Page 46 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

As we walked round the property walls, Zia Maria craned her neck and softly exclaimed, ‘Look – the courtyard!’ and ‘Look – the tobacco tower! It looks completely different.’

‘Are you sure this is Nonna’s farmhouse? Mostcasalilook very similar…’ I asked hopefully.

‘Sweetheart, we grew up here. And look! See?’

We followed her hand as she pointed to a vaulted archway, so similar to ours, only this one was inscribed with the lettering: Bettarini, 1789.

‘Oh my God,’ Zia Martina cried. ‘Yes, I remember!’

And then I thought about my nonna and whether or not her spirit had wafted back here, to the place she loved so much but had been compelled to leave for her family’s well-being, just as I’d left Boston for my children. Was she, in effect, still here? If I closed my eyes, I could almost see her, walking around on the dusty gravel in her pretty dress, her hem just the right length, her heels just the right height, her hair long and wavy as had been the style.

I wondered if she still lingered. Also, if I could cheekily ask her for a little intervention-cum- upgrade of her ghostly presence on the premises. You know, a few screams in the night, objects being thrown around in broad daylight and some rattling of chains…

‘No, it can’t be!’ Zia Maria cried and took off like a shot.

In unison, we followed her round the back, where she halted with a skid, just like a little girl, right before an enormous oak tree.

‘What? What is it?’ Monica wheezed as we caught up.

But Maria paid no attention, running round the tree, caressing it, her eyes narrowed until she shouted, ‘Look! Oh my God, look!’

We scanned the tree trunk. It had a heart circling two letters: M and G.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked, and Zia Maria blushed.

‘Maria… and Giovanni.’

My eyes popped out of my head. ‘You had a Giovanni?’

She blushed an even deeper red as Martina and Monica nodded in unison.

‘He was gorgeous,’ Martina swooned.

My aunt had a secret love? Who knew? ‘What happened to him?’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘He moved to Argentina with his parents when I was a girl. I still miss him…’

‘Oh, Zia Maria,’ I moaned in sympathy. God knew I’d had my share of unhappy loves, but to think of my aunts as women who had loved and lost like me… that made me feel even closer to them.

Monica turned. ‘Wait – there must be Martina’s around here somewhere.’

Zia Martina shrugged. ‘Ican’t even remember the boy’s name. We were so young when we moved to the States.’

‘And I was the baby.’ Zia Monica sighed. ‘No Italian love for me. Oh, well…’

‘Whatareyou talking about – you’ve still got Father Frank lusting after you, haven’t you?’ I said, but Martina’s face told me the subject was taboo, so I dropped it like a hot potato.

‘Oh my God! Look at this,’ Zia Maria cried, her fingers touching an incision in the tree. ‘This is new – it’s still green!’

We all moved in closer for a better look: E+E=E circled by a heart. I looked up at them blankly.

‘Emanuela plus Edoardo… equals Erica,’ Maria sighed, swiping at both eyes. ‘He said he was going to come here and do that one day.’

‘And now he’s done it,’ Zia Monica whispered. ‘The poor man. He’ll never get over losing your mother, Erica.’

I stared at the simple mathematical equation that was meant to be my family. It was too beautiful to be true. The testimony of my dad’s love for both my mother and me. All this time Dad had held a candle for my real mom. And harbored a special place in his heart for me. All this time and for years I hadn’t known. And somewhere deep inside me rose a wave of sympathy for Marcy for never having the chance of being first in his heart.

You couldn’t beat the sweet memory of your first love. My mom and Marcy had been practically identical on the outside – I’d seen it in the pictures Nonna Silvia had left me. But on the inside, they were worlds apart. And this hatred Marcy had felt for her twin that was my mom had somehow transferred onto me, like a cheap decal that you scrub and scrub but simply won’t come off, as if I’d personally done something wrong to her.

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