The Suite Life (29 page)

When she returned a few minutes later, she was accompanied by a young doctor who had a long face that made him look older than his years.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, taking my hand. “Your dad didn't make it.”

Oh my God, I can't believe this is really happening.

“Can I see him?” I asked.

“You'll have to identify the body,” the doctor said softly. “Can you handle that?”

“Yes,” I whispered.
I hope so.

He escorted me to a dimly lit refrigerated room that adjoined the ER, and I stood stock still inside the doorway as he went over to a steel table with a long white zippered bag on it. I steeled myself as he opened the zipper. I closed my eyes for a moment when he motioned me over, and said a fast, silent prayer.

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done.

I nodded my head in recognition of the face, which was as peaceful as I'd ever seen it. He was still tan from our trip, and with his eyes closed he appeared to be taking a nap. There was even a hint of a smile on his lips.
I was just with you and now, just like that, you're gone?

“Are his personal things here?” I asked, collecting myself.

“On the shelf below,” the doctor replied.

I lifted the sheet and reached for Giovanni's suit jacket. My hand went immediately to the right pocket, where I knew he always kept his grandmother's black-beaded rosary, and I kissed its white gold cross before tucking the rosary into my palm.

“I'm so sorry,” the doctor said once more.

“So am I,” I whispered.

I bent down then and kissed Giovanni's forehead, startled by how cold it already was. The only father I ever knew.

I love you, Dad.

Standing straight and looking down at him once more, I squeezed the rosary beads, closed my eyes for a long moment, and said a silent prayer before turning for the door.

Nothing's going to be the same ever again.

“He's gone, Alec,” I whispered when my husband stormed up to me in the emergency room waiting area, a mixture of rage and resignation on his face. “I was just with him at lunchtime . . . and just like that, he's gone.”

Alec heard me without hearing me, and said nothing as he pivoted toward the nurse's desk. I saw him without seeing him as he gesticulated, and then went motionless. I have no idea how much time elapsed before he lumbered back to me on his way to the exit.

“Everyone's waiting at Dad's house,” he said.

I'm not sure if he would have noticed had I not followed him out the door.

I was the last person in the family besides Isabella to see Giovanni alive, and the first to see a fatherless Alec DeMarco. He didn't say much on the drive to Brooklyn and what he did say consisted mainly of cursing under his breath. He did, however, let me know that he'd almost been arrested for bowling over a cop who was on crowd control at the exchange garage when he made a futile attempt to catch up with the ambulance speeding away with his father.

Filomena was seated in a large stuffed chair in the living
room as Alec and I joined the others, who had gathered around and were talking with bowed heads and lowered voices. Swallowed up by the chair as she was by her circumstance, she appeared oblivious to what was going on around her. I said a fast prayer for her, as well as for me and my daughter.

It was painfully obvious to me that I wasn't the only one in the room who was going to miss Giovanni's help. He had been the linchpin holding the family together. Everyone, from his shattered widow to his elder son, who was as disconnected from his wife as he now was from his father, to his daughter, who wouldn't have the joy of being given away by a beloved dad, to Alec, the raging bull, was going to be set adrift without his presence to anchor them.

No one said much to me, and I didn't mind; in fact I wasn't sure that I'd be able to stop myself from spilling all my worries to anyone who approached. I stood to the side as everyone gathered around Alec, who was explaining that Giovanni had headed to the garage earlier than usual to cook dinner. He had put the bag of fruit he had bought from a sidewalk vendor on the seat beside him, started his car, and had a massive heart attack before he had a chance to put it in gear.

There was no doubt that Alec would be in charge of all the funeral arrangements. I also overheard a word or two about what should be done about the summer home. I had neither the inclination nor the time to care about any of it. All I could think about was how much I had grown to love the man I was proud to call “Dad,” and to wonder how on earth I would keep my soaring husband grounded without his help.

Lord, help us all.

Giovanni's wake in Bensonhurst, where he had grown up, and his burial in the family plot on Staten Island were both typical Alec DeMarco productions. He really did it right for his dad. The entire funeral home was given over to the overflow
crowd that showed up over the course of three days, and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge was closed down by a police brigade escorting the hundred-car procession. Several cars carrying nothing but flowers followed the hearse, reminding me of the showy tributes accorded to important members of the mafia. In this case, however, Giovanni deserved it. He was truly a great man.

