Love & Gelato (10 page)

Howard crossed his arms. “Forgive me for stating the obvious, but I can't believe how much you look like Hadley. Did people tell you that all the time?”

“Yeah. People sometimes thought we were sisters.”

“That doesn't surprise me. You even have her hands.” My elbows were resting on the table, one arm crossed over the other, and Howard suddenly jerked forward a couple of inches, like he'd gotten snagged on a fishing hook.

He was staring at my ring.

I shifted uncomfortably. “Um, are you okay?”

“Her ring.” He reached out and almost touched it, his hand hovering an inch above mine. It was an antique, a slim gold band engraved with an intricate scrolling pattern. My mom had worn it until she'd gotten too thin to keep it on. I'd been wearing it ever since.

“Did she tell you I gave her that?”

“No.” I pulled my hand to my lap, my face heating up. Had she told me
anything
? “Was it like an engagement ring or something?”

“No. Just a present.”

There was another long silence, which I filled with unprecedented interest in the restaurant's décor. There were signed photographs of what were probably very famous Italian celebrities hanging all around the restaurant, and several aprons had been tacked to the wall. “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine” was playing overhead. My cheeks were boiling like a pot of marinara sauce.

Howard shook his head. “So do you have a boyfriend at home who is missing you?”

“No.”

“Good for you. Plenty of time to break hearts when you're older.” He hesitated. “This morning I was thinking I should make a call to the international school to see if anyone in your grade is around for the summer. It might be a good way to see if you're interested in going to the school.”

I made a noncommittal sound, then took a special interest in a nearby photograph of a woman wearing a tiara and a thick sash. Miss Ravioli 2015?

“I wanted to tell you, if you ever need someone to talk to here—someone other than me or Sonia, of course—I have a friend who lives in town. She's a social worker and she speaks English really well. She told me she'd be happy to meet with you if you ever need, you know . . .”

Great. Another counselor. The one I'd seen at home had pretty much just said mm-hmm, mm-hmm, over and over and asked me,
How did that make you feel?
until I thought my ears were going to melt. The answer was always “terrible.” I felt
terrible
without my mom. The counselor had told me that things would slowly start to feel better, but so far she was wrong.

I started tearing up the edges of the paper tablecloth, keeping my eyes off the ring.

“Are you feeling . . . comfortable here?”

I hesitated. “Yeah.”

“You know, if you need anything, you can always just ask.”

“I'm fine.” My voice was gravelly, but Howard just nodded.

After what felt like ten hours, our server finally walked out and set two steaming pizzas in front of us. Each of them was the size of a large dinner plate, and they smelled unbelievable. I cut a piece and took a bite.

All weirdness evaporated immediately. The power of pizza.

“I think my mouth just exploded,” I said. Or at least that's what I tried to say. It came out more like “mymogjesesieplod.”

“What?” Howard looked up.

I shoveled in another bite. “This. Is. The. Best.” He was right. This pizza belonged in a completely different universe from the stuff I was used to.

“Told you, Lina. Italy is the perfect place for a hungry runner.” He smiled at me and we both ate ravenously, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” filling in for conversation.

I had just taken an enormous bite when he said, “You're probably wondering where I've been all this time.”

I froze, a piece of crust in my hand.
Is he asking what I think he is?
This couldn't be the big unveiling moment—you don't go around telling your children why you weren't around while stuffing your face with pizza.

I snuck a glance up. He'd set his fork and knife down and was leaning forward, his mouth set in a serious line.
Oh, no.

I swallowed. “Um, no. I haven't really wondered.” Lie with a capital
L
. I stuffed the piece of crust into my mouth but couldn't taste it.

“Did your mother tell you much about our relationship?”

I shook my head. “No. Just, uh, funny stories.”

“I see. Well, the truth is, I didn't know about you.”

Suddenly it seemed like the whole restaurant got quiet. Except for the Beatles. “The girl that's driving me mad, is going awaaaayyyy . . . ,” they sang.

I swallowed hard. I had never even
considered
that possibility. “Why?”

“Things were . . . complicated between us.”

Complicated. That was exactly what my mom had said.

“She got in touch with me around the same time she started getting tested. She knew she was sick, just not with what, and I think she had a feeling. Anyway, I want you to know I would have been there. If I'd known. I just . . .” He rested his hand on the table, palm-side up. “I guess I just want a chance. I'm not expecting miracles. I know this is hard. Your grandmother told me you really didn't want to come here, and I understand that. I just want you to know that I really appreciate having this chance to get to know you.”

He met my eyes, and suddenly I wished with all my heart that I could evaporate, like the steam still curling off my pizza.

