Carissima Page 2

  Profile features interviews with everyone from celebrities to high-powered CEOs and politicians to fascinating everyday people. Unlike the trashy rag mags, Profile is the magazine Hollywood stars long to be in. Receiving an interview with Profile means you have arrived.

  I’m happy to have landed such a prestigious internship, and I hope it’ll distract me from the pain of losing my sister. My father has tried to convince me to stay. I feel guilty that I’m leaving my parents, especially my mother, who’s retreated into her own world since Erica died and barely speaks to any of us. I wonder if she’ll even notice that I’m gone. My brother Kyle lives near my parents and will be around to keep an eye on both of them. Though Kyle wasn’t an Italian name that honored my parents’ heritage, my father had always loved it and decided it would be fitting for his firstborn. Kyle is thirty years old and works as a civil engineer. I know I can rely on my brother to take care of my parents until I come back—that is, if I ever return. I can’t think about the far distant future right now. I want to focus solely on the present and my burgeoning career as a writer.

  With this last thought, I say good-bye to the beach that I’ve seen almost every day of my life, ready to begin a new chapter in New York City.

  2

  Francesca

  “Espresso, signora?”

  “Signorina, per favore.”

  “Ahh! Signorina Donata. Mi scusi! Io non l’avevo riconosciuta. Ti adoro molto.”

  “Grazie, grazie. Si, un espresso.”

  The Alitalia flight attendant’s hands shake as she pours my cup of espresso. Naturally, I am pleased that she recognized me, but I am still piqued that she called me “signora” instead of “signorina.”

  The flight attendant places my cup of espresso on my table, then nods her head and walks away, rolling her cart to the next passenger. We still have not taken off. Glancing out my window, I see five other planes waiting in front of mine. Because of inclement weather, my flight to New York has been delayed by three hours. It is ten a.m. My flight was supposed to have departed at seven a.m. The passengers began complaining after an hour, asking to be taxied back to the terminal instead of sitting on a plane in the baking sun. The crew decided to bribe everyone with refreshments.

  “Excuse me, passengers. We apologize again for the delay. We have just received word that we will be able to take off in about ten minutes.”

  Sighing deeply, I return my attention to the letter I was reading before the flight attendant interrupted me.

  Francesca,

  I need your assistance with a delicate matter and am asking you to come to New York. I would rather not get into the details in this letter. If you must know more before coming, we can talk on the phone. If you choose not to come, of course I will respect your wishes and not ask you again. All I ask is that you please do let me know either way what your decision is.

  A presto,

  Lorenzo

  “Passengers, please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. We’ve been cleared for takeoff.”

  The flight attendant’s voice interrupts me. But it is not like this is the first time I am reading the letter. In fact, I have read it four times, hoping to decipher more of its vague message. Folding the letter, I place it in my purse. It has been years since I have traveled on a commercial flight. But of course, my days of flying on a private jet are over. At least none of the passengers in my first-class cabin have bothered me. A few took a second glance, but that was it. My star is beginning to fade—at least in Italy. I suppose I have myself to blame since I stayed out of the limelight for so long. But I was tired. I needed to rest and contemplate.

  Peering out my window, I see we are still low enough that I can make out the sand formations that form the island of Sicily. Of course it is another beautiful summer day on the island. Even from my elevated height, I can see the sun shimmering over Sicily’s deep azure waters. Mount Etna looms in the distance, adding to the surreal panorama. After living for more than a decade in Rome, I had had enough of city life and ached to return to my home. My villa in Taormina, Sicily, has been a much-needed balm for me. But my cravings to be loved by the world have not died altogether.

  On this trip to New York, my focus will be on someone who once was very special to me and whose affection I lost. This will perhaps be my greatest role: reclaiming that love.

  3

  Pia

  I haven’t been to New York since I was eleven. My first and only trip to the Big Apple had left a deep impression, and though I’d always wanted to return, it just never seemed like the right time. My aunt had offered to pick me up at the airport, but I’d refused. She doesn’t drive, and there’s no need for her to go to all that trouble of taking a cab to the airport. As my taxi pulls up in front of Zia Antoniella’s bakery, my heart tugs a bit as my first memory of entering my aunt’s shop with my mother and sister flashes through my mind.