Isabella's birthday celebration a week later was subdued, and I don't think she really minded. I could tell by how unusually quiet she was that she sensed the loss of her grandfather, even though she didn't say anything about it. And her mother certainly didn't miss the extravaganzas Alec had orchestrated in the past. Instead, the three of us spent the day together at home looking at old photos and our wedding video before joining the family for dinner and a birthday cake in Brooklyn.

Filomena's grief turned to bitterness over the next several weeks, and she seemed to lose all connection to the family. Monica was about to lose Franco and my mother-in-law couldn't keep it together, so Alec took over running the family. He wanted me to call his mother every day and see her as often as possible. And he gave the same instruction to Gianna, who had set her wedding date for May 7, the same day her parents got married.

While Alec stepped into the role of family patriarch, he kept the others at arm's length emotionally. As I tried to figure out what he was going through, it seemed to me that he felt he couldn't let down his guard either on the job or at home, because displaying any sign of weakness would cause him to lose control. I almost wore out Giovanni's rosary beads praying for strength, understanding, tolerance . . . and the ability to forgive.

I considered that my husband must have been dealing with guilt from the past and his relationship with his father, that he
was worried about his mother and his older brother, while at the same time pursuing his continuing quest to prove that an Italian kid from Brooklyn without a college degree could rise above everyone else on the Street.

I would have loved getting closer to his family, but I often felt as if they were putting up barriers. I sometimes wondered if I was the one to blame, if I was unintentionally giving off the wrong vibe, but when I was being honest, I understood that they really weren't interested in being any closer or in finding out who I really was and what was important to me. They were much too concerned with sticking to
omertà,
the Italian code of silence, when it came to discussing serious family issues.

The DeMarco family had always fancied themselves cut from the same privileged cloth as the Kennedys, and the women were constantly trying to get me to dress more like them—in tailored suits and long sundresses that simply weren't my style.

I knew that I'd never succeed in getting them to accept me for who I really was—a lesson I'd learned the hard way from Tony's mother, Pamela Kroon. And, as a result, at least for a while, I lost a piece of myself in exchange for fitting in.

As for Isabella, my precious little daughter was animated and inquisitive but much too young to be a confidante or companion to me, and a lot of her daily care was handled by Alma, whom I trusted implicitly—in fact a lot more than I trusted myself. I was always afraid I'd screw up in some way and often thought of the many times I'd wished my mother would just leave the mothering to Grandma. I had total faith in Alma, and in the teachers at the nursery school near Our Lady of Victory that Isabella attended.

My instincts told me the best thing I could do for my daughter was to become the person I wanted to be, so that she would know she too could be anything she wanted.

Now more than ever, with Giovanni gone, I sensed I didn't really belong in Alec's family, or among his elite Wall Street crowd. I often felt, as I had at various points in my life, as if I were living on an island, separated from others and unable to control my own destiny. When those feelings threatened to overwhelm me, I did what I'd always done in the past: I reached deep down inside me and rediscovered the Samantha who had always believed in her ability to get through whatever life threw her way.

Rather than giving into feelings of loneliness and inadequacy, I committed myself anew to
The Blessed Bridge
. I knew that the novel would still be the source of my salvation and I renewed my determination to get it published. I had no idea when or how that would happen, but I believed in my heart of hearts that it would. I still had faith that God had a plan for me and that the Blessed Mother would watch over me.

As hard as it was to live with the loneliness that resulted from Alec's work schedule, the nights when he came home after a bad day in the office were a much heavier cross to bear. I remember the first time he snapped. “You are a terrible mother. Did you even stay with Isabella today? How many times do I need to tell you that you should be taking her to visit with my mother? What do you do all day, anyway?” he bellowed at me.

I was completely shocked. Memories of Tony came flooding back, and all I could do was take Isabella to her room and stay with her behind the closed door until my crazed husband ran out of steam. As these episodes became more frequent they ceased to take me by surprise, but that didn't make them any easier to live with. If it wasn't my mothering he was screaming about, it was my cooking, or failing at my duties as a daughter-in-law. And God forbid Hercules was out of his crate or even making a sound when Alec came home. That always sparked a barrage of loud curses followed by a smashed telephone or a shoved dog.