Total Rush (23 page)

“You should come to a meeting sometime.” He gave a small pause. “You and your friend.”

Gemma smiled slyly. “You liked her, didn't you?”

“Lady Midnight? Ho ho, I should say so.”

“Her name is Frankie. Lady Midnight is her on-air personality.”
Confuse the two and you're doomed.
“She thought you were cute.”
In a Renaissance Fair kind of way.

“Really.” Uther puffed up with pride. “I found the damsel rather alluring myself.”

You should see her with her eye patch on,
thought Gemma. How perfect were these two for each other, Frankie with her patch, Uther running around the park in chain mail pretending to be hit in the eye with an arrow?

“Would you like her phone number?”

Uther turned guarded. “Phone number?”

“Yes. To call her. So the two of you can get together?”
I know you'd prefer writing her a note on parchment and putting it in a raven's beak, but this is the twenty-first century, Uth.

“Are you giving it to me of your own volition or did she say you could give it to me?”

“She said I could give it to you,” said Gemma, feeling like she'd taken a time machine back to seventh grade. What next? Would he ask her to ask Frankie to meet him by his locker after necromancy practice?

“I'll take it, then. Are you sure you're all right with this?”

Gemma did a double take. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“I feel you and I have a connection that seems to go beyond this world, sweet lady, and I wouldn't want to upset you,” said Uther as he attempted to peer at her seductively over the rim of his mug.

“Uther, I have a boyfriend,” Gemma lied. There was no way she was going to let him know she was available. Not when he was talking about otherworldly connections, whatever that meant.

“Oh yes, him.” Uther looked displeased. “You mentioned him at the street fair. What is his trade?”

Her temptation was to answer, “None of your business,” but since she was trying to grease the wheels of romance for Frankie, she felt she had no choice but to be chatty and amiable.

“He's a firefighter, but he used to be a stockbroker.”

As soon as the words were out, Gemma thought:
Sean's right. Why do I do that? Use his past profession as some sort of qualifier, as if what he does now might not be enough?

Uther looked impressed. “A very noble profession indeed. When you think about it, he's a dragon slayer of sorts.”

“Yes.” Time to steer the conversation away from Sean. “Here, I'll write Frankie's number for you.” She grabbed one of her business cards from the seashell by the register and jotted her friend's number down on the back. “As you already know”—she flashed him a smile—“Frankie is on the air from midnight to six during the week. The best time to call her is usually after two in the afternoon.”

“Thank you, sweet lady. I shall call her anon—or not anon exactly, but on the morrow.” He looked at the card before slipping it into his pocket. “One quick question: Is she Pagan?”

“She's undecided. She believes in the trinity, but in her case it's Aerosmith, the Beatles, and Led Zeppelin.”

Uther seemed amused by this, and smiled. “Fascinating.”

“I agree. Let's get back to our tarot, shall we?”

“I'm trying to
decide which I hate you for more,” Gemma told Michael as they met up in Dante's parking lot and began strolling toward the restaurant. “Setting me up with another crazy hockey player, or not calling me when you got the geriatrician appointment for Nonna.”

“I didn't call because there was no way you could have come,” Michael said, holding the door open for her. “It was in the middle of the day in the middle of the week.”

“Plus my mother didn't want me there, right?”

Michael was silent.

“I knew it.”

“As for Boris,” Michael continued, changing the subject, “I asked if you wanted me to set you up with another nice guy on the team, and you said yes.”

“He took out his teeth over dessert, Michael. Said he felt comfortable with me.”

Michael cringed. “But he was nice, right?”

“I don't know! Maybe! I was focused on trying not to stare at his gums.”

Michael looked surprised. “What happened to my sweet, open-minded cousin who feels love and compassion for all God's creatures?”

“She got burned by a firefighter. Next question, please.”

Entering the banquet room where the rest of the extended family were gathered, Gemma detected a wave of tension ripple through the room. She'd been a witch for years; you'd think they would get over it by now. But no: All she had to do was show up and some of her family acted as if Satan had materialized. It was disheartening, not to mention tiresome.

