Full of Grace (8 page)

“So what’s wrong? I can tell when something’s wrong. Yesterday, when we met, you were gregarious and outgoing, and this morning you seemed very out of sorts. Want to talk?”

I looked over at Geri and thought it surely would be very unusual for me to reveal all my worries to a colleague. It was something I had never done. It would have been unprofessional, and besides, even if I had decided to, the hour was late.

“Thanks,” I said, “I’m okay. I really am.”

“Well, if you need an ear…” She turned away to speak to the waiter about the bill.

“Thanks.”

I needed an ear, just not one that could go back to Atlanta and run her mouth that was connected to an express train. It was very hard to know whom to trust and so far Geri seemed to be a talker. I hadn’t been in Charleston long enough to establish any close friendships, and when I ticked off the list of those I had left behind, they were married or had moved, and to be honest, I didn’t even know how to start to find a lot of my old girlfriends. Lots of women had cell phones whose numbers weren’t listed with information and many of them changed their names when they got married. And anyway, what would I have said to them? That I’d left the country for business and I thought something’s wrong with my boyfriend? They would’ve laughed and said he was probably worn out from carousing with a bunch of MUSC tomcats. They would probably have been right. Or something terrible was happening.

B
y ten in the morning the ladies were whizzing all around Porto Cervo, in and out of couture boutiques, and I watched them spend money so fast it seemed like a marathon. There was no negotiating, no calculating the exchange rate and worrying if they could do better in Atlanta, and half the time they didn’t even look at the price tags. They just whipped out the black, platinum or gold American Express cards and never missed a beat in their conversations. My hands got sweaty just watching them. I would take their shopping bags, label them and give them to the bus driver while they continued on to the next string of boutiques. For a few moments I wondered what it would be like to have that kind of money to burn and then I decided that even if I did have it, I probably wouldn’t spend it like they did.

But it was easy to be caught up in the frenzy of the moment because Porto Cervo was an absolutely charming seaside town. The large stones of the piazza spread out over an area probably two hundred feet by two hundred feet, and as in most of Italy, space was at a premium, every inch of it used wisely. In the middle of the square were several open-air restaurants serving lunch at simple tables with umbrellas. Down the hill, not too far in the distance, was the harbor. Sailboats and yachts of every description, tied up to their moorings, bobbed gently in the waters. When I thought about the afternoon’s excursion to the national forest, I couldn’t wait. It would feel awfully good to be speeding across the open
water. But until then I was content to enjoy the beautiful landscape that sprawled before me and load my charges’ packages on the bus.

“Would you ladies like to eat here or return to the hotel?” I said to some of the women standing in the shade. “They have that fabulous buffet…”

My cell phone rang with my mother’s ring tone. That was unnerving because she knew I was in Italy. Stepping away from the group, I dug through my bag and answered it as quickly as I could.

“Mom?”

“Grace?”

“Is everything okay?”

“No! Nonna had a terrible fall. Grace, she broke her hip! She’s in the hospital. When are you coming home?”

“Middle of this week. Oh my God! Is she all right?”

“No. No, she’s not. I’m afraid she’s going to die, Grace.”

Some uncharitable things went through my head like
We’re all gonna die sometime, you know
. And
At least you’ll have a little peace and quiet
.

“She’s not gonna die, Mom. Let me call you when I get back to the hotel, okay?”

“Fine. I just need—”

“I’ll call you within the hour.” I closed my phone, ending the call. I put my game face back on and returned to the group. “I have made an executive decision. Anyone who wants to stay here for lunch—that’s fine. I’ll send the bus back in”—I stopped to look at my watch—“one hour and fifteen minutes. That will give you thirty minutes to change for the boat trip, if you are signed up for that.”

Everyone nodded and one lady said, “You sure are a little bit bossy, Grace.”

“Somebody’s gotta be in charge,” I said. “It may as well be me.”

Everyone snickered. At that moment I decided I disliked this group. I knew these dark feelings were rooted in my fears about Michael and fertilized by my grandmother’s fall. Nonetheless, these women were so shallow and not the most intelligent humanity I had ever carted around,
with the exception of Caroline Sutter, the oncologist. But even her—I mean, why in the world would she hook up with a disgusting old fart like Dylan Holmes? Money, I decided. HMOs had all but decimated the wealth of the medical community. She needed a walking wallet, and a Gulfstream jet—a Five, thank you, which, depending on how you fitted it out, could have a dozen recliners, enough burled walnut to choke a horse and an ivory leather toilet seat—didn’t hurt either.

