Better in the Morning, page 14
I turned to my grandmother. “What about you?”
“My passing? Oh, it was so beautiful,” she said. “Beautiful” sounded like “Beauty–ful.” “I walked into my parents’ bakery, and Salvatore was there, and he looked so handsome like he does now, and we just hugged. I didn’t want to let go, but when I did, I saw everyone. I saw my sister, I saw my brother, and I screamed when I saw my parents. Oh, how I screamed. And I met people too. My grandparents, who I never knew, but ya know, when you do meet, it’s like you’ve always known them. Because, well, ya always have. It’s wonderful.” She closed her eyes again and faced the sun. “Absolutely wonderful.”
Grandma Ant died seven years before when I was twenty-two, but here, she looked just like I remembered her. Her short, curly white hair was still thick and shiny, and all of the wrinkles I’d tried to memorize before she was gone were still there, but somehow her skin looked suppler and more radiant. Her blue eyes had their color back, and of course, she dressed to impress in a dark-blue sweater with a rhinestone pin in the shape of a leaf on her collar. I loved that pin. I wore it with a black sheath dress I had with a big collar.
“Aren’t you sad that you left people behind?” I’d never asked them this before.
“Nah. It’s not like that,” Grandma Ant said. “You feel sorry for the people you’ve left behind. Life on Earth, ya know, in the physical world, as we say, that’s the hard part.”
So, I gathered that once someone passed, the irony was that some people on Earth felt sorry for people who had died when, in reality, it was the other way around. I thought about that for a while, and then my grandfather said, “Listen, brasciole, the thing is, don’t worry so much about who’s passed. They’re all right. See—” He made a hand motion as if to offer himself up as proof. “You’re still living your life. It’s not easy. We know.”
“It hurts, though, when someone you love is gone,” I said. “Like when I graduated law school, I remember thinking that I wished you were there, and yes, I know you were there, but I wished you were alive, and we could talk about it and get a picture, at least!”
“Who needs a picture?” Grandpa Sal asked.
“And what if, God help me”—I glanced up at the sky—“I get married. You won’t be at my wedding.”
They laughed. I looked at them both from side to side.
“Oh, we’ll be there,” my grandmother said. “And we were there at your graduation party. We wouldn’t have missed it for the world! We were dancing and talking amongst ourselves. We were there with our parents and our grandparents and our brothers and sisters. We had a great time. And the food! God bless Bella Notte!”
“How were you eating the food?” I asked.
“Veronica, you might be in that world, let’s call it, and we might be in this world, but we’re there too,” my grandfather said. “Our worlds can cross… what’s that term… two dimensional? No, three dimensional, that’s it. You think of your world as three-dimensional, and that’s wrong.”
Before I could even begin to wrap my head around that idea, Grandpa Sal added, “You know, whatever we thought of Dominic all those years, Bella Notte always had great food. I gotta give him that.”
“What do you think of him now?”
“Your father?” Grandpa Sal asked. “He’s like almost every other soul in a human body. He has good qualities and not-so-good qualities. Hardly anyone is all of one thing, brasciole. People are complicated.”
That’s a nice way of saying it. Yes, he is.
Eventually, we got up from the bench and headed to the boathouse. “You went on a lot of dates from the computer,” my grandmother said. “From the Match. Didn’t it feel good?”
“Feel good? No, not really. The guy who called his mother a bitch? That was awkward.” I shook my head as we walked to a nearby table and sat down. “They were all awkward. I’m going back to meeting guys the old-fashioned way—in bars—so you might as well tell me where the ring is.”
“Ha! Not yet,” Grandpa Sal said.
“Well, let’s talk about what it was you didn’t like about these fellas,” my grandmother continued, determined as usual. “How did you feel after each of the dates?”
“Depressed.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?” I stared at her. “How does that help me? You wanted me to feel depressed? That’s why you told me to go on Match? Thanks a lot. And I mean, literally, like a stab in my chest, pangs of depression. Is that what you wanted?”
“Of course not, Veronica,” Grandma Ant said. “That feeling—let’s call it, like you say, a pang of depression—pay attention to that. That’s your gut talking, your instincts. That’s your body telling you this person is not for you.”
“Gram, I love you, and I know you’re trying to help me, but I don’t need my body to tell me that one guy was a jerk or the other guy didn’t excite me, and you know the rest, blah blah blah.”
“Yeah, well, always remember to listen to that feeling, as uncomfortable as it may be. That feeling is another way of receiving the signs, of knowing whether or not you’re on the right path. So, pay attention. Blah blah blah.”
“Don’t I have enough homework? Don’t I have enough things to do? Enough assignments?” I sipped my lemonade that had suddenly appeared. “I’ll add that to the list: pay attention to those other signs in the form of a stabbing, cringe-like feeling. Got it. Noted.”
“So, that list of requirements of yours?” Grandma Ant continued. “All right, they’re good. It’s good to know what you want. But let me say this, Veronica—funny is the most important. Life is long. Looks fade. Funny is forever.”
I had to giggle to myself. Okay. That I can agree with.
“Your computer dates. Why were they all Italian?” she asked.
