma had shrewdly roped in a biochemist when she finally left Papà. She got cancer a year later. Mirella and Giampaolo both liked Leone, especially the luxurious lifestyle he led: a spacious penthouse with its grandiose dining room and terrace, his latest model car, and the big fat white gold Rolex he wore under the tailored cuff of his silk shirt. The children had just about forgotten their own real father existed since Mamma’s tumor had been pronounced inoperable.

Mamma looked up and smiled broadly for the first time that day. Leone usually spent the whole day with her, and he really loved her, but he was not quite as devoted to her as her daughter was. Mirella was the one who spoke with the doctors and nurses, who ran errands and got her mother the magazines and articles of clothing she wanted. Mirella was the one who spent the night by her mother’s bedside and emptied her bedpan. Mirella was the one who had to disappear when anyone came to see Mamma.

Mirella had always disappointed Mamma. Mirella dressed with no style, used cheap make-up, and ate tuna fish out of a can when she was hungry. Mirella was the most intelligent member of their family hands down, and humble to boot, but she wasn’t pretty or stylish. Mirella was a wan, thin girl with limp mousy dishwater blonde hair, nondescript glasses, and a receding chin. She was flat chested, too. Mamma, buxom and boisterous could never stand the sight of her daughter, it was clear to everyone that Mamma considered Mirella her most enormous mistake.

Mirella knew all of this perfectly well. It hurt her, but what she felt for her mother was stronger than all the insult and injury that her mother could fling at her. For the first time in her life, Mirella was starting to feel close to her mother as she slowly died in the hospital room. Mirella could finally caress her mother’s hand while she slept and brush her hair and take care of her, the way she imagined her mother had taken care of her as a little girl. There was no stopping things now. Mirella would soak up as much as possible from her mother emotionally at this point. Giampaolo would get as much financially for later.

“Children, come come, it’s time for you to go. You know what they say: ‘Christmas with your mothers, Easter with your druthers.’ Now run along and find a girlfriend Giampaolo. You know I want grandchildren.”

Giampaolo smiled and gave his mother a big kiss. Mirella turned and touched her mother’s shoulder. They both winced.

“I’ll be back after dinner, unless you need something.”

Leone stood up and smiled right at Mirella.

“Mirella, my daughter’s having a birthday party tonight; do you think you could come back to the hospital about six? I need to be there and supervise, much to her chagrin. She needs a little guidance, you know that.”

“Oh Leone. That’ll be fine. I’ll try to eat before I come.”

Mirella and Giampaolo walked out of the room. Giampaolo could hardly wait to ask Mirella about the pension.

“What’s this business about her pension, Mirella? What has she told you?”

          “Have you tried calling Papà? In fact, when was the last time you spoke to him?”

          “Last week. He was late with my allowance, as usual. But he didn’t say anything about Mamma’s pension check. Come to think of it, I suppose Mamma’s pension check will go to Papà since they never legally separated and they're still legally married. He couldn’t possibly need that money, I mean, he gets enough from his law practice. There’s no reason why the two of us shouldn’t get it. How much do you think it is?

        “Giampaolo, can’t we talk about something else?”

“Has Papà told you how much it is?”

“How insensitive can you be?” Mirella’s eyes began to tear up. She pulled out a wrinkled tissue and blew her nose.

         “Oh, don’t start that again. I’m leaving. I guess I need to drop by and see Papà. I might as well spend the night there and let him cook dinner for me; he’s always got a couple of t-bone steaks in the fridge. God knows he has enough room now that Mamma and you and I have left the house. I guess he’ll get the house, too, won’t he, since they won’t bother with a divorce? And he won’t have to pay any taxes on it either! There is some method to the way Mamma treated Papà after all.”

Outside in the light grey rain, Mirella unlocked her car and dumped Mamma’s laundry in the back seat. The rain has been sullenly insistent all day. As she drove to her apartment in the drizzle, she saw little children standing outside under the awnings on the balconies of their homes after they had finished eating their enormous Easter lunches, munching on great shards of chocolate. As Mirella was unlocking the door to her apartment, her widowed Aunt Licia called.

“Oh Auntie, she’s not getting any better.”

“I know poor thing, do you want me to go in tonight?”

