AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DOMINIC
Gio said the arrangements could wait, but I couldn’t stand the idea of her being laid out in the hospital morgue. I made some calls and found a funeral home that was willing to schedule things in a hurry. I signed whatever paperwork the hospital admins shoved in my face and reluctantly nodded my head yes when I was asked if I wanted to see her.
My brother didn’t. He remained in the plastic hospital chair with his head down, not caring who was watching as he sobbed while his wife rubbed his back. Tara looked up at me with wounded eyes as she held him, and I wished I could let loose like Gio. I wished I could sink into the nearest chair and let my chest heave and my shoulders shake as some poisonous grief leaked out. I hadn’t cried yet. I’d come pretty close when I was on the phone with Melanie, but ultimately I held it in.
“Can I come to the hospital?” she’d asked, and I knew she wanted to. I wanted that too. I wanted to hold her and take comfort in something good, and Melanie was all good. But it felt like too much to accept from her right now, too demanding or something.
“No,” I said, and my voice sounded remote even to me. “No need for that.”
“Dom?” she said gently, and I was suddenly afraid of whatever loving words she was going to offer.
“I’ll see you later,” I told her, and ended the call. Then I followed a stout nurse down a series of barren hallways so I could say goodbye to my grandmother.
The room was small and mercifully dim. Someone had brought the sheet up to her neck, and there was no sign of trauma. It had happened quickly, before the first incision was made. That’s what they had told us, and they had no reason to lie. She was already unconscious. She just wouldn’t be waking up.
I knelt beside the bed and willed myself to look at her face. The peace I saw gave me relief. I’d been expecting something else for some reason.
“Gio couldn’t pronounce the word grandma,” I started to say and smiled at the flashback from over two decades ago. “So then you tried to get us to call you nonna, Italian for grandmother, but I kept hearing Papa Leo call you Donna, so I started calling you that too. You thought it was cute, and it stuck. People would say rude shit, thinking it was all your pride that wouldn’t allow you to be called Grandma, but you informed them you’ve never been prouder of anything as you were of your grandsons. And then you’d offer a few four-letter suggestions about where they could stick their opinions.” I paused. “Steven always called you Grandma. I didn’t remember that until now. I’m sorry you didn’t get to see him again. And I’m sorry that that’s partly my fault.”
I touched the sheet, wondering if there was anything left in this room of Donna Esposito, besides her body. She hadn’t raised us to be religious, having abandoned the Catholic Church long before we came to live with her. Yet I wondered if she would have wanted a priest at the end, had she understood it was going to be the end.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “Thank you for taking us in, for raising us, for loving us more than our own mother ever did. We love you, Donna.” I pressed two fingers to my lips and then rested them briefly on her cool forehead. “Sleep well.”
There was a sour taste in my mouth when I stood up, but I didn’t cry. Donna would have scolded me for crying. She would have said tears are for tragedies, and there was nothing tragic about a long life well lived. It still hurt, but it wasn’t tragic. It was just the end.
Gio was in the same spot where I’d left him, and Tara was still holding him gently. He wasn’t sobbing anymore, though, and when he sadly looked up at me, I saw the gap-toothed toddler who had to be consoled when he buried his stuffed toy turtle so deep in the sand at Jones Beach that no one could find it again.
I held my arms out, and my little brother stood up for a hug now, just like he had then. Nobody stopped to stare at two big men embracing in the middle of the hospital. It was probably a common sight here.
“Let’s go,” I said, and Tara linked an arm with each of us for the walk outside.
“You want to come home with us, Dom?” Tara asked when we got out to the parking lot. Her soft blonde hair whipped around in the wind. The day had turned gray and stormy within the last few hours.
“You know, I think I’ll take a drive,” I said. “Maybe stop by the restaurants. You guys go pick up Leah and go home. Be a family. Teach the little one how to roll a proper pizza crust.”
Gio gave me a watery grin. “I think she’s a little young.”
I disagreed. “Nope. It’s never too early to start training the next generation.”
“You’re right,” he said. “After all, we were trained early.”
“We were trained by the best,” I said, recalling my grandfather’s patient smile.
Once Tara and Gio were gone, I reconsidered my plans. Miles to the west a thick dust storm was brewing, so taking a drive with low visibility and panicked motorists seemed like a bad way to spend the afternoon. I could have gone to either restaurant and kept busy. But I wasn’t ready to face a sea of well-meaning thoughts and prayers either. However, down the road from the hospital was a mall where I could wander around for a little while and be comfortably anonymous with my own private grief.
As I walked by one storefront after another, I realized I hadn’t set foot in a mall in years. When I passed a store that sold designer bath sponges followed by another one that carried nothing but wind chimes, I understood why. When I found myself in a bookstore, I impulsively purchased a cookbook that caught my eye. It was a large, colorful volume of authentic Mexican recipes. It reminded me of Melanie and the things she’d told me about her family.
While I was roaming around the mall, Melanie texted twice. I touched the screen, ready to text back, but I had nothing to say that could be squeezed into a terse text message, so I just returned to my car and drove over to the restaurant.
The dust storm had passed through the city and was now busy engulfing the East Valley in a dense cloud of dirt. The sky still looked ominous, though. Rain didn’t often fall this time of year, but it seemed appropriate and timely today.
I was barely through the door of Espo 2 when Melanie came running over. She flung her arms around my neck and squeezed.
“Dom, I’m so sorry,” she cried, and all over the dining room, customers and staff stopped and stared. I didn’t want to let her go, though. She felt so good, so soft and warm. I closed my eyes and rested my chin on her shoulder. The sorrow I’d been holding at bay threatened to erupt right there beside the hostess desk.
Melanie pulled back slightly and searched my eyes. Hers, so wide and blue, brimmed with tears. I remembered something Tara had said. Melanie stopped by the hospital this morning. She’d brought flowers, a sweet gesture, and for a woman she barely knew. All she did know was that Donna was very important to me.
