Total Rush (25 page)

“I think you might need to talk to someone about this,” his mother suggested, sounding like she was walking on eggshells.

“Yeah, I know,” Sean admitted miserably. “But it's not my way, you know, talking things to death.”

“But this is affecting your life, Sean.”

“I know.” Guilt descended on him as his mind flashed back to the last time he'd seen Gemma. She'd said the same thing, and he'd cut her off at the knees. Now he saw that she wasn't pushing, wasn't prying, wasn't trying to make him into something he wasn't. Like his mother, she simply saw someone she loved in pain and wanted to do whatever she could to alleviate it. What a clueless jerk he was.

“They have therapists at the fire department now,” his mother continued carefully. “Maybe you should check it out.”

“I might, Ma. Thanks.”

Much to his chagrin, he found himself still dogged by embarrassment. The guys at the house kept their mouths shut when they needed help. Was he being weak because he was unable to suck it up and take it “like a man”? Then he asked himself, where had that attitude gotten his father? He remembered the awful, stomach-churning feeling of coming home from school not knowing what mood his father would be in, and he knew he had to talk this out no matter how uncomfortable it made him. Exhaustion suddenly swallowed him up, making him feel muzzy-headed. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told his mother he had qualms about going back to sleep. But now that he'd spilled his guts, maybe sleep would come, and he could rest. He appreciated that she'd listened to him and hadn't passed judgment. She was a good mother; he told her so and saw the pleasure in her eyes.

But he wished he'd been comforted by Gemma.

The last time
Gemma had slept over at her grandmother's house, she'd been twenty, seeking solace after a particularly bad fight with her mother. They'd stayed up late into the night talking, Gemma wishing Nonna were her mother. When she was small, she used to sleep over all the time, the sound of Nonna's snoring up the hall a comfort to her. Gemma smiled, remembering the pure joy of sitting at the kitchen table, legs swinging, while Nonna made ricotta pancakes. Afterward they'd go to church, and Gemma would be entranced by the multicolored shafts of sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows. Nonna said sunbeams were God's fingers reaching down to touch the earth. Gemma found that a comfort, too.

Now, pulling up in front of Nonna's house on a Sunday morning, she was surprised she felt nervous about the day and night ahead. Gemma knew she must be conscious of not behaving differently toward her grandmother, unless she needed to for Nonna's own safety. Yes, a definite diagnosis of Alzheimer's had been made, but Nonna was still the same person, and deserved to be treated with the same love and respect, not like a child or some doddering old woman. She prayed everyone else in the family was on the same page.

The door was opened by her cousin Anthony, who had insisted on continuing his tradition of taking Nonna to early Mass at St. Finbar's.

“How ya' doin?” he asked, leaning in for a quick peck to the cheek. “Traffic okay?”

“At this hour, it was a breeze.” Shrugging off her cape, Gemma shivered. “It's like an icebox in here.”

“Nonna says she's hot.”

“Where is she?”

“In the kitchen having her traditional post-Mass snack: espresso and
sfogliatelle.
” Anthony reached for his coat, draped over the back of the easy chair. “She did good in church: knew where she was, didn't want to get up and wander around.” He chuckled. “She didn't know who Father Clementine was, though. She leans over to me and says really loud, ‘Who's that fat bastard?' ”

Gemma laughed appreciatively. “I'm sorry I missed that.”

“In here, Nonna, talking to Anthony,” Gemma called in the direction of the kitchen. “I'll be in in a minute.”

“You need anything?” Anthony asked, turning up his collar.

“I'm fine.”

“Okay, then, I'm gonna take off. I'll be at the restaurant around noon if you need me. Ange is on duty today. Mikey's in Pittsburgh, but I think Theresa's home if you need help or anything. Just give a shout.”

“Maybe I'll give Sharmaine a call,” Gemma joked.

“Putan',”
Anthony growled under his breath. “I never liked that one.”

“You and me both. Take care, Ant,” she said as she watched him plod down Nonna's steps and up the street. Michael was a bounder, Anthony a plodder. What was she?