“No, you have your grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren? Don’t you remember? ‘Christmas with your mothers, Easter with your druthers.’ They’ve taken off for the hills and parties in town. I won’t see them again until Wednesday. Mirella, have you eaten?”

“Oh Auntie, I had some tuna fish.”

“Now Mirella, that’s not enough. Come over; I’ll give you a nice big plate of cappelletti with ragù. I know you prefer that to broth!”

This tempted Mirella. She was hungry and all alone. She couldn’t bear to see her father these days, for it led her to relive her miserable childhood and the constant venomous fights between her mother and her father. There was the time her mother kicked six holes in the door to the bathroom while her father was locked inside. Mamma had stuck ski pass stickers over the holes. It looked cheery but Mirella remembered the scream and shouts every time she had to wash her hands.

“I’ll be right over.”

When Mirella arrived, Aunt Licia had spread a clean tablecloth in the kitchen for both of them and put out a bottle of wine. They both drank one glass as her aunt cooked the cappelletti and tossed them in the tomato sauce that Mirella preferred to broth. When Mirella finished eating, she put her head on the table.

Aunt Licia didn’t wake her until Mamma called for her at twenty minutes past six.

“Where the hell do you think you are? I’ve been calling you on your cell phone, then on your landline at home for 20 minutes, standing here in my bathrobe in the hall at this goddamned payphone because you let my fucking battery die and put the goddamned cord who knows where, and then I figured you would be at Licia’s. You promised Leone you would be here at six, and he’s left me all alone. You selfish little asshole! I should bite you until you bleed!”

Aunt Licia heard all of this because Mamma was screaming at the top of her lungs. Licia’s neighbors had probably heard it, it was so loud. Aunt Licia grabbed the phone and said: “Maria Grazia, Maria Grazia calm down. Mirella fell asleep on the table after lunch and she’s been in the same position for the last three hours. I couldn’t bear to wake her so I put her cell phone under the pillow on my bed. Now you calm down, and one of us will be there as soon as possible. You are entirely capable of eating by yourself.”

“Oh yes, maybe for another week! Don’t you understand: I AM DYING! DYING! DYING! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

Aunt Licia put the phone down on the phone stand and placed a cushion over it. Mirella’s head was on the table and her hair was spread across the tablecloth like an octopus; she was weeping quietly. When she raised her head and looked up at Aunt Licia, Licia saw where Mirella’s makeup had run onto the tablecloth. Aunt Licia pulled Mirella into her cashmere bosom and comforted her.

“It’s all right. She’s upset; we just have to accept it. Now, go into the bathroom and freshen up. I’ll come down to the hospital with you, and spend the night with you tonight.”

While Mirella went to the bathroom, Aunt Licia listened to the phone and heard a dial tone. So she put the receiver back on the hook, and took it off again. She knew Maria Grazia would keep calling back, and it was useless to listen to her laments and wails. Maria Grazia’s anger had never helped anyone.

When they got to the hospital, they found Maria Grazia propped up in bed half asleep. The nurse had given her a mild sedative after dinner and Maria Grazia was drifting off. Mirella started to busy herself with the nightstand while Licia took her coat off and sat down, elegantly crossing her taupe legs. She motioned to Mirella to sit down. Aunt Licia whispered:

“Why don’t you go home, Mirella? I’ll stay the night if you come pick me up since I didn’t come by bike. It’ll be all right. All your Mamma really needs is to see someone here if she wakes up.”

“But Auntie, I don’t know how much longer she has to live. I don’t want to miss a minute. She might need me.”

“All right, we can stay here together, that’s fine with me. Go ahead and take your coat off.”

The son of the woman in the next bed came up to Mirella. “Can I talk to you for just a minute? There’s something I’d like to tell you.”

Mirella feared the worst and motioned to him to come out into the corridor where a nurse was smoking on an open balcony.

“I just wanted you to know that your mother . . .”

Mirella’s eyes burned with rage and she blurted out “I don’t have time for your bullshit about my Mother and her ways. Let me get back . . .”

The young man grabbed Mirella by the elbow: “NO, listen. Your mother has been so kind to my grandmother. She feeds her if I come in late, she hands over all her old magazines, and she always takes a few of her own flowers and arranges them in a little vase for her. I can’t tell you . . .”

Mirella and the young man looked at one another in the eyes and silent tears streamed down their faces. When Mirella recovered, she turned to the young man.

