Secondhand Purses (6 page)

“I know, I know.” Laughter filled her voice. “Not quite the norm today. But you have to realize, back then, only ‘loose women’ would have sex before marriage. It wasn’t done. There was not abundantly free supplies of birth control back then. So we waited. And waited.”

She stopped talking and sort of stared off, looking nowhere in particular. A slow smile formed on her lips as she started stirring the zeppole batter again.

“I’m not going to give you the details because I don’t kiss and tell. But it was sweet and wonderful that one night we shared. Every dream I had ever had was coming true, and that night couldn’t have been more perfect.”

She grabbed a pan and added some oil, then turned it on to get it hot.

“The next day he left me. He left me for Uncle Sam. I was devastated and so proud of him at the same time. I stood there waving at him, with a big smile on my face as he loaded the bus that would take him away. We both had tears streaming down our faces, but big smiles. We put our plans on hold, our honeymoon would take place when he returned. Two months later I wrote him a letter to tell him that I was pregnant with his baby. I heard from him four weeks later, how excited he was to come home to his family.”

I leaned forward on the counter, my mind completely lost to this story. I wasn’t watching her make Italian pastries anymore, I was watching her, decades earlier, sending the love of her life away on a bus.

“A while went by without contact, but that wasn’t too unusual in those days. We didn’t have email or that video phone talking thing. We had letters. Those letters had to go overseas during a war. So, I didn’t think too much about it, I knew he would come home. We had plans and we were going to have a baby. I was so young. So very young and stupid. When I saw a car pull up and two men walk up my steps, I was excited! Maybe my James was going to come home early. When I opened the door, the look on their faces was cold. I don’t remember what they said. What I remember is waking up four days later in a sterile hospital room.”

Her breath shuddered as she spoke. Her face had gone a little pale. I reached over and took her hand only to find it had gone cold and was slightly trembling.

“The doctor was happy to see that I had woken, but it was his job to tell me. Not only had I lost my James, I had also lost our son. I had lost all my dreams and all the plans. I had nothing.”

“It was a boy?” I gasped, pain searing through my chest, which I didn’t understand. This wasn’t my story. This wasn’t my pain to feel.

She nodded, one tear slowly making its way down her cheek.

“I was far enough along at that point that he was fully formed. I only had three months left in my pregnancy. I named him after his father and stood over a grave were they lowered both of my boys into the ground together. I buried him in his father’s arms. I was one of the lucky brides. I had a body to bury. A couple weeks later I was admitted back to the hospital. I hadn’t been feeling well after losing little James, but attributed it to all of the stress I was under. I had a temperature of one hundred and three degrees, and couldn’t stand with all of the pain. I turns out that I had developed a uterine infection as a part of the miscarriage. They tried to get the infection under control but in the end had to take my uterus. I was told when I came to after the operation. I remember hearing piercing, haunted screams as they told me. It was several days later before I realized that those screams came from me.”

She dropped the zeppole into the hot oil she had prepared, listening to the music of them sizzling while they turned a beautiful golden color. She used this time to compose herself, as if steeling herself to the obvious questions that I would have.

“How did you survive that? You lost everything, how did you come back from that?” Seriously. I came apart as if my world ended every time we had to pack up and move again. This woman lost her husband and child, and her ability to
have
children all within a month. I looked at her with a crazy level of new-found respect.

“I almost didn’t. I had it all planned. At the hospital, they had given me a lot of prescriptions. Some for pain. Some for depression. I think they just felt so bad, they kept scribbling out medication orders for me, hoping that something would take away what had happened to me. I had all the bottles lined up. I had written a note to my family, apologizing. I had a large glass of red wine poured, ready to help me take the pills. Right as I was setting out what outfit I wanted to be buried in, my wedding outfit, the doorbell rang.”

She shook her head, looking both sad and amused by whatever imagery was playing out in her mind.

“Standing at the door was the most formidable force in my life. All four feet eleven inches of her. My grandmother. She had a suitcase next to her and barreled through the door and straight to my kitchen. Apparently, she had decided to move in for a bit. Said I was too thin and that if I had the sense that the good Lord gave me, I would be feeding myself properly. I ran to the bedroom to hide the pills and everything, ashamed that my nonna may have found it.