On the other hand, I reminded myself that these women were not obligated to entertain or impress me. Even though they made me feel like a travel agent. And even called me a tour guide. Well, what could you say? It
was
what I did. I was not their peer, and it irked me every time something would happen to remind me of it. On another day, I might not have minded them at all. I was just gestating dark thoughts because of Michael and my mother’s phone call.

I finally got to my room and called my mother back. I could tell she was crying when I heard her voice.

“So tell me what exactly happened, Mom.”

“It was all my fault, Grace.”

“Oh, come on, Mom!”

“No, I swear on the Bible, it was my fault. I had just washed the kitchen floor and she came in looking for the newspaper and she slipped. The next thing I know she’s screaming and yelling…”

“So what’s new? That doesn’t make it your fault.”

“Please, Grace! Yes, it does!”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, I called
911
and I told her not to get up. But she tried to get up anyway and fell again. Oh, dear heaven, was she mad at me! I have
never
seen her so angry.”

“She’s
always
angry with you, Mom.”

“Sometimes it seems like it, doesn’t it? They took her to the emergency room and I followed her to the hospital and I called your father because I had to call him to fill out all the papers and he came…I’ll tell you, Grace, it’s too much for me. She had to have an operation. All this is just—”

“How is she now?”

“Sedated—she’s sleeping. But even your father, even Daddy is angry with me. He blames me, too.”

She began to sob and I felt terrible for being so unsympathetic.

“Oh, Mama, come on now. Don’t cry. Don’t you know there’s nothing worse than listening to your mother cry?”

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t know what to do next. If she dies and I have to carry that on my conscience, I think I might just die, too.”

Oh, please,
I thought. “Did you call Aunt Theresa?”

“No, I don’t want to bother her. What can she do?”

“Well, she might want to send flowers, Mom. And God forbid something happens…”

“You’re right, you’re right…I’ll call her tonight when your father gets home.”

“Why are you waiting for Dad to get home?”

“Because he’ll want to talk to her about this, too, and I don’t want to waste the phone call.”

“But, Ma! What if Aunt Theresa wants to get on a plane or something?”

“Grace, you know she can’t do that. She doesn’t have the time to go running all around the country.”

“Would you like me to send her a ticket?”

“No. Don’t bother. She probably can’t take the time off from work anyway.”

“Well, look. Call your sister, and if anything changes call me back right away. Otherwise, I’ll call you tomorrow and I’ll come see you next Thursday or Friday, okay?”

We hung up and I just sat there on my bed staring at the wall. My poor mother was so desperately insecure. It was frustrating for me and awful for her. I was so “solution-and-next-step-oriented.” She was actually taking the blame for my grandmother’s accident. She was too unsure of herself to fill out hospital forms. She didn’t think her own sister would accept her description of Nonna’s fall as accurate, that Aunt Theresa would prefer to get the real story from my father. And my aunt Theresa, who owned and ran a bakery with my uncle Tony back in New Jersey,
probably wouldn’t take the time from work because they never hired enough people to cover for them if they weren’t there. They never went anywhere. Aunt Theresa would send some carnations through FTD and two pounds of the cookies she made with pignoli nuts. Nice. Nonna would go on and on about how wonderful they were, and at the end of the day my mother would be miserable.

My mother could not possibly be a happy woman. I wondered for the second time in a week what there was to be done about it. Looking back quickly over the Fourth of July holiday, I could hardly remember a kind word that my father or my grandmother had had for her. It had to stop. What had she ever done to deserve such a lack of respect and affection? Nothing. I knew that for a fact.

I looked at my watch and realized I had better hurry if I was to take this group out on the boats we had reserved. I was late and I thought to myself that they were probably all waiting on the docks, rolling their eyes, tapping the dial of their diamond-encrusted wristwatches with their acrylic fingernail tips.

Sure enough, they were.

“Hi! Sorry! I had to make a phone call.”

Some of the people looked extremely annoyed and I thought,
Oh, screw you. I don’t make enough money to take your grief
. You have to understand that although I lived a vicarious existence through my clients, I wasn’t in a perfect mood every minute of every day. And these were not long-term relationships; this group would be replaced by another within days. Let’s face the facts. Doing what I did made you jaded and I decided the tiniest guilt trip was in order—nothing that could rise to the level of unprofessional. Just a small dart. I jumped on board the first boat and offered one of the older gals a hand to make the little leap.

“My grandmother broke her hip,” I said. “I had to talk to my mother, who’s understandably hysterical.”

“Oh!” she said, no longer irritated. “How dreadful! I’m so sorry!”