All morning, as a way to cope, Gemma had changed the words of a song from
The Sound of Music
and had been singing, “How do we solve a problem like Nonna Maria?” Nonna was the reason everyone was here: She'd been diagnosed with middle-stage Alzheimer's disease. Living alone was no longer an option.

“I hope this isn't too awful,” Michael confided as they sat down at the long, extended table with the rest of the family.

Gemma took in the sea of familiar faces surrounding her. Everyone she expected to be present was there: her own mother, her Aunt Millie, Theresa, Anthony and his wife Angie, assorted cousins and their spouses. Her eye caught her mother's, and for a split second, it almost seemed as if her mother might acknowledge her, maybe even smile. But the moment passed as Gemma's mother pointedly turned her body to talk to Aunt Millie. Gemma had become a pro at shaking off such blatant rejection, but deep down, it still hurt. She turned to Anthony, seated to her left.

“Where's Aunt Betty Anne?”

“Home taking care of Nonna,” he answered glumly before squeezing her arm. “Glad you came, Gem. Ignore the
faccia brutas
who won't give you the time of day.”

Gemma smiled, touched, since it wasn't too long ago Anthony was among them himself. “Thanks, Ant.”

“All right, everybody, let's get down to business,” Michael said, clapping his hands briskly to get everyone's attention. Gemma stole a sidelong glance at Anthony; he was rolling his eyes, his lifelong annoyance at Michael's tendency to take control evident. Amazing how some things never changed. The two of them would be in their nineties and they would still be rubbing each other the wrong way.

“As you know,” Michael began, “last week Theresa, along with Aunt Connie and Aunt Millie, took Nonna to a geriatrician. After giving her a bunch of tests, the doctor determined it was Alzheimer's.”

“What kind of tests?” asked cousin Paulie, who'd come in all the way from Commack.

Michael looked to Theresa.

“Memory tests, language tests, you name it. There's something called the seven-minute screen that doctors use to check for Alzheimer's, since there's no one test for the disease,
per se.
Nonna didn't do very well.”

“Tell 'em straight,” Aunt Millie croaked, sucking on her Winston. “She couldn't tell a friggin' banana from an orange. Didn't know what year it was. The doctor told her to draw a clock with hands pointed at quarter to three and she couldn't do it. It was awful.”

Paulie thrust his head forward, squinting with disbelief. “They ask you to draw fruit and that's how they tell if you're senile?”

“Senility is different than Alzheimer's,” Theresa said patiently. “Believe me, Paulie, this doctor knows what he's doing. He's one of the top geriatricians in the city. If he says Nonna has Alzheimer's, Nonna has Alzheimer's.”

“Shit,” Paulie muttered. “Poor Nonna.”

“So, what do we do?” Anthony demanded.

Theresa sighed. “Well, they want to put her on drugs to help slow the progress of it, so that's one good thing.” She looked distraught. “But there's no cure for Alzheimer's. It just gets worse and worse. In the meantime, Nonna's reached the stage where it's dangerous to leave her alone.”

Leaden silence followed as the family contemplated this. Then Anthony's wife Angie spoke up.

“I guess we gotta put her in a home.”

Anthony groaned, a dead giveaway that his wife had put her foot in her mouth. Closing her eyes, Gemma quickly envisioned a protective blue light around Angie. She was going to need it. Gemma opened her eyes just in time to see her own mother glaring at Angie from across the table.

“Did you just say what I think you said?” Connie Dante asked.

“Ma,” Gemma warned.

“You keep out of this,” her mother commanded sharply. Her eyes flicked back to Angie contemptuously. “Did you, who weren't even born into this family, suggest putting my mother away like she was a piece of furniture going to a warehouse?”

Gemma's heart went out to Angie as she struggled to put things right. “I didn't mean to suggest—”

“Where you from, hon?” Aunt Millie cut in.

