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I turn over in bed, smiling to myself, because I know why my wife is doing a banshee impression this early in the morning.
Footsteps race up the stairs and the bedroom door flies open.
“The party is canceled.”
“Mmph,” I mumble sleepily.
She grabs my shoulder through the blankets and shakes me. “Did you hear me? I said the party’s canceled.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t!” she shrieks, the sound shredding my eardrums. “I just got a call from the caterers saying the venue refused to allow them to deliver the food and drinks, so I called the Regency Hotel. They said I canceled it myself weeks ago, but I did no such thing. What am I going to do without a venue?”
“What a shame. Close the door, will you? I’m still sleeping.” I pull the blanket over my head and close my eyes, a grin on my lips.
Giulia screams again and slams out of the room.
I keep out of the way for most of the day while my wife makes angry phone calls to everyone on the guest list, ranting about the terrible customer service at the Regency.
Around three, I walk into the kitchen, tossing my keys up and down in my hand. Mia’s risked coming downstairs for a muesli bar and a glass of juice. “Let’s go, Bambi.”
She crams the rest of the bar into her mouth just as Giulia stalks in and glares at us with puffy eyes.
“Where are you two going?”
I don’t bother to look at her as I head into the garage. “The cemetery.”
“You shouldn’t call me Bambi in front of Mom,” Mia tells me when we’re driving along the street.
“I shouldn’t do a lot of things.” After I change gears, I reach over and touch her cheek. “Like this. You look beautiful, baby. How are you feeling?”
Mia reaches up and takes my hand, squeezing my fingers. “Happy I’m not at the party. Guilty about the party. It’s complicated.”
It sure is, but my girl is doing what matters to her today, and that’s all that matters to me.
The cemetery is in the northeast of the city, a somber place with black wrought-iron gates, sweeping lawns, and hundreds of nodding roses in orderly rows.
We walk in silence up the long avenue, lined with gravestones and shaded by trees with thick green leaves.
Mia leads us right to her father’s plot. She kneels down and tenderly brushes grass clippings and dirt from the base of the gravestone. I hang back a little, my hands in my pockets, aware that I’m probably the sort of man Mia’s father would be warning her away from if he were still around. I peer at the name carved into the marble. Ennio Russo.
She grew up beautiful, Mr. Russo. You’d be proud of your daughter if you were alive. And, my God, you’d hate me.
Mia has a bouquet of flowers with her, and she takes her time arranging the blossoms in the holder at the base of the gravestone.
Finally, she touches the marble where his name is carved and stands up. “I’ve spent far more of my life without him in it by now. But I still miss him.”
“What do you remember about him?”
Her eyes are unfocused while she plays with the chain around her neck. “He used to come and pick me up every Saturday afternoon and we’d go to the park or to get an ice cream. It was always fun while I was with him, but Mom had a habit of spoiling my enjoyment by picking fights with him or telling me that Dad was uneducated and unconnected, and I was lucky she had custody of me. I don’t know why she had to do that.”
“I think I do,” I mutter.
“Yeah?”
“She’s a bitch.”
“She was jealous, I think. Weirdly possessive. She ignored me most of the time and then lavished me with all kinds of attention when Dad was due to come around. It was so confusing.”