  The scent of the freshly baked goods immediately mesmerized me as my mouth watered; I longed to try one of the brightly colored pastries and cookies that greeted me from behind their display cases. Zia Antoniella wasted no time in plopping into Erica’s and my hands two fat, chocolate-covered cannoli. I’d never tasted anything like it. Although I felt full halfway through eating my cannoli, I still finished it. My mother looked at me and patted my cheek. “È molto delizioso, giusto?”

  I nodded my head. Every day Zia Antoniella introduced Erica and me to a new Italian pastry: sfogliatelle, pasticiotti, baba rums. For a child who loved sweets, this was like going to a magical kingdom where everything tasted good and you could have it all. Erica’s favorites were the rainbow-colored cookies. My favorites were the cannoli and the S-shaped biscotti flavored with anise extract. My mother restricted how much candy and cake we could have at home in California, but for some reason here in New York she let us eat any dessert we wanted.

  Remembering this first trip to New York, I suddenly realize why my mother had been so lenient. She’d wanted Erica and me to try the food from her country that wasn’t readily available on the West Coast. My mother had wanted us to know something of the culture she’d left behind in Italy when she married my father and moved to the United States.

  My mother is from Abruzzo, and my father is from Messina, Sicily. Named Lidia, my mother is the youngest of four children—all girls. Zia Antoniella is the oldest. My father, Bruno, had been born in the United States, but his parents had only emigrated from Messina after they got married. He and my mother met when he took a Perillo tour of Italy and visited Abruzzo.

  Tears sting my eyes as I get out of the cab. Will the mother I once knew ever return? I’ve already lost a sister, but since Erica’s death, it also has felt like I’ve lost my mother.

  I pay my cab fare and inhale deeply as I roll my luggage to the entrance of Antoniella’s Bakery. Zia’s business and her home are in Astoria, Queens, which is about a fifteen-minute subway ride from midtown Manhattan. Before I walk in, I strain my neck to see if Zia Antoniella is behind the sales counter. She’s nowhere in sight. Maybe she stayed home today? But no, this is Zia, who hardly ever takes a sick day from her business. The woman loves to work.

  A young girl, wearing an apron with the embroidered words “Antoniella’s Bakery,” is bringing a cup of cappuccino to one of the seated patrons. I glance once more toward the sales counter and see a shock of frizzy hair sticking up and moving from side to side. Zia!

  Erica and I had stopped calling her Zia Antoniella after our first day of visiting her when we were kids. It was too long for us to say without getting tongue twisted, so she simply went by “Zia.” We also preferred the Italian word for “aunt” over its English counterpart since “zia” sounded whimsical to a child’s ears.

  Sure enough, Zia soon comes around the corner of her pastry display case as she mops the floor feverishly, her head bobbing along with the mop’s movements. I take after my mother and Zia with my honey-blond hair. But after decades of dyeing her hair, Zia no longer has the same lustr
ous golden-blond hue from her youth. Now her hair is more of a dark blond, sapped of all its moisture and resembling matted tumbleweeds rolling in the desert.

  I attempt to enter the shop quietly, but the wind chimes hanging above the door jangle loudly, interrupting Zia’s mad dance with her mop. She looks up.

  Erica’s eyes stare back at me. My heart pounds feverishly. I try smiling at Zia, but I can’t breathe. Oh no. Not now. Quick! Think! What is it the doctor told me? Imagine a peaceful place. The image that surfaces is me eating that heavenly piece of pastry when I’d first walked into Zia’s bakery as a little girl. I focus on how sweet the cannoli cream had been and how it had made me feel comforted. My heart rate begins to slow down.

  Luckily for me, Zia doesn’t notice anything is wrong.

  “Pia!” she screams, dropping her mop and rushing over.