Angie blinked in confusion, her face turning red. “I don't—”

“She means where are your people from,” Gemma's mother clarified as she drummed her pointy purple fingernails on the tabletop.

“Oh. Como.”

Gemma's mother and Aunt exchanged knowing glances, as if geography determined behavior. Her mother's voice was patronizing as she addressed Angie. “We're Sicilian, hon. Maybe in the North families throw out the elderly like an old pair of boots, but not in the South. Sicilians care for their elderly.”

“North, south, what is this, the friggin' Civil War here?” Anthony asked plaintively. “Let's focus on what we're gonna do.” He put a protective arm around Angie's shoulder. Gemma was glad to see it.

“Well, we're sure as shit not putting her in a nursing home,” cousin Paulie declared, looking around the room nervously to make sure he wasn't doing something radical, like expressing his own opinion.

“Then what are we going to do?” Theresa demanded. “Angie's suggestion wasn't out of line.”

Aunt Millie shook her head disgustedly as she stubbed out her cigarette. “Another one with the nursing home.”

“I'm not saying we should put her in a nursing home,” Theresa said sharply. “I'm asking what the alternative is.”

“Taking care of her at home,” Michael said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Who, Mikey?” Gemma prodded gently. “Are we hiring home health aides? What?”

Cousin Paulie looked horrified. “I can't afford to chip in for some nurse. I'm barely making ends meet as it is.”

“Maybe if you stopped buying a new car every freaking year, you'd save money,” Anthony observed.

Paulie half rose out of his seat.
“Vaffancul!”

“Whoa, everyone, come on, settle down,” Michael pleaded. “This is a serious problem here. We need to take care of it.”

“You're just jealous,” Paulie jeered at Anthony.

“Yeah, right, I wish I could buy a guineamobile—”

“Cut the shit, Anthony!” Michael snapped. Anthony and Paulie settled back in their chairs, glowering at each other.

“I don't want some stranger taking care of my mother,” Gemma's mother declared.

“Amen,” Aunt Millie agreed, lighting up as she turned to regard her sister. “Remember Mrs. DiNuova, used to live on Seventh Avenue?”

Gemma's mother nodded fearfully.

“Well, her mother got sick and they hired some Dominican nurse to take care of her. By the time the old lady died, all the Hummel figures were gone from the house.”

“I hear there's a huge market for Hummels in the Dominican Republic,” Michael said drily.

“Don't make fun,” Aunt Millie rasped, shaking a finger at him across the table. “It's true.”

“So, if neither of you want ‘some stranger' to take care of your mother, does that mean you're going to do it?” Gemma asked.

The family looked at her mother and Aunt Millie expectantly. Gemma almost felt sorry for them: They looked like two aging deer trapped in headlights.

“I'll do it part of the time,” Gemma's mother conceded reluctantly.

“Me, too,” said Aunt Millie, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth. “And so will Betty Anne.”

“Let's nail this down,” Michael insisted. “Because if we're going to do this, we have to start right away. Today.”

Gemma's mother heaved a world-weary sigh. “I can watch her during the day on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.”

“I'll do Thursday and Friday,” Aunt Millie offered.

“What about weekends?”

The room went silent.

Gemma ran through her own schedule in her head. “I can do Sundays,” she offered tentatively.

“I don't think that's a very good idea,” a voice piped up. It belonged to her cousin Sharmaine, Paulie's sister. Gemma and Sharmaine had never gotten along. Once Gemma revealed she was a witch, she became
persona non grata
to the holier-than-thou Sharmaine, who, ironically, was rumored to be banging her parish priest on a regular basis.

“What's your beef?” Michael asked politely.

“You know what my beef is,” Sharmaine sniffed, staring disdainfully at Gemma. “I don't think it's a very good idea for her to spend too much time around Nonna. That witch crap might upset her.”

Gemma went to open her mouth but a quick look from Michael told her that, as family facilitator, he preferred to handle it. That was fine with Gemma.