“They look really happy, don’t they?” she whispered, half to Iris, more to herself. She’d imagined herself coming back here many times over the years, and now she’d finally plucked up the courage only to find she’d left it too late. She bore Santo no ill will. They hadn’t made each other promises to wait, and she could hardly think badly of him when she’d had Iris.
Acute loneliness settled over her as Santo and his family disappeared out of sight. She’d always held on to the idea of him as her security blanket; letting him fall from her shoulders left her shivering now, even on the warm New York afternoon. Glancing down, she saw that Iris had fallen asleep, her giraffe clutched tight in her chubby hands.
“Just you and me against the world, baby,” she whispered. She’d never experienced so much as a single second of regret over becoming a mother; when it came to the choice between baby or band, there was no decision to make. She’d struggled through a difficult, sickly pregnancy in a bedsit in L.A., some days eating only Santo’s gelato, which she made from memory now. But the moment her small, red-faced daughter was laid on her chest would always stand out as the most significant of her life. She would never be alone again, because she was a mother.
Sighing heavily, Viv took one long last look at Belotti’s green-and-white awnings, and then she let that particular happy-ever-after dream float away like a balloon released on the warm breeze. She’d tried. She’d come to the United States on a wing and a prayer, and she really had given it her all, but she didn’t belong here. It was time to go.
32.
WHEN I WAS A LITTLE girl my mother and I spent our Christmases in various provincial towns and cities up and down the country. She’d made quite a name for herself on the pantomime circuit, always in demand because she looked the part and her Joni Mitchell-ish voice helped carry the less vocally gifted stars of the show, usually soap actors and comedians. She never made the posters or the big bucks, but it gave us a secure income and a place to hang our hats for a few weeks over the holidays. The cast became my temporary family. I was the child helping out backstage or studying at my table and chair in the corner, they’d blow me kisses as they dashed past for a whirlwind costume change and the ensemble would mill around swapping gossip and heel plasters. They answered my math problems and told me stories that were wildly inappropriate for my young ears, but those frenetic weeks were always my favorite time of year. Christmas Day was the only day the theater closed, a precious few hours together in whichever digs we’d been given. My mother didn’t subscribe to the turkey tradition on account of the fact she was a terrible cook, but it was festive on our own terms. We’d have fairy lights and golden fir cones, tins of sweets and gelato, and we’d crash on the sofa or the hotel bed and watch Christmas TV. It wasn’t grand scale or full of annual traditions, but it was ours and we loved it.
I woke this morning and thought about those Christmases, made myself a coffee and touched the fir cones around the mirror as I passed them.
Today is going to be my first experience of a big, traditional family Christmas. I’m nervous, even though I know everyone will go the extra mile to make me feel welcome and included. I’m relieved to have met Santo in advance, at least, so there shouldn’t be any surprises there. I’ve made truffles and bought small gifts for everyone to say thank you, wrapped them prettily and put them beneath my tree ready for today. My outfit is hanging on my wardrobe door, a green dress threaded with silver that catches the light, high heels and a vintage holly hair clip I spotted in a thrift-store window and fell in love with, my mother’s magpie genes coming out. My cab is booked for midday. I’m organized, on the outside, at least. On the inside, though, I’m a jumble of emotions. I let them run riot through me as I shower and dry my hair, acknowledge all of my fears as I apply a thankfully perfect cat’s-eye flick. I feel all of those worries and nerves now, in the hope that if I let them have my morning, they might let me have one afternoon of peace and joy. I allow the devil on my shoulder to whisper that I’m a terrible, selfish person, and the snake in my gut to coil around my fragile happiness and attempt to squeeze the life out of it. Adam Bronson manifests in my living room and orders me to spend the day here with him instead, sneers and asks me who I think I am pretending I belong somewhere. And then I smooth out the poster of my mother with her pregnancy test in her pocket and look at it until the devil on my shoulder pops like a soap bubble, until the snake realizes he’s not feasting today, until Adam Bronson eats glass instead of roast turkey. Enough, all of you. I put on my dress and slide the clip into my hair, let my high heels and fake fur coat lend me confidence, and by the time the cab horn sounds on the street outside, I’m ready.
* * *
—
WHITE LIGHTS AND GARLANDS line the steps up to the Belotti family brownstone, a huge fresh holly wreath hanging on the double doors.
“Iris, you look so pretty,” Bella says, throwing the door wide before I can ring the bell. A scurry of kids fill the hall around her and she shoos them away so I can step inside with my bag of presents. Maria’s house has taken on Disney-esque holiday glamour, the kind of dressing that must have come from one of those specialist companies Gio told me about because it would have taken a normal person weeks to achieve this look on their own. The staircase garlands, the lights, the baubles, the fireplace…it’s glitzy but tasteful, homey but sophisticated. Whoever did it has matched the holiday decor to the homeowner seamlessly—it’s Maria to a tee, and I love it.
“This place looks…” I gaze up at the giant tree in the hallway, lost for words.
“I know, right?” Bella grins. She’s wearing a Minnie at Christmas sweatshirt and has red glittery mouse ears on her head.
“I like your ears,” I laugh, and she touches them, self-conscious.
“Sophia made me do it,” she says. “She has some for you too.”
“I should hope so,” I say as she leads me into the grand, twinkling living room.
It’s exactly as I’d imagined it would be. Fire crackling in the hearth, everyone dressed to impress, Santo in his armchair with one of his grandkids on his knee. He didn’t have any success with remembering the recipe when he spent time at the gelateria the other morning; they plan to try again after Christmas, maybe load some ingredients into his favorite old machine to see if going through the motions helps. That’s a worry for another day, though, not on anyone’s mind right now. The Belotti women seem to have cornered the market in red lipstick—I chew my rose-glossed lower lip and wish I’d thought of it because it looks so festive. I’m hugged, passed around like a long-lost family member, and finally I reach Gio, who has been leaning in the kitchen doorway watching me.