 

 

“
Bella
,
I
'
m so
happy you decided to visit.” Nonna's face flushed with pleasure as she looked up from the kitchen table. “Can you stay for lunch?”

“Lunch, dinner, the whole shebang!”

No sooner had the words slipped out of her mouth than Nonna's visage darkened. “In, out, in, out, all these people trooping through my house. What the hell is going on? Can't an old woman live in peace?”

Same old Nonna. Speak the truth.
“You don't have a choice, Non,” Gemma explained gently. “Remember when you went to see the doctor with Mom and Aunt Millie?”

Nonna looked suspicious.

“Well, the doctor said you shouldn't be alone anymore. That's why we've all been here. We're keeping you company, making sure you don't get hurt.”

“I can take care of myself,” Nonna muttered fiercely.

“I know you can. We're just here to help.”

This seemed to pacify her. “All right.”

Gemma slid into a chair next to her. “What would you like to do today?”

“I'd like to get out of my church clothes, for a start.”

“Okay.” Gemma hesitated. Should she let her grandmother go upstairs on her own to change, or should she go with her? One option courted the potential for injury, the other for insult. Gemma decided to be straightforward. “Would you like some help?”

“The company would be nice.”

Gemma waited until her grandmother had finished her coffee, then followed her upstairs. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually been in her grandmother's bedroom. It had to be when she was a very small child. She was shocked but not surprised to see nothing had changed. The sagging double bed with the faded chenille bedspread was still there, and the walls were still adorned by pictures of saints, their beatific smiles rendered all the more mysterious by the glow of the votive candles atop Nonna's dresser that never seemed to go out or need replacing.

Those might have to go.

Her eye caught the set of rosary beads draped over one corner of the dresser mirror, and a cross made of palm fronds stuck into the corner of the other. As a little girl, she'd been frightened by the religious accoutrements of her grandmother's room, convinced the eyes of all the paintings were following her. But now she found comfort in their immutability, appreciating their value as symbols of a life richly lived in faith.

Sinking down on the bed, Nonna took off her shoes. She peeled off her stockings next before moving to her dresser to remove her jewelry.

“Want these?” she said to Gemma, holding up her earrings.

Gemma scrunched up her nose. “What?”

“Take them,” Nonna urged. “I'd rather see you enjoy them while I'm still alive.”

“Thank you.” Gemma took the marcasite teardrops and slipped them into her pocket. She had no intention of keeping them, knowing that some members of her family would accuse her of starting to clean out Nonna's house while she was still alive. Besides, Nonna might not be fully aware of what she was doing. Tomorrow she might want to wear those very same earrings, and then what?

Sighing heavily, Nonna grabbed the hem of her skirt to pull her dress over her head. Gemma was initially shocked by the lumpy terrain of her grandmother's bare legs, the sagging flesh crosshatched with a network of varicose and spider veins.
This'll be me someday,
she thought, and her heart filled with tenderness.
This will be all of us.

The dress was up around Nonna's neck now, covering her face.

“Help!” Nonna cried out, her voice muffled through the material. “I'm caught on something.”

Alarmed, Gemma went to her aid. The crocheted neckline of Nonna's dress was snagged on a chain she wore around her neck. As delicately as she could, Gemma worked to untangle the two. That's when she saw it: The charm hanging from Nonna's necklace was the
cimaruta,
an ancient Pagan charm traditionally used to ward off the evil eye. She stared at it. In Italy, it was called “the witch charm.” Its three main branches symbolized the goddess Diana in her three aspects as maiden, mother, and crone. Hanging from each branch were other symbols: a fish, a hand, a key, a crescent moon—each having a specific meaning.

“Nonna,” Gemma asked as she helped her off with her dress, “where did you get the
cimaruta?
”

“Ah,” said Nonna, fingering the beautiful silver charm. “You like it?”

“Where did you get it?” Gemma asked again. “How long have you had it?”

Nonna turned away, an almost imperceptible smile playing across her lips. “That's my secret.”

