5
M ATTY dumps his towel in front of the garage and flies straight up the stairs to the balcony.
Directly above my head, Nonna’s delight at my brother’s appearance is as obvious as it is unbridled.
It’s OTT, even for her standards. He’s my cherished boy this, my darling boy that, all in a rapid Italian staccato.
After following Matty up the stairs I toss the foil to Mum, sitting at the outdoor table with Nonna, a bottle of bubbles between them.
‘Thank you, darling,’ she says.
‘How dare you let your brother walk through the streets like that?’ Nonna says.
‘Happy New Year to you too, Nonna.’ I pretend to take a sip from her glass of bubbles.
‘Don’t you dare.’ She snatches it back, the liquid protesting its rough handling with a flurry of disturbed bubbles. ‘Your mother and I are toasting in the new year.’
‘I love that colour on you, Nonna,’ nodding at her new scarf, a Christmas gift from Mum that I helped pick out. She runs her plump fingers over it and smiles.
‘Anything to eat?’ Matty interjects.
‘Well, if that isn’t the most ridiculous question.’ Here comes Exhibit A, Mum with a giant platter in her hands. She places it on the table and Matty and I pounce. On one side, there’s cold chicken, avocado, cheese, lettuce and tomato, on the other, sliced watermelon and pineapple.
‘Wait, I’ll grab the rolls.’ Mum disappears inside.
‘Forget about it, Angela,’ says Nonna. ‘They’re like a pair of animals. Anyone would think you haven’t eaten for weeks.’
‘Where’s Dad?’ I bite into some watermelon, then spit the pip over the edge of the balcony.
‘Caterina!’ my mother and Nonna say in unison.
‘What?’ I ask. ‘It’s for the garden. Anyway, where’s Dad? We need to have words.’
‘He’s downstairs,’ says Mum. ‘Words about what?’ Last night’s eyeliner sits smudged well below her eyelids and her hair rivals mine in the dishevelment stakes, twisted into a bun at the base of her neck.
Mum and Dad had friends over last night to watch the Batter’s Cove fireworks from the balcony.
When Matty and I got home the party was in full swing.
We managed to get Dad’s attention from the shadows and kissed him goodnight before we skedaddled to our beds to avoid being dragged into a room full of dancing fossils.
Around one in the morning, Tommy climbed into bed with me, crying from over-tiredness.
I drew on his back until he fell asleep, texting my friends and trying not to wake him by laughing.
It was such a bad sleep, being woken every now and then by the sound of clinking bottles, a shriek or laugh, and then the farewell shouts as people left.
I have no idea how any of them managed to make it down the stairs.
Soon after, Dad’s snoring echoed through the house.
I’d just drifted off when the sound of the vacuum started, and then ten minutes later I could hear my brothers fighting over the television remote control. Happy freakin’ New Year!
‘Words about the fact that I just had the king of the Neanderthals inform me that he now works for Dad.’
‘It’s a big job, Cat,’ Mum says. ‘You think Dad can do it on his own?’
‘You know they call me a SUB, right?’ I glance at Nonna who is rearranging the gaps in the platter left by Matty. I lower my voice. ‘That’s Stuck-Up Bitch, you know.’
‘That’s not going to happen, Cat,’ Mum says. ‘From what I hear, he’s a good kid.’
‘He’s a Neanderthal and he’ll be here, at my house.’ I spit a watermelon pip into my hand.
‘How is you calling him a Neanderthal any different from this stuck-up rubbish? You don’t think that’s a bit unfair and hypocritical?’
‘Fine, you’ve got me. I’m an unfair hypocrite.’ I take a big slug from the water bottle Paul gave me, swallowing the last of the dregs. ‘Hey, Tommy, can you bring out the water?’ I yell over my shoulder.
‘How many times must I tell you? It’s Tommaso,’ says Nonna.
She’s the only person who doesn’t contract our names.
None of this Anglo Cat, Matty or Tommy for our Nonna.
Dad might call us the Dirty Three, but to her, we are Catarina, Matteo and Tomasso, whether we like it or not.
Mostly, we lean towards not, but with all things Nonna, we’re fighting a battle we’ll never win.
My name is the perfect example. In her house I am Catarina, complete with full rolling of the ‘rina’.
