Page 27 of Love at Teamsgiving
She closes the door in my face but doesn’t deny it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I thoughtI’d have to drag Mom out of New York City by the ankles. Instead, she’s silent as we leave, which is almost worse.
She didn’t scold the moving guys when they were a little rough with her antique credenza. The cabbie wasn’t told a better way to get to LaGuardia. When the TSA agent sent her to the regular line rather than letting her go through the expedited screening for travelers of a certain age, she didn’t make a fuss—she’s not yet sixty-five, but her hair is streaked with white, so she often gets the senior discount.
Now, as we drive from the airport in Omaha toward Cobbiton, she doesn’t make a peep.
Not when I comment on the changing leaves from green to bursts of yellow, orange, and red.
Not when I tell her about some of the great restaurants in town—including an Italian joint called Spagliettis—or the seasonal events.
Not when I turn onto 4thStreet and point out the location of my new salon.
Having shrunk in recent years and dressed in all black, seated beside me in the car, she’s like a sullen teenager going through an emo goth phase.
“Mom, I know you’re not thrilled about this change, but trust me, it’s for the best.”
She harrumphs. “I’ll be the judge of what’s best for me.”
At last, she speaks!
“Like that you stopped making dinner on Sundays.”
She snorts. “Who am I supposed to cook for?”
I make an annoyed face as if to say,Duh, us.Never mind the fact that the scent of simmering sauce with beef, garlic, and basil was enough to draw friends from other New York boroughs.
“Is this about Asher moving to Thailand with she-who-shall-not-be-named?”
“I don’t think he’ll like it there.” She hasn’t taken her eyes off her Rosary.
“There’s hockey,” I say, trying to be hopeful and not wanting to think about a certain hockey player who was recently traded to the Knights.
Hockey also brings to mind Papa.
Some people deal with grief by trying to gather close all the reminders of the person they lost. Others want to file it away and not think about it. My mother seems to have frozen the day my father died. A shock of white threaded through her hair. She started wearing black and I haven’t seen her smile since.
I pull into the driveway of our little ranch-style rental. Having lived in an apartment all my life, it seems strangely lonely sitting there all by itself with one tree off to the side and little else. The asphalt siding is chipped in some places. The windows need replacing, along with the roof and the leaves on the ground look left over from last season. But this isn’t our forever home. I’m working on that. But it’s over twice the size as our place in Manhattan, so that’s progress.
As for the loneliness, maybe Mama feels that way, too. Me at times as well.
This move was my idea, and I wasn’t about to leave my mother in New York by herself. Especially knowing she won’t so much as make a Bolognese on any given Sunday.
Turning to her, I say, “Mama, I know this is a big change. Huge, even. But I want you to be a part of it. Notapartfrom it. Owning a home and opening a salon weren’t possible in Manhattan. Plus, I have friends here.”
“But I don’t.”
Clearing my throat, I say, “Actually, you do. Sort of.”
Now may not be the time to remind her that Carlotta is also moving here.
When the movers arrived, I considered telling them that their services wouldn’t be necessary. Twice on the way to the airport, I almost told the cabbie to turn around. When the TSA agent went through my carry-on, I considered fleeing, but that would’ve looked suspicious.
“Mama, I’m as unsure about all this change as you. But I think it’s going to be good. Great even.”
Over the past several months, I’ve made it my personal project to try to cheer her up and start doing things again. She left the A-2 Carpentry Crew and stopped hanging wallpaper. She also gave up all her customers who came to her for seamstress work and abandoned the cameos she hand-carves—as per the custom of the Cicianno family, going back hundreds of years. She’d ship all over the world, but they’ve remained in her little toolbox, which is somewhere between here and Manhattan.
