Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

The ambulance took Gram to Saint Vincent’s hospital. She revived at home, but was confused, and wasn’t sure when she fell. My mother and father arrived at the hospital quickly, as there’s barely any traffic from Queens into the city this time of night. Tess, Jaclyn, and Alfred push through the doors, their faces full of dread. It’s almost ten o’clock, but Gram asked Mom to call her lawyer, her old friend Ray Rinaldi who lives on Charles Street. My mother did exactly as she was told, and Ray is inside the ICU with her now.

Roman pushes through the glass doors and runs to me. “How is she?”

“She’s weak. We don’t know what happened,” Mom says. Gram has never been sick, or sustained any kind of serious injury. Mom is not used to this, and she’s frightened. My father puts his arms around her. She cries. “I don’t want to lose her.”

“She’s in good hands. It’s going to be all right,” Roman reassures Mom. “Don’t worry.”

A nurse steps out of the ICU and surveys the crowd. “Is there a Clementine here?”

“Valentine,” I say and wave.

“Follow me,” she says.

The ICU is full, and Gram lies in the farthest corner with two flowing blue curtains separating her from an old man whose chest heaves as he sleeps. As I approach Gram’s bed, Ray Rinaldi closes a large paper folder. Ray’s a grandfather now, with a thick thatch of gray hair and a briefcase that has seen better days.

“I’ll see you outside,” he says to me. Then he gives me a pat on the back. “Teodora, everything will be done just as you wish.”

“Thank you, Ray,” Gram whispers and manages a smile. She closes her eyes.

I go to the side of the bed and hold her hand. Her eyes barely flutter open, looking like two black commas, certainly not the wide, almond-shaped Italian eyes she has when she’s in good health. Her glasses rest on her chest on a chain, just as they were when she fell. A blue-and-purple bruise has formed over her brow, where her face hit the counter. I place my hand gently on the bruise. It feels warm. She looks at me then closes her eyes. “I don’t know what happened.”

“They’ll figure it out.”

“I wasn’t feeling right. I got up for a glass of water, and that’s the last I remember until the ambulance came.” Gram looks off, as though she’s searching for a road sign in the distance.

“You’re not seeing the Blessed Lady, are you?” I joke. “Let’s not start having mystical visions.” I look in the direction of her gaze, and all I see is a wall with an eraser board filled with names of patients and numbers of medications written by the nurses.

“Is this it?” she says to me.

“What do you mean?”

“Is this how it ends?”

“No way! You’re not going anywhere. Buck up. You have a new great-granddaughter named after you. Mom wants to take you on a cruise. Scratch that. You’d hate it. Here, this is better: You still have to teach me how to cut embossed leather. I have lots more to learn and you’re the only person who can teach me. And Dominic. Dominic loves you!”

“All I want to do is make shoes and play cards.”

“And you will!”

“…and grow tomatoes.”

“Absolutely. Grow tomatoes.”

“…and I want to go home to Italy.”

Gram looks off, and in her way, she has defined the boundaries of her life for me. Could anything be simpler? All anyone needs to be happy is something to do, friends who gather to talk and play cards, a good meal made with the tomatoes from your own garden, and every once in a while, a trip to Italy, where she finds peace and comfort in the arms of an old friend.

I look around Saint Vincent’s ICU. It’s clean and functional. Not a frill in sight. What a place to contemplate getting well, never mind your salvation. The nurses no longer wear crisp white uniforms with little hats like they did in old movies. They wear Hawaiian shirts and green scrub pants. I have a hard time taking in a medical prognosis delivered by someone in a luau costume.

“I had your mother call Ray,” Gram says softly. “I put you and Alfred in charge of the Angelini Shoe Company and on the deed of the building. I trust the two of you to figure things out.”

I hear Gram’s words in my head, admonishing me for fighting with my brother: More than anything I want my family to get along. Alfred and I are an unlikely match under the best of circumstances. Running the business together will never work, I can only pray that Gram will get better quickly so she can have the life she dreams of, and while she’s living it, I might run her company, on my own terms. “Okay, Gram,” I say. “We’ll take care of everything, I promise. And you’ll be back on Perry Street with me in no time.”

“Valentine?” My mom wakes me gently. I am sleeping in the chair in Gram’s room at Saint Vincent’s hospital.

“Is she okay?” I sit up and look at the empty bed. Gram is gone.

“They just took her for tests.”

“What time is it?” I lift my sleeve and check my watch. It’s almost noon.

“She’s been out of the room since eight,” Mom says and I can hear the worry in her voice.

“Do they know what happened to her?”

Dad, Jaclyn, Tess, and Alfred come into the room.

“Did she have a stroke?” Tess asks.

“We don’t know yet,” Mom tells her.

Alfred takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “I don’t want to be right. But this time you have to listen to me. Gram can’t do what she used to.” He looks directly at me. “You have to stop pushing her,” he says quietly.

Armand Rigaux, Gram’s doctor, a slim, dashing man with salt-and-pepper hair, comes into the room carrying his clipboard. We gather around him in a circle.

“I have some good news,” Dr. Rigaux begins. “Teodora didn’t have a stroke, and her heart is not compromised in any way.”

“Thank God!” My mother puts her hand over her heart in relief.

“But she has severe arthritis in her knees. They lock and she falls. When she took the spill the other night, it was a doozy. She hit her head pretty badly, and we want to make certain there wasn’t any neurological damage. So we’re going to keep her here and run some more tests.”

“How about knee replacement?” I ask.

“We’re looking into that now. She looks to be a good candidate. And the recuperation period would be a snap with all of you pitching in.”

“I’d do anything for my mother,” Mom says.

“The truth is,” Dr. Rigaux says, looking at us, “surgery is the only way to ensure that this won’t happen again.”

Gram’s third day in the hospital is spent doing more tests, with Mom and my sisters and brother and I staying in shifts to keep her company. I left for a couple of hours to check in with June at the shop, take a shower, and change clothes. I changed the sheets in Gram’s room for Mom and Dad to stay over, as well as the ones in Mom’s room so Jaclyn can stay here if she wants to.

Gram is craving some decent food. She can’t face another day of pressed turkey with yellow gravy and a cup of Jell-O. I load a bag with Tupperware containers of penne, hot rolls, artichoke salad, and a wedge of pumpkin pie.

Back at Saint Vincent’s, I push through the doors and make my way up to the third floor. As I turn the corner down the hallway, I see a group gathered outside Gram’s room. I panic and break into a run.

When I get there, Tess, Jaclyn, and my mother are standing together outside Gram’s room. In the garish green hospital lights, the women in my family look like peasants in an Antonioni film with their bleak expressions, dark hair, black eyes, and the matching circles under them.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s a little crowded in there,” Jaclyn says.