Page 71 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

Paul put the tractor into first gear with a few more screeches as Beppe hopped straight in the back, his hands searching mine.

‘Don’t worry, Erica. I’ll help you. I have cows,’ he muttered, and my eyes popped open in protest. ‘I’m not in labor, Beppe, it’s just my back!’

‘Good enough for me!’ Paul conceded as he took off with a screech and a halt that would have thrown me to the far end of the cabin if Beppe hadn’t caught me.

The old man looked down at me, then shouted something in pure Tuscan dialect, which I completely missed but Paul, who barely spoke Italian, understood.

‘Sorry for the bumps, sweetie,’ he called back at me. ‘You’ll be OK, I promise.’

At this rate, we were never going to get to the hospital.

‘Just pull over and let me die here,’ I moaned. ‘And tell the kids I love them.’

‘Erica, sweetie, please. Hang on!’

‘To what?’ I barked back. Then, insanely, I snarled, ‘Your driving sucks!’

It wasn’t true. Or rather, it was, but I didn’t mean to say it. It just came out, but he looked at me like I’d kicked him in the head, his eyes darting back to the road ahead.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!’ I shrieked as another stab nearly tore me in half. ‘I love you.’

That seemed to fuel him and he accelerated, thank God in heaven.

At that point, Beppe pulled out his cellphone and two minutes later Marco, Renata’s husband, arrived in the car that he only used for special occasions. How sweet.

‘Marco…’ I whispered as he and Paul lifted me and gently put me on the back seat, where the pain slowly subsided and I closed my eyes for the rest of the journey, confident I was in good hands. ‘I thought you were in Florence.’

‘No, I decided to stay behind this time. Good thing I did,sì?’

‘Sì… thank you.’

But when we arrived at the hospital, I was unceremoniously thrown onto a gurney. Paul held my hand past a few doors and then his lips brushed mine.

‘I love you – you’ll be OK,’ he whispered.

‘You betcha,’ I whispered back, wondering if I’d ever be able to walk again.

15

I Hear Those Church Bells Ringing

It turned out that August 20thcame and went without my becoming Mrs. Foxham. For three whole weeks, I was trapped in bed and I couldn’t move a toe, let alone have any hope of walking down the aisle in the near future.

‘I’m sorry,’ I sobbed to Julian after he brought me home from the hospital. ‘It’s like fate doesn’t want us to get married.’

‘Nonsense, sweetheart. We’ll reschedule.’

‘Again…But what about everybody?’

‘They’ll understand. You just get better and the minute you’re on your feet, we’ll do it. OK?’

‘K,’ I sniffed.

Maddy and Warren spent the afternoons with me on my bed. Every time one of them shifted, I’d stifle a scream.

‘Why don’t you use my writing desk to draw?’ I suggested with what felt like my dying breath, and happily Maddy hopped up, the mattress dipping slightly, but it wasn’t as bad as before.

Warren sat by the window, surveying the horizon. It still wasn’t a pretty sight, but better than before.

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