She had brought the recipe box, and we spent time every day baking and started selling our baked goods to local stores. My dream started then, to open up my own bakery. I started putting aside a little bit of money every month towards the Dream Bakery. That was what I named it, because everyone should have the opportunity to have their dreams come true. The truth of the matter is, I was inconsolable. I felt like my world had ended. The only solace for me was baking. I would spend hours in the kitchen, measuring, pouring and kneading. I created variations on traditional Italian favorites that my nonna and my family raved over. I had figured they were only being kind, to try to help me through the depression. One day, there was a local shop owner at my front door wanting to see about buying some of my pastries for his shop. Before I knew it, I was selling my pastries in five different locations in Providence.

It kept me going, baking these goodies. It helped me start to see light at the end of a tunnel.”

“So, what happened next? Did you become a famous baker in Providence, Rhode Island?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“There was another knock on the door.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I shook my head in confusion. That made no sense.

“What do you mean, another knock?”

“About a year later, a young man in an Army uniform stood at my doorway. He had a sad, haunted look in his eyes. At first, as I looked at him, I felt myself sinking into the darkness I had fought so hard to claw my way out of. Until I realized that there was no bad news that he could give me. I’d already been through the worst.

I invited him in, and was shocked to find out he had been one of the men in James’ unit. His name was Timothy, and he told me that he was going to marry me.”

Wait a minute, what?

“Who was Timothy? He was going to marry you? I don’t understand.”

Nonna chuckled a little bit.

“If you think you are confused, imagine how I felt. He was handsome, and I was angry. Angry that he was alive and that James was dead. Angry about little James. Angry that my life was not anything like it should have been. Nothing like my dreams. But most of all, I was angry at myself for having a physical reaction and interest in this stranger standing at my door.”

I shuddered a bit. I mean, I was totally drawn in to her story, but hearing this old chick talk about a physical reaction to a guy was kind of nasty. Okay, not kind of. Totally. Totally, completely nasty.

“Girl, I am old, but I’m not dead. And I haven’t been old forever. And
don’t
give me that look, I could see your reaction. I’m also not blind, you know! Anyway, I was obviously shocked, having this very handsome man standing on my doorstep informing me that we would get married. I almost slammed the door in his face.

He asked me to hear him out. I leaned against the doorframe, still forcing him to stand outside. I wasn’t ready to let him in. I won’t lie, I was intrigued. And I had been so lonely, and so sad missing my James. This man was a small piece of James.

He explained that they had made promises to each other. James made him promise that if anything happened to him, Timothy would take care of me. These were promises made with a fear that only a soldier could understand, but it was a solemn promise. There was no way that Timothy couldn’t keep his promise.”

She fished out another photo. It was another wedding photo, but instead of being filled with happiness and hope, this one had two people with ghosts of smiles pasted on their faces. Even though only a few years had passed between the two pictures, young Nonna had aged by what seemed like decades. I felt saddened looking at this wedding photo. This was not what happily ever after was supposed to look like.

“We were married three months later. We liked each other, we became friends and we learned to respect each other. But that was it. That was where it ended. There was no passion. We were never consumed with each other. We never caught each other staring across a crowded room. Time never stood still. This was not an epic romance. We were roommates.”

I couldn’t imagine this woman settling for anything other than one hundred percent. She shouldn’t have ever had to compromise her future happiness.

“I went into the marriage with no illusions of what it was meant to be, but I had my hopes. You see, even secondhand purses had a chance at another life. I hoped I would have that chance, too.”

“Secondhand purses?” I couldn’t help but sound lost. Nonna was all over the map.

“Have you ever been to a thrift store? I have found that I have very expensive tastes in purses, but don’t want to part with the money. So I get secondhand purses. These purses were bought at one point in time because someone wanted them. They coveted them. And then, somewhere along the line, they discarded them. But when I bought them, they had a second chance at life. That’s how I saw Timothy and my life together, as a second chance.”

She smiled sadly as she looked into her living room, and apparently into her past.