Cluck, cluck, cluck
. She told another lady, who told another wife, and suddenly the Pucci, Louis and Hooey bitches of the Smeralda Coast were the souls of compassion. And as they put their attitudes of
entitlement aside, I thought,
That’s more like it, girls,
and began to relax again.

The captain of our boat opened a bottle of champagne and poured out eight plastic glasses.

“Salute!”
he said.

In minutes we were tearing up the Mediterranean and the guests were back at work on building their afternoon buzz. The good thing about the ride was that the boat was so noisy I couldn’t hear their chatter. They gathered on the stern, lounging on the huge white leather cushions, and I checked out the picnic the hotel had packed for us. There were small sandwiches of ham, salmon and some kind of cheese spread. There was a large bag of pretzels, a small box of cookies, fruit—grapes and apples. The cooler had bottled water and sodas that would surely go untouched. Because there were four bottles of champagne and four bottles of white wine. For six guests, the captain and me. Stunning. What could you say? The chef knew his audience.

This bunch drank wine with lunch, cocktails around the pool, champagne on the boat and vast quantities of wine with dinner. The amount of alcohol they consumed was unbelievable. It was a wonder they didn’t drop dead, fall into the sea or pass out in their macaroni. They didn’t. Obviously I knew they were on vacation, no one was driving a car anywhere, and they were old enough to do as they pleased, but let me tell you, every group didn’t drink like these characters. They were a gang of Judy Garlands and Dean Martins on the express train to liver-transplant hell. But in a first-class cabin, of course.

Later that afternoon, right before the cocktail hour that was so highly anticipated by my group, I ran into Geri Post at the outside bar. She had an open notebook on the table along with Michelin guides and maps.

“You’re sunburned,” she said with her typical aplomb. “That’s gonna hurt like the devil.”

“I’ll take an aspirin. Move over and I’ll buy you a Coke. Hey, two of the guests want to do a ‘go-see’ at some of the ancient sites,” I said. “What does tomorrow morning look like?”

“Sounds like a road trip to me. I was thinking about touring the in
terior, but that’s a whole day’s trip. I’ll call Massimo the Gorgeous and ask him to line up a couple of jitneys. It’s a little bit of a hike, but we could visit the old church in Sassari first. They have a patchwork cathedral from the thirteenth century. It’s Spanish and Gothic. Then we could have lunch in the square…”

“And they can drink a case of wine…”

Geri giggled at that. “Or two! Then they can sleep it off while we drive over to Nuoro to see the nuraghi and the local color.”

“Geri?”

“Yeah?”

“What are nuraghi?”

“Cone-shaped stacked-stone buildings from two thousand years ago. Maybe longer. Built by the Cretans. Hey, by the way, I heard about your grandmother. How’s she doing?”

“Well, she’s in the hospital, which is the best place for somebody with a broken hip. And I’m sure she’s got enough pain medication. My mother’s hysterical over the whole thing—thinks it was her fault. And actually, my grandmother blames her. So does my father. Families, right?”

The strangest look came over Geri’s face. “Is your grandmother your mother’s mother or your father’s mother?”

“Oh, she’s my mother’s mother. Why?”

“Just seems kind of unnecessary. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so opinionated. I just hate finger-pointing, that’s all. I mean, unless your mother is diabolical or something…”

“No, don’t apologize. I’d love a sane adult opinion on this. My mom’s a pussycat. Connie Russo wouldn’t stomp a bug.”

“So she didn’t push her down the stairs or anything, right?”

“My mother? When I was little, my mother used to go to her room and cry all afternoon if she spanked my backside for being fresh or something. I didn’t cry. I was as defiant as I could be.”

“I’ll bet you gave your mother lip, all right.” Geri smiled and so did I.

“Yeah, I did.”

Geri looked me square in the face and spoke with deliberateness.
“Then what’s the point of making her feel bad? And why is your father taking your grandmother’s side? You have to wonder.”

“I do wonder. My father has an odd personality sometimes. He’s wonderful and all, but I guess he thinks Nonna has no one but them—she lives with them—and he’s
the man
and all that. My grandmother? She’s just crabby and picky. Always has been. I feel sorry for my mom.”

“Well, then, just be sweet to her and as supportive as you can. Everybody needs somebody to stick up for them now and then.”

“You are absolutely right, Geri Post. Thanks for the inspiration. I have always just been my mom’s daughter and it’s time for me to take up her cause.”

“Well, congratulations, Grace Russo. You’ve just jumped another hurdle into womanhood!”