Chapter 11
Natalia
Since I’d returned from California, I’d missed three Sunday night dinners at my mother’s house, and now I was late for a fourth because our train hadn’t budged in fifteen minutes.
“Why don’t we just take your car, or better yet, an Uber, out to Howard Beach like we always did when Dad came?”
Isabella was a smart girl. She knew the answer.
“Because driving from the City to Howard Beach takes forever in traffic, and an Uber is a hundred and fifty dollars round trip. The A train is faster and three bucks each way.”
She raised her perky little nose in the air. “When I grow up, I’m not going to be poor.”
“We’re not poor.”
“So why are we in this stalled sweat box right now instead of an air-conditioned Uber?”
“Because we don’t waste money. We make wise decisions on how to use it.” I pointed my chin at her feet. “You know, like on those hundred-and-forty-dollar Nikes I just bought you. There’s your Uber.”
She rolled her eyes, but stopped bitching. A few minutes later, the train finally started to move again. It was just in the nick of time, too. I’m not claustrophobic or anything, but the oppressive heat had me feeling like I was trapped inside a sealed baggie with no air.
Mom’s house was a fifteen-minute walk from the train. She lived in the same two-family brick house we’d lived in growing up—only instead of a tenant to help pay the rent upstairs, now my oldest sister and her family occupied the space. They’d moved in two years ago when she had her second baby so Mom could help with the kids.
The smell of sauce wafted through the air as we turned the corner to my mother’s block. Of course, this was Howard Beach, so almost every brick house in the neighborhood had an Italian family cooking sauce—or gravy, as most of them called it. But I could actually identify the smell of my mom’s sauce. My mouth salivated as we walked closer.
I used my key to let myself in. “We’re here! Sorry we’re late.”
My mother pursed four fingers together while she spoke. “The pasta is going to be overcooked.” She power-kissed both of my cheeks and then moved on to Izzy. “You’ve grown even more in the last few weeks. Now you have more room for meatballs. Come. You can lick the spoons on the cake I just made before you set the table.”
I followed the two of them into the eye of the storm, otherwise known as the kitchen. My two nieces were in highchairs, the one year old crying and the two year old banging a spoon against her plastic tray while yelling “Ma Ma Ma Ma” nonstop. My sister Alegra yelled hello while dumping sauce from a giant pot into a giant bowl. My sister Nicola screamed fuck while pulling bread from the oven—she’d apparently burned herself. And Mom began scolding her in Italian for her language.
Yep. I missed Sunday night dinners.
Jumping in, I grabbed glasses and napkins and started setting the dining room table. When I went back into the kitchen to grab plates, the doorbell rang.
“Will Francesca ever remember her key?”
“Your sister isn’t coming. She’s in Jersey for the weekend, down at the shore,” Mom mumbled. “I hope she brought sunscreen.”
“Well, that makes setting the table a lot easier.” My sister Francesca had an array of obsessive-compulsive behaviors, one of them being symmetry and orderliness. It took her over an hour to fix the table after someone else set it on Sundays. Growing up, I’d shared a room with her, which was how I became interested in cognitive behavioral therapy to begin with—not that she’d let me work with her or even go see a different therapist.
The doorbell rang again.
“Natalia, go answer the door.”
“Why? It’s probably just someone who wants to save our souls.” I turned to Alegra. “On second thought, you should probably get it. Your soul needs saving, floozy.”
Mom barked, “Go get the door, Natalia. That’s our guest. Don’t keep him waiting.”
“Our guest?”
“Go! And brush your hair before you answer the door.”
I shook my head, but headed to the front door anyway. If Bella Rossi said jump…
The peephole was so damn high, I had to stand on my tippy toes and crane my neck to the sky. A man stood on the top step of the stoop, facing the street. From the back, he looked damn good in his jeans. Maybe I should have fixed my hair for the Jehovah’s Witness after all. Wait? Do Jehovah Witnesses have premarital sex? I smirked to myself. I really need to get laid. I’m checking out the religious solicitor standing on the stoop next to a statue of the Virgin Mary at my mother’s house.