Page 55 of The Vow

“Then they better go up on the fridge. I gotta go fix your side gutter. You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll try not to hurt myself while sitting here.”

Nick sat down on the coffee table so that he wasn’t towering over me. The look on his face resembled the one he wore when he thought he had to close the bar, but a savvy business plan and targeted advertising saved it. “Listen, buddy. I know you think that it’s all doom and gloom...”

“Isn’t it!?”

“No. It isn’t. You don’t even know the extent of the injury. You haven’t been back to the hospital, and I’ve seen your leg twitch.”

“I’m not going back there.”

“But what if...?”

“It’s not you in this Goddamn chair. It’s easy for you. A pep talk, a wad of cash, and then you go home and live a normal life. Do you know what it’s like to mourn yourself!?”

“Okay. I get it,” he said, standing and making me feel tiny. “I guess you’re not a fighter after all.”

The window was open. To save money, I refused to let Alex turn on the air conditioning, but there was no breeze. There was only stagnant air. The construction noise outside was driving me insane. They were tearing down the park across the street. The ghosts of children lingered, and in my head, I could hear their joyful cries.

“Not good.” Nick was at the front door. I didn’t even notice that he was gone. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

This time, there were no bags full of homemade food. My mother came in bearing store-bought dessert, and ground espresso. I was fascinated by the way she didn’t greet me. Instead, she opened the box of cookies and filled the Moka maker with coffee. She hasn’t seen me since I was a whole person. I was unsightly to her. A failure. Deformed. A shell of a man.

“Have something to eat.” Ma placed the cookies and a short espresso on the coffee table. Her attire puzzled me. Ever since I could remember, she took pride in looking her best. Today, she wore the smock and open sandals that she normally wore around the house. “Mangia.”

“Not hungry.”

She struggled while carrying a dining room chair a few feet so she could sit beside me. I braced myself for the inevitable, but ma stayed silent.

Time passed. We sat. The percussive tone of a jackhammer filled the room. We sat. I felt the bones in her hand when she reached for mine, but we still didn’t speak. The clock’s hand inched forward, yet there was no sound except that of a foreman who was shouting orders.

I didn’t feel invisible. I felt like there was a gigantic, scorching spotlight on me. I felt embarrassed, and humiliated, and when I began to cry, I couldn’t stop.

“Pippino.”

She stopped calling me by that nickname when I became a teenager. I cried harder. My mother, the woman who gave me two lives – once when she gave birth to me, and then when she morphed into two parents – stood on her wobbly legs, placed her flabby arms around my neck, and held me for an eternity. They say a mother’s touch can heal all wounds. I expected something magical to happen. I expected a miracle. God wasn’t listening.

There was no good-bye. There was only a kiss. After positioning the dining room chair exactly how she had found it, ma made her way to the front door. “Sarai sempre mio figlio.” You will always be my son.

I didn’t wipe my nose or dry my face. The human brain is a complex organ. I was like the man I heard about on the news who had a rare condition that made him impervious to physical pain. I was that man in reverse. All my pain was emanating from my head, and all of it was in an emotional sense.

The construction sounds were muffled by the sound of sirens; absurdly loud and sickeningly urgent. I rolled as far away from the noise as I could. “I just want some fucking peace and quiet!”

God was deaf to my prayers.

Twenty-One

My suit is too large for my frame. My hands and face are ghostly white. The sun feels blistering to a man who has become a hermit. I punch my head over, and over to silence the tsunami of voices admonishing me. I didn’t say good-bye. I didn’t tell her I love her.

Nobody notices my outburst. They’re chatting and hugging like they’re at a family picnic. Cable is sitting quietly, staring at his hands that are folded in his lap. Guys from Phoenix surround him like an entourage. Some are battered and bruised. Others look bored sitting with their arms crossed and their legs stretched. I watch as Alex kisses one of my relatives on both cheeks and then glare at her for making nice with someone who I haven’t heard from in years.

Whispers are being sewn together to tell the story of what happened. Nick witnessed my mother collapsing at the bus stop next to the park. One construction worker administered CPR. Another called 9-1-1. After running into the house to tell me he was following the ambulance to the hospital, Alex came home. She wanted to leave me, to be by my mother’s side. I told her that if she did, I’d lose what little was left of my mind. Together, we waited by the phone, but the phone never rang. An hour later, Nick had let himself in. “I’m so sorry, my brother” – that’s how he broke the news to me.

The mourners settle down to listen to Father De Luca as he begins his eulogy. Alex sits next to me. Her fingers entwine with mine. Nick and his family sit next to her. I’m not listening to what Father De Luca has to say. I’ve heard it all before.

I’m keeping my promise to her and burying ma with her Madonna medallion. Alex helped me choose her burial outfit. We chose the same one she wore when she surprised us with a boatload of food. There must be a place where memories go to die because I don’t remember myself the way I was back then. I only know that I was happy.

Father had asked me if I wanted to say something. I didn’t. I don’t. Ma can’t hear me, so there’s no point. Instead, he had me briefly describe my mother, her passions, her successes, as if a life can be summarized in point form.