“I—well—I don’t know. I’m one hundred percent Italian American. I very much identify with that.” I shrugged.
“Who cares if your husband is Italian?” Grandpa Sal asked.
“Wait! What?” I held up my hand in protest. “Growing up, I felt like you were always encouraging me to end up with someone Italian. I mean, I don’t know if you really ever said that, but I felt that.”
“Your mom’s lovely Don isn’t Italian. We love him. You love him. Our Connie loves him. That’s what matters.”
“Well, it’s important to me.” I wasn’t sure how to explain it, other than how much I identified with that as a trait of mine. Proud to be one hundred percent Italian American.
“Or is it important to your father?” Grandpa Sal asked.
Ugh, no.
“Things like that—Italian, Irish, Jewish, black, white—they really don’t matter,” Grandpa Sal said.
“Oh, really? Grandpa”—I looked him straight in the eye—“I’ve heard things you’ve said about other cultures, other people.”
He laughed. “Ya see, when you’re alive, sometimes you can only see so much. But when you get here, and ya know, you look back on your life—well, you see what a bozo you were at times. Or worse.”
I had to smile at this.
He continued. “None of it matters in the end. You can’t judge a person for a damn thing except their soul”—he pointed to his chest—“who they are and not the body they’re in.”
“I love that. There are no labels, only souls. Judge a person based on their soul, not the body they’re in—even if the body is a handsome Italian.”
“You got it, my little brasciole,” Grandpa Sal said.
“Why don’t you give the computer dating one more try?” Grandma Ant held up her finger. “One more date.”
“Please don’t call it computer dating.”
“I call it the Match; you don’t like that. Madone with you. Whatever it is, do it. One more, ya hear?”
“All right, all right.” I fiddled with Grandma’s ring. “I’ll give ‘the Match computer dating’ one more try.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Grandpa said.
Chapter 15
I woke up at six fifteen the next morning and grabbed my laptop.
Hi Syd. This is the Italian lawyer girl from NJ who got back with her ex. I have a confession to make. The truth is: I do have an ex, but he has not re-emerged. I’m so sorry that I lied. I had been getting messages from a few other guys, and I decided to set up dates with them. I didn’t know how to explain that. It was silly and stupid. Oh, and as it turned out, those other dates were all disasters. Serves me right, I suppose. Anyway, I shouldn’t have lied. If you’ll still have me, I’d really like to get to know you. May I buy you a drink one night this week? Signed, The Lying Lawyer (insert lawyer joke here)
After I showered, I grabbed my phone, wiped the steam from the screen, and saw a message from Syd.
Hi Veronica. Morning person? Me too. Hey, thank you for coming clean. And thanks for trying to let me down easy last time. The truth—“I have a bunch of dates lined up with more promising guys”—might’ve hurt. Lucky for you, I’m very forgiving, particularly of cute, Italian, female lawyers from Jersey who lie sometimes. So, let’s meet up. Is Thursday good? And one thing—you’re not buying. Lying? Yes, but you’re not buying. Drinks on me.
I couldn’t remember another morning when I’d gotten ready for work with a smile on my face the entire time. There’s a first time for everything.
“So work is crazy?” I asked. It was past two p.m. on a cloudy but warm day in Bryant Park. Jada and I were lucky to snag a table.
“Yeah.” She pulled her salad out of the brown paper bag.
“Deadlines? Are Dan and Karen away?”
“Yeah. I mean no, they’re not away, but we’ve just had a lot of work. So, you’re going to quit Match?”
“Well, I was, but I’m going on one last date. Remember the bald, Jewish, creative guy I had originally slated to be my first Match date? I want to see what he’s like in person. His emails are hilarious, and I just feel like I should try one more Match date before I quit. Just one more.”
“So, go out with him.”
“We are. Thursday. I have to be honest though, part of me is thinking, yeah, he is really funny and cute in his pictures, but another part of me keeps asking what’s the point? Is he my husband? I don’t know. But I’ll go. I’ll go!”
“Because his last name doesn’t end in a vowel?”
It suddenly sounded so ridiculous. I laughed as I chewed my salad.
“Well, the rest of the dates were all good on paper, and they were disasters,” Jada said. “So what have you got to lose?”
Exactly. “In other news, I’m covering a story on Filamina March for my class, and I spoke to this elderly neighbor of hers, and oh my God—hysterical—you would so—”
“I’m about to have an affair.” Jada sat back and took a deep breath. “With Todd.” She put her head in her hands.
What? “Okay,” I said slowly, resting my fork. “You’re about to have an affair?” Well, stop yourself. It’s that easy.
She nodded.
I tried a different tactic and wasn’t sure who I was trying to calm down more: her or me. “Who uses the word ‘affair’? What is this? A soap opera? Is he about to discover a long-lost love child with a rare tropical disease?”
She didn’t smile. “He’s been calling and texting, and he wants to see me, and… I want to see him. Very much.”
I looked her in the eye. “Well, then, you have to break up with Mark.”
“I know.”
“It’s one thing to make that mistake you made that one night. But you can’t do it again. Even if he never finds out, you’d still be making a fool of him.” Says the girl who lied to Syd. But that’s different. It was a white lie. And I came clean. And I lie to Beverly all the time, but that’s different too. She’s a beast.