“My chance at being a secondhand purse never materialized. Over time, Timothy started drinking. He drank heavy. We would have horrific arguments, but I was lucky. He was never abusive. I say I was lucky, because I am pretty sure that nowadays he would have been diagnosed as having PTSD, and I’ve heard of some horrible situations as a result of PTSD. He cheated on me. I knew he did, but the truth was, I didn’t care. We weren’t in love, we were just comfortable sharing a house.”

My slackened jaw made her chuckle once again.

“Alex, it’s not that big a deal. I made my decisions, and I had to live with them. Was it a perfect situation? No. But it was my situation. Here, taste.”

She held out a perfectly golden brown pastry and I took a bite. My eyes rolled back in my head as I groaned in appreciation. I couldn’t lie, I loved food. You don’t get to be Icky Vicki without truly loving food.

“That’s amazing. How do you know to make it? You didn’t read a recipe or anything.” I had figured that the topic of her bizarre love life was closed, so I was willing to go along with the change in topic. Especially if that change in topic forced her to feed me more pastries.

She walked to her pantry, and pulled out a rusted metal box. She pried the top open to reveal hundreds of index cards.

“This has been passed to the women in my family. I think as far back as my great great grandmother. Everyone adds to it, but there are recipes that have been in our family forever. And in their handwriting. That is what makes this precious to me. But the truth is, after a while, I stopped needing the cards. I know by the feel of the dough, the smell of it. I was told by my nonna that was the sign of someone who had ‘it’. So I have this recipe memorized, but I haven’t used it in decades.”

In that moment, I wanted ‘it’. I wanted to be the person who could create pastries that melt in your mouth.

“My dream was to open a bakery. To bake the classics but also to add my spin on them. Timothy said that was a fool’s errand, that the last thing Providence needed was another Italian bakery. I said we could open it on the Cape, where it would be less common. He laughed at me, and so, my dream died. Everyone should have the opportunity to live their dream. I haven’t given up on mine. But until I can make it happen, I’ll continue to bake for my family, neighbors and friends.”

She looked younger again as she discussed her dream of opening a bakery. I could see it. I could see her standing behind a counter, boxing pastries and tying the box in red and white string. I wanted to be in that dream. I wanted to be her apprentice, learning her secrets and her family recipes. I wanted to ring up the sales with her. Hell, I’d be willing to go by Alex if this could happen.

“Alex, whatever your dream is, make it happen. Life is too short to be wasted on regret. I hope you never say the words ‘I wish I had.’ Be whatever you want.”

“Why do you keep calling me Alex?” I finally voiced the question that I’d wanted to ask since she’d given me the stupid nickname. “You know my name is Vicki.”

“Vicki is more who you have allowed yourself to become. You have allowed people to let you think you are ‘icky Vicki’ and not taken control of your own self. Alex is a strong name. Alex is a person that no one would dream of messing with. I see you as an Alex, if not now, then in a few years. I see a fire in you that will not allow itself to be put out. I can’t wait to see Alex be born out of Vicki. I can’t wait to see the woman who won’t fluff herself in a way that she thinks the world would approve of in order to catch the boy. I can’t wait to see the person who dresses for herself and throws the figurative middle finger to the world. You’re going to be amazing…
Alex
.”

Wow. No words. I didn’t know what it was this woman saw in me, because I was not strong. I just wanted the kids at school to like me. I wanted to be likable. I had, up till now, acted like I didn’t care, but I did. I really did. How awesome would it be if I could legitimately not give a shit whether people would like me or not. It would be really incredible. I wish I could be Alex, but as my spirits sank, I realized that I would always be stuck being Vicki.

Sigh.

I glanced at the clock, and let out a squeak. It was an hour past when I told Mom I would be home. I had ten minutes to get home for dinner. Dad would have kittens if I missed dinner. It was sort of his thing.

“I have to bolt, Nonna! Thanks for the zep… the zap… um, thanks for the goodies! See you tomorrow?”

She laughed at my attempt to pronounce the Italian pastries.

“Here, take some for your parents. You are welcome here anytime. It makes my elderly heart happy to have you around.”