  She embraces me, which is awkward since her head comes to my chest. My 5’9” frame towers over her. It’s as if I’m being hugged by a dwarf. The blond hair is the only trait my mother shares with her sister. I have my mother’s and grandfather’s tall frame. Erica had inherited Zia’s and my Nonna Graziella’s petite stature. They’re both 4’11 ”, although Zia might be two inches shorter now with her hunched-over back.

  “Bella! Bella!” Zia strokes my right cheek with the back of her hand. “How long have you been wearing glasses?”

  “Since I turned eighteen, so that’s what? Seven years now?”

  “Why don’t you wear contacts?”

  “I like how glasses look.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What? You don’t like them, Zia?”

  “No, no. They’re very nice. It’s just you are young. You shouldn’t be hiding behind those glasses. You have such beautiful eyes. They look smaller with the glasses on.”

  Leave it to Zia to make a girl feel good. I’d learned a long time ago not to take what people say so personally. I’m sure in Zia’s eyes she thinks she’s helping me rather than hurting me with this advice. I’ve always followed my own style, and I’m not about to change because my old-fashioned Italian aunt wants me to. I love my eyeglasses, which have a tortoiseshell frame and a slightly square shape. They are the perfect complement to my blond hair.

  “Thank you, Zia. But I really like the glasses.”

  “Ahhh. We still have the whole summer for me to change your mind.” Zia winks and then brushes my sideswept ponytail behind my shoulder—another action that reminds me of my sister, who hated it when I wore my ponytail to the front.

  I try not to look into Zia’s eyes, but I can’t help it. I’m drawn to them. As a kid, I had never noticed any resemblance between Erica and my aunt. Now all I see is my sister in Zia.

  Erica’s hair had been medium brown with flecks of natural red highlights—much darker than my hair or Zia’s hair, even. But she had the same deep chocolate brown eyes that Zia has. My aunt even has dimples on either side of her cheeks as Erica had. If Zia dyed her hair darker, she’d be Erica’s twin. I’m now curious to see a photo of Zia when she was younger.

  If I’d realized how much they looked alike, maybe I wouldn’t have chosen to stay here for the summer. Then again, where would I have gone? My guilt over leaving my parents had prevented me from asking them for any money for rent. Of course, my father had given me some money as a farewell gift before I left, but it’s nowhere near enough to pay for the exorbitant rents New York City is known for.

  “Sit down, Pia. You must be tired from your long plane ride. You look a little pale. Let me bring you a cup of espresso. That will revive you in no time. Oh, and of course a cannoli and some anise biscotti.”

  “You remembered.” I smile at Zia, who is no doubt trying to impress me.

  “Si, si. You forget that every year for Christmas since you and Erica first visited, I have sent your favorite desserts to you in California.”

  At the mention of Erica’s name, my smile disappears. Zia quickly realizes her mistake and walks over to me.

  “Ahhh, mia cara. I’m sorry, my dear.” She hugs me. “I still refuse to believe our little Erica is gone. And I can’t forgive myself for not flying out for her funeral.”

  Zia had gallbladder surgery just two days before Erica died. She was in no shape to travel. She’d called my mother repeatedly over the two weeks following Erica’s death, always weeping hysterically into the phone. I don’t know how my mother managed to take her calls every time when she’d been ready to collapse herself from the load of her youngest child’s death.

  As I hear Zia’s voice choking up, I brace myself for the tsunami of tears I’m expecting will erupt any second. But surprisingly, she dabs at the corners of her eyes with her apron and is fine. Unlike my family and me, she seems to have come to grips with Erica’s death. Or maybe she’s all cried out? I, on the other hand, have only been able to cry a few times. I keep my emotions locked up, too fearful of what will happen if I give them permission to flow freely. I don’t want to travel to that dark place my mother has chosen to go to. Or worse, I don’t know what I’ll do if I let myself fully deal with losing Erica. No wonder I’m having panic attacks. My doctor has tried to convince me to see a shrink. But I’m not ready. For if I talk about Erica, I run the risk of completely losing it. I’ve lost so much already. I can’t lose any more. Besides, I’m convinced focusing on my writing career will heal me.

