floor, where it landed with less of a shatter than a thud. “That’s what I think of that,” she declared, before turning on her heel and exiting the scene. Bérénice cast a gleam of approval toward John, who was already trudging back from the kitchen with a towel and a garbage bag.
He glared back at his mother-in-law and shook his head—he hated fights—before he addressed Maria. “I want you to go apologize to your mother.”
“Why—what did I do?”
“You mouthed off.”
“I mouthed off?”
“Maria, I’m not fighting with you. All I’m saying is that you need to apologize to your mother. And it wouldn’t hurt if you cut her some slack.”
“Fine.” Maria backed down with a grunt before she pushed her chair away from the table and tromped down the hallway to the closed door of her parents’ bedroom.
“Ma, I’m sorry,” she began, straddling the thinnest line between sincerity and sarcasm, at least until she heard sobs on the other side of the door and felt an unexpected pang of remorse that led her to try to remember why she had been so angry. “Ma, I mean it. Come back to dinner. I don’t know what I was saying. If you want, I’ll eat twenty of Nonna’s meatballs.”
Gina opened the door, her expression hopeful, as if Maria’s promise to eat meatballs were a vow of unconditional love. She threw her arms around her daughter for several seconds—something that instantly depleted most of the small reserve of goodwill and patience Maria had just put aside for her—and together they went back to the dinner table.
L ATER, ON HER way to bed, Gina could not resist a detour past Maria’s bedroom, for in her mind the storm clouds of so many months had broken. “Good night, honey,” she said.
“Good night,” Maria replied automatically. She noticed that her mother had crossed the threshold and now hovered inside her room. “What?”
Gina cleared a spot on Maria’s bed and sat down. “I want you to know that I was once your age, too, and I thought the world was a horrible place—kids at school called me fat, and I never could imagine a boy liking me. And I stopped talking to anyone because I figured that things might be easier if nobody ever noticed me.”
Maria stared at the floor as the outer edges of her vision began to kaleidoscope. “I’m not you.”
“Of course not, honey. That’s not why I brought it up.”
“Then what?”
“One day after school, Nonna Bea took me aside and we had a little talk, sort of like this, except she said, ‘Gina—this moping, she starts to get on my nerves, but if you want to mope, then mope!But you still have to help me in the kitchen because we are not rich.’ ”
Maria suppressed a smile at the thought, but she still suspected that Gina was about to allude to some allegedly happy event from their shared past—one of their old backyard theater productions, or how Maria used to sing along with the Callas records—with the implication, as Maria saw it, that she was now somehow inferior to what she had once been. “So you want me to do more dishes?”
“No—it’s not that,” Gina spoke with deliberation. “I understand why she said it, because in her case it was true—she couldn’t afford to have me moping around, with my father and brothers to take care of—even though I really hated her at the time, you know? I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, Maria, except I don’t want you to give up. You have something in you that—someday, somehow—is going to come out. I don’t want you to ever forget that.”
“Forget
what
?”
“That you love music, and if that sets you apart from everyone else, that’s the way it is.”
“So?” Maria responded, though more tentatively because she knew there was something different about her and that it involved music, the way it took her to mountains and lush islands and most of all great, teeming cities. It was not just when she sang, either, but when she listened, so that she
He glared back at his mother-in-law and shook his head—he hated fights—before he addressed Maria. “I want you to go apologize to your mother.”
“Why—what did I do?”
“You mouthed off.”
“I mouthed off?”
“Maria, I’m not fighting with you. All I’m saying is that you need to apologize to your mother. And it wouldn’t hurt if you cut her some slack.”
“Fine.” Maria backed down with a grunt before she pushed her chair away from the table and tromped down the hallway to the closed door of her parents’ bedroom.
“Ma, I’m sorry,” she began, straddling the thinnest line between sincerity and sarcasm, at least until she heard sobs on the other side of the door and felt an unexpected pang of remorse that led her to try to remember why she had been so angry. “Ma, I mean it. Come back to dinner. I don’t know what I was saying. If you want, I’ll eat twenty of Nonna’s meatballs.”
Gina opened the door, her expression hopeful, as if Maria’s promise to eat meatballs were a vow of unconditional love. She threw her arms around her daughter for several seconds—something that instantly depleted most of the small reserve of goodwill and patience Maria had just put aside for her—and together they went back to the dinner table.
L ATER, ON HER way to bed, Gina could not resist a detour past Maria’s bedroom, for in her mind the storm clouds of so many months had broken. “Good night, honey,” she said.
“Good night,” Maria replied automatically. She noticed that her mother had crossed the threshold and now hovered inside her room. “What?”
Gina cleared a spot on Maria’s bed and sat down. “I want you to know that I was once your age, too, and I thought the world was a horrible place—kids at school called me fat, and I never could imagine a boy liking me. And I stopped talking to anyone because I figured that things might be easier if nobody ever noticed me.”
Maria stared at the floor as the outer edges of her vision began to kaleidoscope. “I’m not you.”
“Of course not, honey. That’s not why I brought it up.”
“Then what?”
“One day after school, Nonna Bea took me aside and we had a little talk, sort of like this, except she said, ‘Gina—this moping, she starts to get on my nerves, but if you want to mope, then mope!But you still have to help me in the kitchen because we are not rich.’ ”
Maria suppressed a smile at the thought, but she still suspected that Gina was about to allude to some allegedly happy event from their shared past—one of their old backyard theater productions, or how Maria used to sing along with the Callas records—with the implication, as Maria saw it, that she was now somehow inferior to what she had once been. “So you want me to do more dishes?”
“No—it’s not that,” Gina spoke with deliberation. “I understand why she said it, because in her case it was true—she couldn’t afford to have me moping around, with my father and brothers to take care of—even though I really hated her at the time, you know? I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, Maria, except I don’t want you to give up. You have something in you that—someday, somehow—is going to come out. I don’t want you to ever forget that.”
“Forget
what
?”
“That you love music, and if that sets you apart from everyone else, that’s the way it is.”
“So?” Maria responded, though more tentatively because she knew there was something different about her and that it involved music, the way it took her to mountains and lush islands and most of all great, teeming cities. It was not just when she sang, either, but when she listened, so that she
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