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“Let us know if we can do anything for you or your family.”
“Will do. Thanks. I’d better get this finished.”
Mrs. Miller surprises me when she walks over to hug me. “God bless you and your brother.”
I’ve had a funky relationship with God. My siblings and I were raised in the Catholic Church, but ever since I had a choice, I haven’t spent much time there. I used to go crazy during weekly Mass, trying to sit still while wishing to be anywhere but there, and don’t get me started on CCD classes and the like. I was outta there the minute my parents weren’t telling me what to do anymore. I’ve got to say, though, I’m appreciative of the prayers people are saying for Milo and our family—as well as the many we’ve received for my mother during her illness.
As I lose myself in the back-and-forth rhythm of mowing the grass, I dust off my faith and say a prayer to the Almighty that He will allow Milo to regain all the things he had before last night and that, before long, he’ll be back to cutting the Millers’ grass and spreading joy everywhere he goes. “I know I have no right to ask You for anything after not coming around You in years, but please let Milo make a full recovery. He’s the best person I know and deserves only good things.”
I wipe away a tear that slides down my face and make another turn, taking the mower along the edging of the front garden. I hear Sofia’s voice telling me I’m a good guy, too, but there’s a lot of room for improvement.
By the time I finish the Millers’ lawn, I’m in bad need of a nap. My own lawn needs to be cut, too, but I’m not doing that today. After the mower is back in the garage, I check my phone for the first time in an hour and find nothing new, which is a relief.
Inside, the house is quiet. Gladys is asleep on the sofa, Mateo is sacked out in his bed, and Sofia is curled up on her side in my bed, sound asleep. I take a quick shower, set the alarm on my phone for four thirty and stretch out next to her, hoping I can quiet my mind enough to sleep for a few hours.
Before I doze off, I go back to that prayer from before and say it all over again, adding an Our Father and Hail Mary for old times’ sake.
Whatever it takes.
LIVIA
Chris insisted on driving me home from the hospital and asked if he could come in and cook me breakfast. I was shocked when he came to the hospital and then when he stayed, talking to each member of my family like it was no big deal for me to have a man show up in my time of need.
If things had been normal, that would’ve been the story of the decade. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it from everyone after we get our precious Milo through this crisis.
Dear God, I love that boy. A grandmother isn’t supposed to play favorites, and I try very hard not to do that, but I defy anyone who knows Milo not to call him one of their favorite people. He’s been an angel from the minute he was born, the youngest of my Lorenzo’s four children and the light of all our lives.
When I think about how close we came to losing him… My hands begin to shake, and my heart feels like it’s going to explode. I’ve been through a lot in my life, losing my young husband far too soon and having to finish raising my kids as a single mother. But having to face the possible loss of my beloved grandson was too much for me to handle.
Somehow, Chris knew that from a few texts when I said I was at the hospital with my grandson. He’d asked which one and then come there like that wouldn’t be the story of the century in my family.
Truth be told, I’ve never been so happy to see anyone as I was to see him last night.
As he places a plate with a cheese omelet and wheat toast on the table in front of me, my stomach growls.
“Bon appétit, my sweet,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
Let me back up a bit to say that, up until last night, our friendship was made up of him teaching me how to fly along with some subtle flirtation and a bit of innuendo. I was not “his sweet,” and he wasn’t kissing me on the top of my head (or anywhere else, for that matter) or visiting my home like it was no big deal for him to be here.
I see him once a week for two hours of lessons. One hour on the ground and the other in the air. It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages, and if I’ve developed a massive crush on my much-younger instructor, well, call me Cougar.
“Thank you,” I tell him as I take a bite of tasty eggs. “This is very good.”
“That’s high praise coming from a Giordino.”
“We’re known more for our pasta than our eggs.”
He pours coffees for both of us and sits with me at the table while I eat. “You’re known for extraordinary cuisine and a welcoming atmosphere.”
“You didn’t make any for yourself.”
“I’m not hungry.”
All at once, it occurs to me. Today is Sunday. “You should be at work! Today’s your busiest day at the flight school.”
He waves away my concerns with a sweep of his hand. “I cleared my schedule for the day right after I heard how serious your grandson’s condition was.”
I’m unreasonably touched by that information. “This is all very much above and beyond the call of friendship.”