Gemma's eyes were glued to her as she went to her closet to pull out a pair of slacks and a blouse.
She's a witch. I know it. I feel it!
The thought excited her. It meant the ancient ways were part of her birthright. She wasn't an oddball at all; this was in her blood! What would her mother have to say about that?

Nonna, meanwhile, had slipped into her slacks. But as her fingers went to the neck of her blouse, they hesitated, rubbing the button there. Gemma watched and waited. Maybe Nonna wanted to wear something else? Nonna looked down at the open blouse, then at Gemma, her face contorted with bafflement.

“Here, let me,” Gemma said softly. Slowly, with great care, she buttoned the front of her grandmother's blouse. “Better?”

“Better,” Nonna repeated, her relief obvious. She glanced at Gemma shyly. “Would you mind brushing my hair?”

“I would love to.”

Steering Nonna to sit at her vanity, Gemma loosened the silver braid of her hair. Picking up the stiff horsehair brush Nonna had had for as long as she could remember, she began brushing. Nonna closed her eyes, seeming to lose herself in the luxurious sensation. When she opened them, her eyes met Gemma's in the vanity mirror.

“You and me,” Nonna said. “We're a lot alike.”

Gemma leaned over, lovingly pressing her own cheek against her grandmother's older, more papery version. “I know,” Gemma whispered.

 

 

Sean hadn
'
t been
sure what to expect. He was pleasantly surprised to find the counseling unit looked like any other office, with out-of-date magazines littering the low coffee table in the waiting room, and furniture that had seen better days. He had an appointment to talk to Lieutenant Dan Murray, who had put in his twenty years of active service with the department and was now working as a full-time counselor. Sean liked him on sight: Bow-legged, pot-bellied, with a big, white handlebar mustache, he brought to mind a friendly, talking walrus.

Murray's tone was friendly but concerned. “What can I do for you, Sean?”

As briefly as he could, Sean explained what he'd been going through since the brownstone fire. Murray listened intently, giving the occasional encouraging nod. He seemed neither surprised nor shocked by what Sean told him, even when Sean related the details of how, walking down the street, he'd felt like he couldn't breathe after seeing a hope chest in the window of a furniture store.

“That's called a trigger,” Murray explained. “Extremely common after a traumatic incident. Something visual, a certain smell, a sound—anything can bring you back to the fire scene and with it comes all those attendant feelings: guilt, pain, fear, you name it.”

“Yeah, but what can I do about it?”

“Exactly what you're doing. Talk about it.” Murray leaned back in his chair. “You know, after you called yesterday, I ran a check on you. You've got a great record, Sean. But I know what you're going through: one fuckup cancels out years of hearing ‘Great job, buddy.' Right?”

Sean nodded, relieved that Murray knew exactly how he was feeling. He couldn't have said it better if he tried.

“Well, I'm gonna try to help you with that. You've taken the all-important first step, which is getting your ass in here and opening your mouth. The rest is gravy, relatively speaking.”

“I'm having trouble sleeping,” Sean confessed.

“That's common, too. Don't worry: I won't let you walk out of here without some coping techniques. You familiar with deep breathing? Visualization? Meditation?”

Sean laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing, it's just that I used to date this girl who was into all that stuff, and I gave her a hard time about it, that's all.”

“Well, she was on to something,” said Murray, “but the key will be finding what works for you. Every guy in the department for any length of time has gone through what you're going through right now at one time or another. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar. Now, why don't you tell me about the fire.”

The next morning
, Gemma was eager to get to work so she could do some research on the
cimaruta.
How long had Nonna been wearing it, hidden under her clothes? She already knew each of the charms hanging from the three branches of the tree had a specific meaning—she just couldn't remember what they were. Now, fired up by the possibility that the beloved matriarch of the family might turn out to be a keeper of the “old ways,” Gemma wanted to learn everything she could about the two-sided medallion. She felt like a soldier loading up on ammunition; the next time her mother decided to get on her case about being a witch, Gemma would be able to turn to her and say, “So's your own mother, and here's proof.”