“I’m so sorry I was short with you. This is just not a good time at all.”

“The hospital usually isn’t. But some people make it just a little bit better than it is. Your mother really is one of them, and you definitely are as well. I can see where you get it from.”

No one had ever compared Mirella to her mother. Maria Grazia was chic and glamorous and outspoken, she could talk a brick wall into dancing the mazurka with her; Maria Grazia had men and boys falling all over her. Mirella didn’t even look like her, they didn’t have the same coloring, and they couldn’t even wear the same shoes. Though Maria Grazia could put on quite a show of lavish consideration and kindness if she knew her audience would appreciate it, no one had ever been as cruel to Mirella as Maria Grazia had been. Mirella was bowled over by the young man’s compliment.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week. Thank you so much for taking the time to speak to me. I do appreciate it; it’s nice when people are kind.”

“Well, I have to go. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

Mirella walked back into the room. Aunt Licia was holding the Sunday supplement magazine straight in front of her, reading about the latest scandals of coalitions among opposing parties in the Italian parliament. Maria Grazia was snoring, her mouth slightly parted so you could see her teeth. She had had them all capped several years ago but the chemotherapy had worn off the enamel so now you could see underlying glints of dentist’s gold. Maria Grazia’s bright blonde tresses which she had bleached and streaked and frosted for the past twenty years hair were growing back slowly into a vengeful lusterless gray stubble. Mirella tucked the sheets in around her mother.

Aunt Licia looked over at Maria Grazia and sighed. Her favorite niece, Maria Grazia had been a perfect little gumdrop as a child, sweetly playing with her dolls, cutting pictures out of magazines to adorn her bedroom. Then came adolescence and something had clicked in Maria Grazia, something that spurred her to ambitious social climbing. She could still turn on her spigot of charm when she wanted to, but when she didn’t feel like it, Ooooh, watch out: she was absolute Hell to be around, a licensed bitch. Maria Grazia had never understood Mirella, or even worse, what Maria Grazia had understood about Mirella, Maria Grazia rejected. 

For that matter, Aunt Licia had never completely understood her great-niece Mirella either, but Aunt Licia knew that if someone needed something and Mirella could do it, she would. Mirella was oddly like her mother; they both had a gentle sweet nature and that same seething rage that would erupt into tears and ultimata, but somehow Mirella at least realized when she had been nasty and selfish and mended her ways with humility. Contrariwise, Maria Grazia never backed down and never said she was sorry (unless of course, she wasn’t and it sounded like the right thing to say so that Maria Grazia could reap some advantage).

Aunt Licia had been in the kitchen when Maria Grazia had been born almost fifty years ago, and she had been in the birthing room when Mirella and Giampaolo were born. All that blood and poop and amniotic fluid and then finally, Giampaolo came out. A male! A little boy! Nothing could have made them happier. And Maria Grazia had continued to scream and shout, and as much as they tried to calm her down, there was nothing to do.

“There’s another baby coming. I can feel it.”

“Maria Grazia, you’re the same old hysterical hoyden! Now calm down while they sew you back up.”

“NO! NO NO NO NO NO! Unnmmhnh.”

Maria Grazia grunted and pushed, and sure enough, another baby was crowning! Licia had never seen a twin birth, and when she discovered it was a little girl, she laughed and laughed and laughed.

“You always were the lazy one! Now you have an instant family. No more child bearing for you!”

Mirella listened patiently while Aunt Licia told her the story again. Mirella had heard it no less than forty-six times, but since it was about her, she always enjoyed it.*

“Aunt Licia, would you like a cup of tea? I’m off to get another pitcher of water.”

“Oh, yes. That would be nice. Thanks.”

As soon as Mirella left the room, Maria Grazia opened her eyes and looked straight at Licia. Licia looked back and walked over to the bed.

“You’ve been awake the whole time, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have. Who can sleep in a dump like this? But the last thing I want to do is prattle on.”

“Then why are you talking to me? Or is it you don’t want to speak to your daughter.”

“Daughter, oh, if only I’d had two sons! That would have been a real triumph for me.”

Licia leaned over, raised her arm, and smacked Maria Grazia flat across the mouth. Hard. Not hard enough to be heard in the next bed and not hard enough to damage Maria Grazia, but hard enough for Maria Grazia to realize that Licia was hurting her because she had been bad. Maria Grazia violently stared at her aunt.