“Elderly my butt.” I mumbled. Her bark of laughter followed me out the door. I found that my footsteps were lighter as I made my way home with my plate of Italian awesomeness in my hands. I realized only when I was in my driveway that Nick’s absence barely registered. Odd. I felt my cheeks rise as a smile cracked my lips. I had finally made a friend.

I walked through the front door with seconds to spare, balancing the plates of pastries that Nonna had given me. My near brush with tardiness was instantly forgiven once the view of puffed pastries topped with a creamy dollop were spied by my dad. Dad had a ridiculous sweet tooth that he refused to acknowledge. But there was no form of dessert that stood a chance with dad in the room.

He grabbed the plate from my hand, his eyes moving from pastry plate to dinner plate, obviously weighing out the benefits of skipping dinner for the concoction on the plate. Mom cleared her throat and eyed the dinner plate with a raised eyebrow. Very subtle. Mom one, dad nothing. Dad heaved a world weary sigh, and placed the Italian pastries on the counter, falling into his chair. I swear, he was even pouting. I choked back some laughter unsuccessfully, and sat down to the table.

“So, how was your day today, honey?” Mom looked at me briefly before looking back down at her plate.

“Oh, it was so good! School was blah as always. Boring as hell, I mean heck. But I had such an awesome time at Nonnas. She is teaching me to make homemade Italian baked goods. I helped her make those things. They are called…um, zeppole. You are going to love them. That creamy thing on top is made with ricotta cheese. She told me her life story, too. Oh my
God
, guys, you would not believe what she’s been through. It’s like some crazy romance novel. Um, not that I read those. Of course I don’t. But, still.” I shoveled a forkful of veggies into my mouth to stop the flow of dialogue.

Mom and dad stared at me, forks midair and a look of shock on their faces mirroring each other. So, that may have been the most I’ve said in one sitting in, like, forever.

“Um.” Mom cleared her throat. “That’s really great sweetie. I can’t wait to try one of those pastry things. I’m not going to attempt to say it, I’ll butcher the name.”

I raised my eyebrow at her, a silent dare that only the Edwards’ could understand and appreciate.

“Ugh. Okay, I’ll try. Zaypolee. There. Are you happy now?” She pronounced it slowly and in an overly exaggerated manner in her attempt to get it right.

Dad and I looked at each other, hysterically horrified by her humorous butchering of the Italian language.

I raised my fork to her, conceding defeat and recognizing that she rose to the challenge. This was a part of our story as a family. I smiled to myself. It was the first time I’d thought of my family in a positive light in a long time.

“First bite goes to mom.” I grinned at her, forfeiting the prize that went with one of our silly wordless dares.

She grinned at me, all teeth and childhood memories. I leaned back and for once allowed myself to feel the warmth of my family to surround me. What could I say? It was a great day.

***

Later that night I was on MySpace, and got a message from ItalianToaTeen16. Who the hell was that?

“Hey Vic-it’s Nick. Wow… that rhymes.”

Holy fried crap on a stick. Nick was messaging me? Seriously, could this day get any better?

“
LOL what’s up?”
The awesome part of being on the computer is he didn’t see that I was squealing, jumping up and down and doing my victory/happy dance. All things which should never be witnessed in person.

“
Nothing much. Freakin’ long day at work.”

“Yeah, Nonna said you work at the cycle shop. That’s pretty cool.”

He didn’t respond for a bit, which had me worried that I’d said the wrong thing. I mean, I got it, I wasn’t anywhere near cool. I reread what I typed and was about to tap out a retraction when he finally responded.

“So, I won movie tickets on the radio. For The Trilogy. It’s a week from Thursday and some sort of screening thing. You still want to go?”

Oh. My. God. I had a total girly freak out moment. Squealing, squeaking, jumping up and down and dancing around the room.

I heard the ping that let me know that another message had come in. I rushed back over to my computer.

“Hello?”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, it would be fun to go. So, meet you there?”

I gave myself a mental high five for coming across so cool.

“Nope. I’ll pick you up.”

Holy crap. Did that make it a date? Like, a
date
date? Swoon.