“Stop preaching, please. I know what I have to do. I just need your support.” Jada put her elbows on the table. “I know it’s time to end it with Mark. I just don’t know how to do it.”
I wanted to scream, “Well, it’s about time! You’ve been lukewarm about him for two years. But did you really have to cheat to get to this point?” The words were on the tip of my tongue. They were dying to come out, but I checked myself and just said, “I’ll help you. I’m here for you. Call me before and after. Like pre-game and post.”
“Thanks, Coach,” she said with a sigh.
“This is good. You have to trust your gut. You’re doing the right thing.”
We both got busy with work and didn’t meet up for lunch again the rest of the week, but I spent the next few days writing and re-writing breakup transcripts for her that she would then nix altogether just before we got to the final draft. Then we would start all over again. I did this in between coming up with questions for Selma Renner and all while dealing with Beverly and Kate and trying to get some real work done. Still, I also found time to Google “Syd Blackman” at least ten times. Apparently, he’d been the brains behind some of the commercials that I actually didn’t fast-forward through, some of the few funny ones. Who knew?
Syd selected the place to meet. It was called Est, a French steakhouse with a long, dark wood bar at the front. I arrived early and parked myself at the bar with a strawberry martini.
He had asked where I worked and then picked the restaurant because it was close by. Thoughtful.
When he walked in, I recognized him immediately, but he was even cuter in person. Shaved head, black button-down, jeans. After exchanging a peck on the cheek that wasn’t as awkward as the hug I’d received from date number two, he leaned back to examine my drink and asked if I was sufficiently hydrated. He ordered a vodka and soda.
Adorable face, broad shoulders, perfect teeth, and scruff on his chin. But not too much scruff, not a full goatee. He had just enough hair there, ironically. It worked. It all works on him. He’s sexy.
“You can wear jeans to work?” That’s my first question? What is wrong with me? Am I nervous? I didn’t expect him to be this cute in person. Holy shit, I’m nervous.
“Yeah.” He looked down at his casual attire. “I’m guessing this wouldn’t pass at the law firm?”
I shook my head. “You’re lucky.”
“Yes, I am.” We locked eyes.
I looked away, suddenly self-conscious in my suit. But one round of drinks later, I was laughing harder than I’d ever laughed on a first date in my life. I had felt comfortable enough to tell him about my news reporting class and my first “encounter” with Dave.
“Did he say ‘If you needed a tripod, you could’ve just asked’?”
I wiped the tears forming at the corner of my eyes. I hope my makeup is not running. I hope I still look cute, at least kissable.
“So, a news reporting class?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Don’t make fun of it or ask me why a lawyer would want to be a journalist. Don’t ruin it.
“That sounds interesting,” he said.
“It is.” I took another sip of my second martini.
“Do you have homework?”
I told him all about Filamina and her neighbor Selma and how the interview was coming up in a little more than a week.
“You could practice on me before your interview. I can play the role of old Jewish lady and nosy neighbor. I’ve known a few in my lifetime.”
“Oh, that could be helpful,” I said. “So, what’s your job like?”
“Well, I come up with ideas for television commercials, pitch them to clients, and then go to the shoot, wherever they’re filmed—usually in L.A., but sometimes in pretty cool places like Prague, New Zealand, or Uruguay.”
“That sounds amazing. Do you like it? Like, does it fulfill you?”
“Every day. I mean, of course, there are frustrations. Frustrating clients sometimes, things go wrong, but I think about how I was a kind of shy kid, and now I’m traveling all over, seeing my ideas turned into mini thirty- and sixty-second movies. It’s good… It’s really good.”
“That’s great.” I was mesmerized. “What’s it feel like to not hate going to work every day?”
He laughed. I noticed his perfect teeth again and his lips. Nice lips. “What’s it feel like to hate going to work every day?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“You need Rosanna Zotto’s job. That’s your calling.”
“Ha! If only.”
“Let’s toast,” he said. “I’m not a big toaster, so I don’t know why I’m doing this, but here’s to finding your calling.” We lifted our glasses. “And to old Jewish ladies and bowling. Shall we?”
For once, I didn’t want the date to end. I didn’t want to run home and write a date report in my pajamas. “We shall.”
It turned out bowling was Syd’s litmus test. Any girl who flat-out refused couldn’t be much fun, he figured.
As it also turned out, I was a terrible bowler. At one point, Syd said, “Stop bowling like a lawyer. Bowl like a journalist. Bowl like Rosanna would bowl.”
Then, I got a strike, and even though I thought it was just a coincidence, something about it felt magical. Maybe it was this cute guy who had remembered things I’d told him and who was trying to inspire me. And what a difference that makes. I’ll take this feeling over a pang of depression any day.
After several beers, sliders, and strikes by Syd, it was close to two in the morning, and all I wanted to do was to kiss this guy. But it didn’t happen. Not a real kiss, anyway. He hailed me a cab, opened the door for me, and kissed me quickly on the lips.
I sat back, watching the streetlights pass, tasting beer and burgers on my lips, and wondering when I would see him again. My first great Match date. Finally.