“How dare you! Here I am DYING and you strike me! I’m going to call the nurse. NUR . . .”

With serene poise and crystalline firmness, Aunt Licia clamped her hand over Maria Grazia’s mouth. “You calm down. Right now. And you listen to me. Mirella is the flesh of your flesh. You never have liked her very much, even the dogs can tell that in the house, but don’t you ever ever let me hear you say you wished you hadn’t had her.”

Maria Grazia glowered more fiercely.

“And I’ll tell you something else Maria Grazia, you’re pretty goddamned lucky you have Mirella. Nobody loves Giampaolo more than you and I do, but he can’t even be bothered to stop and buy you flowers when he comes to town. He’s too sensitive; it upsets him too much, petty little bourgeois, selfish jackass that he is. Giampaolo has the time to go to his father’s maid’s house and drop off his shirts to be ironed and he has the time to swing by and pick them up, but he doesn’t have the five minutes and 10 euro to stop at the flower stand which is at the entrance to this hospital and buy you even a bunch of violets. Or maybe he doesn’t want to spend the money. But we love him just the same. Mirella has been here day and night for the last five weeks, doing everything she can to make your life easier and the only thing you give her are insults. Well, you can do that, and you can be as mean to her as you want, but you won’t say anything against her while I’m around or I’ll haul off and smack you again. And the next time, I’ll leave a bruise. Have I made myself understood? And if you dare call the nurse, I’ll see to it that they put you in restraints.”

Maria Grazia glared at Licia with her ferocious green eyes, but she relaxed her shoulder muscles. She knew her Aunt Licia would do exactly whatever she promised she would do. Maria Grazia also knew that Aunt Licia was right, but Maria Grazia couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge her daughter’s kindness or recognize her son’s indifference. That was not the world she wanted to live in, and she didn’t have much time to live. She had already railed against the injustice of it all. Lashing out again and again would not make her life easier, although it would give her the simple satisfaction of wantonly hurting another person who deserved to be hurt. 

However, for the moment Maria Grazia decided she would behave and go to sleep as quietly as possible. It wouldn’t be long now anyway. She turned her head to the wall and buried it in her pillow. She heard Mirella enter the room with the cup of tea for her Aunt. The two of them chatted quietly.

Mirella stood up and walked over to the bed and as gently as possible so as not to wake her mother, pulled the sheets and covers into a neat layer over her mother’s body, smoothing out the wrinkles and straightening the hems. Mirella would have kissed her mother, but she was afraid of waking her. When Mirella turned around, she saw that Licia had drifted off too, so Mirella took up a book, moved her chair into the pool of light and continued to read. The nurses padded quietly past the door and Mirella read chapter after chapter of Umberto Eco’s Baudolino. When she got to the end, she closed the book, put it on the night table and looked at the clock: ten minutes to twelve. Easter was almost over. Mirella had eaten her cappelletti the way she liked them, she had finished her book, she had done everything she could to make her mother’s final Easter a little more comfortable. She had finally told her brother what she thought of him, and someone had recognized her kindness and devotion.

Mirella tiptoed over to her mother and kissed her lightly on her forehead before she turned off the light. Maria Grazia didn’t flinch.

When Mirella sat back down in her chair, she realized this was her mother’s last week. It came to her numbly with a mute leaden thud. Mirella knew she was doing everything she could do, and she knew that it wasn’t appreciated, well, not at least perceptibly, by her mother. But Mirella also realized that what she was doing was right, and just, and that was more important than any other consideration; what she was doing was also more important than any other thing she could possibly be doing at this moment. If you are going to be a real adult, a real person, and not a wounded little girl any more, you have to accept the fact that sometimes the people we love for the right or wrong reasons, are cruel and hateful and inconsiderate in their heart of hearts. But that doesn’t mean that you have to be cruel and hateful and inconsiderate in your heart of hearts back to them. Just because you were born in a stable doesn’t meant you have to be a jackass or a turd.

Mirella knew there was only one way to break the chains of ugly emotional legacies: reject them and turn the other cheek. Especially if you’re the person who’s going to live.

---

* Aunt Licia however, was kind enough not to relate everything. When Mamma felt the baby crowning she screeched at the tops of her lungs “But if it’s a girl, push her back in and I’ll reabsorb her! I don’t want no competition.”