  “Here you go.” Zia places a demitasse cup of espresso in front of me. She even remembers that I like my coffee sweet as she adds milk and four teaspoons of sugar.

  I sip the espresso, and she’s right. I feel a zing of energy. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. I take a bite out of the cannoli.

  “Ohhhh! These don’t disappoint, Zia!”

  “Of course not! Did you think because I’m getting old that my talent for baking would diminish?” Zia frowns.

  “No, no! I’m just saying a cannoli never disappoints. You know I think you’re a master baker!”

  Zia relaxes at my praise. I’d almost forgotten about her flashes of mercurial temper. My mother has always told me how Zia was prone to fits of irritability even as a little girl. Maybe that’s why she never married?

  “I’m going to let Megan lock up tonight.” She gestures with her head over to the girl I’d seen waitressing the café tables earlier.

  “Megan! Come here. I want to introduce you to my niece.”

  Megan must be no more than nineteen or twenty, with jet-black hair that’s cut in a chic bob. Long bangs reach down to her thick, dark eyelashes. Her porcelain-white complexion is dotted with freckles, but they don’t detract from her beauty. Her most stunning features are her eyes. They’re different colors. From what I’ve read, only a small percentage of the population has this trait. One eye is hazel and the other’s violet. I try not to stare as she shakes my hand.

  “You guys don’t look like you’re related.”

  Unlike me, Megan doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s staring. Or maybe it’s harder for her to conceal with those large, different-colored eyes that travel from my neckline all the way down to my feet and back up to my neckline. She’s now gawking at my crystal-studded and ruffled peasant blouse. Everyone always compliments me on it. I’m not a slave to fashion, but I do have a weakness for ultra-feminine pretty blouses. In contrast to my fancy tops, I’m rarely seen out of my jeans or khakis. I also love wearing lace-up boots, though with the heat in California I was often forced to trade them in for flip-flops. With my tall frame, I rarely wear heels. I still don’t get how tall women wear stilettos, since I’m always trying to hide my height. Impossible, I know, but I still try.

  “My niece and I have the same hair color. Well, my hair is darker now, but when I was young, it was just like Pia’s. We also have the same personality,” Zia snaps at Megan. No doubt Megan’s blunt assessment unnerves her.

  I doubt we have the same personality, but I know better than to disagree with Zia, so I just nod my head.

  “So
, Pia, your aunt tells me you’re a writer?”

  “Yes, well, I’m trying to be.”

  “She’s going to be working for a big magazine in Manhattan! Tell her, Pia.” Leave it to Zia to put me in an uncomfortable position. My face flushes slightly.

  “It’s just an internship.” There I go again, undercutting myself—a pesky trait of mine.

  “Where?” Megan clearly seems interested.

  “Profile,” I practically whisper, staring into my cup as I add another teaspoon of sugar, which my espresso clearly does not need.

  “Get out! That’s one of my favorite magazines! The photo layouts they do are awesome. I don’t really care about the stories, though. I’m not a fan of celebrities, but Profile’s photographers do stand-up work all the way.” Now Megan is really looking at me with respect.

  “You like photography?” I can’t help but think of Erica and her love of photography.

  “Yeah. I’m studying at Parsons. I have one more year to go.”

  “I’d love to see your photos sometime.”

  “Sure, that’d be cool. You know where to find me. Let me know when you’re all settled. We can go grab a beer, and I’ll bring my portfolio. I know a couple of other writers I should introduce you to.”

  “Okay, that sounds good.” I return Megan’s smile before she goes to help two customers who have just walked into the bakery. I notice her brightly colored red-plaid tights, which she has cleverly paired with a brown shirtdress that reaches only halfway down her thighs. Over her dress, she wears an embroidered Antoniella’s Bakery apron—the only uniform Zia requires of her employees. I do a double-take as I notice her platform lace-up boots. How does she stand up all day in those? I’m also surprised that Zia hasn’t objected to Megan’s super-short dress and ridiculously high boots. Or maybe she has protested, but Megan’s chosen to ignore her? She seems like the kind of girl who follows few rules.