I pushed away from the table. “I . . . I need to find the bathroom.” I sprinted to the front of the restaurant, barely making it inside the restroom before the tears started rolling.

Being here was awful. Before today I'd known exactly who my mother was, and she certainly wasn't this woman who loved violets or sent her daughter mysterious journals or forgot to tell the father of her child that—
oh, by the way, you have a daughter!

It took all three minutes of “Here Comes the Sun” to get myself under control, mostly deep breathing, and when I finally cracked the door open, Howard was still sitting at the table, his shoulders slumped. I watched him for a moment, anger settling over me like a fine dusting of Parmesan cheese.

My mother had kept us apart for sixteen years. Why were we together now?

THAT NIGHT I COULDN'T SLEEP.

Howard's bedroom was upstairs too, and the floorboards creaked as he walked down the hall.
I didn't know about you.
Why?

The clock on my bedroom wall made an irritating
tick-tick-tick
. I hadn't noticed it the night before, but suddenly the noise was unbearable. I pulled a pillow over my head, but that didn't help, plus it was kind of suffocating. There was a breeze blowing through my window and my violets kept swaying like Deadheads at a concert.

Okay. Fine.
I switched on my lamp and took the ring off my finger, studying it in the light. Even though my mother hadn't seen Howard in more than sixteen years, she'd worn the ring he'd given her. Every single day.

But why?
Had they really been in love, like Sonia had said? And if so, what had torn them apart?

Before I could lose my nerve, I opened my nightstand drawer and felt for the journal.

I lifted the front cover:

I made the wrong choice.

A chill moved down my spine. My mother had written in thick black marker, and the words sprawled across the inside cover like a row of spiders. Was this a message to me? A kind of precursor to whatever I was about to read?

I mustered up my courage, then turned to the front page. Now or never.

MAY 22

Question. Immediately following your meeting with the admissions officers at University of Washington (where you've just given official notice that you will not be starting nursing school in the fall) do you:

A. go home and tell your parents what you've done

B. have a complete panic attack and run back into the office claiming a temporary lapse in sanity

C. go out and buy yourself a journal

Answer: C

True, you will eventually have to tell your parents. And also true, you purposely timed your appointment so the office would be closing as you walked out. But as soon as the dust settles I'm sure you'll remember all the reasons why you just did what you did. Time to walk yourself into the nearest bookstore and blow your budget on a fancy new journal—because as scary as this moment is, it's also the moment when your life (your real life) begins.

Journal, it's official. As of one hour and twenty-six minutes ago I am no longer a future nursing student. Instead, in just three weeks I will be packing up my things (aka, whatever my mother doesn't smash when she hears the news) and boarding a plane for Florence, Italy (ITALY!), to do what I've always wanted to do (PHOTOGRAPHY!) at the Fine Arts Academy of Florence (FAAF!).

Now I just have to brainstorm how I'll break the news to my parents. Most of my ideas involve placing an anonymous call from somewhere in Antarctica.

MAY 23

Well, I told them. And it somehow went even worse than I expected. To the casual observer, The Great Parental Fallout would have sounded something like this:

Me:
Mom, Dad, there's something I need to tell you.

Mom:
Good heavens. Hadley, are you pregnant?

Dad:
Rachelle, she doesn't even have a boyfriend.

Me:
Dad, thanks for pointing that out. And, Mom, not quite sure why you jumped straight to pregnant. [Clears throat] I want to talk to you about a recent life decision I've made. [Wording taken directly from a book called
Savvy Communication: How to Talk So They'll Agree
.]

Mom:
Good heavens. Hadley, are you gay?

Dad:
Rachelle, she doesn't even have a girlfriend.

Me:
[Abandoning all attempts at civilized conversation.] NO. What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm not going to nursing school anymore. I just got accepted to an art school in Florence, Italy, and I'll be there for six months studying photography. And . . . it starts in three weeks.

Mom/Dad:
[Prolonged silence involving two trout-like open mouths.]

Me:
So . . .

Mom/Dad:
[Continue gaping]

Me:
Could you please say something?

Dad:
[weakly] But, Hadley, you don't even have a decent camera.

Mom:
[regaining voice] WHATDOYOUMEANYOU'RENOTGOINGTONURSINGSCHOOO . . .

[Neighborhood dogs start howling]

I'll spare you the lecture that followed, but it basically boils down to this: I am throwing away my life. I'm wasting my time, my scholarship, and their hard-earned money for six frivolous months in a country where the women don't even shave their armpits. (That last tidbit was contributed by my mother. I have no idea if it's true or not.)