I’m named after Nonna’s mother who by all accounts was a complete and utter witch, and not the good kind.
My mother doesn’t have a single nice thing to say about her, yet there’s her name on my birth certificate.
‘I think I know my brother’s name, Nonna, thank you.’
‘Cat...’ Mum shoots me a pleading look. It’s a familiar one that says that she knows Nonna gives me a hard time, but can I please just suck it up for her sake?
‘And do you have to sit like that?’ Nonna leans down and pushes my knees together.
We lived with Nonna while Dad built our house.
That was fun. So much fun! Dinner at five, soapies all night long.
There’s a high probability she loves the soapie characters more than she loves her actual family.
The only good thing about them is you can say anything you want when Nonna’s watching; she doesn’t hear a thing.
We lived there for almost a year, and when we left, moving a whole fifteen minutes away, both Mum and Nonna cried as if our house were interstate.
I think Dad probably missed Nonna most of all because she fussed over him and my brothers like they were crown princes. She sent him off to work with lunches that could have fed a factory, and Dad still gets a packed lunch courtesy of his mother-in-law every single day.
I didn’t shed a single tear. I was too excited about my new room. A new room, and the fact that we’d be seeing her every day after school anyway. Every. Single. Day.
Our school bus drops us off in town after school and we walk the few blocks to Nonna’s, where either Mum or Dad pick us up.
Dad works everywhere, wherever he’s building, and Mum’s office is at home, but she spends a lot of time back and forth to the city depending on what she’s working on.
When we arrive at Nonna’s we fling our school bags through the kitchen door and yell, ‘we’re here!
’ Matty races straight into the kitchen to find what treats Nonna has left out for us, Tommy’s focus is the TV, and I head to the percolator and jam it full of espresso.
My conversation with Nonna is a daily ritual performed as she watches me make coffee.
‘Caterina, you need sugar! Put some sugar in.’
‘Nonna, no, I don’t like it.’
‘Just one teaspoon, it takes the bitterness out of the coffee.’
‘No, it’s fine, it’s not bitter.’
‘Here, I’ll do it for you.’
‘Nonna, no, I don’t like sugar.’
‘I don’t know how you drink it like that.’
Rinse and repeat that conversation five times a week, fifty-two weeks a year.
Still, I have a horrible suspicion that I’m going to miss sitting at the table with my Nonna.
When I was a child, I thought Nonna’s espresso cups were the most gorgeous things ever.
Picture pastel cups a quarter the size of normal ones, all the colours of gelato.
We’ve drunk hardcore espresso out of Nonna’s tiny cups since we were toddlers.
Okay, maybe not toddlers, but I honestly can’t remember a time when I didn’t sip from a cup.
It’s amazing that all three of us don’t have Type 2 Diabetes.
One of my earliest memories is Nonna feeding me spoons of sugar stained with coffee.
That’s what she’d do; she’d make us our own espressos, in the beautiful, magical cups of course, and then to weaken the caffeine she’d add sugar, at least three teaspoons.
In a tiny espresso cup. Yes, caffeine might make a child hyper, so let’s add sugar.
Now I can’t stand the slightest sweetness in a hot drink.
I still adore the cups and at least once a week I remind Nonna that when she dies, they’re to go to me.
I know that sounds macabre, calling dibs on a living person’s belongings, but it’s one of Nonna’s expressions: ‘You like it? You can have it when I’m dead. ’
It’s not only a miracle we’re diabetes free; by all measures we should be morbidly obese.
Most kids get home from school, maybe have some fruit, perhaps some crackers or biscuits.
Nothing too heavy to spoil their dinner, right?
Not us. We come home to a feast. A bowl of pasta.
Some eggplant that’s been crumbed and fried in olive oil.
A frittata. Cake. Pastries. Biscuits. A giant bowl of jelly.
One time even scones that she’d made from a packet mix, God knows why.
The boys love it. They easily put away a bowl of spaghetti, reach for the pastries sitting on the table, then work their way through the salad she’s picked that was originally destined for at least two neighbours.
So basically, after school we get to my Nonna’s house, leave our shit everywhere, eat all her food, the boys go play with the local kids in the street, I get started on my homework, Mum or Dad walk in after an hour or so, tell us to clean up our shit, Nonna waves us out her door, we leave, and she cleans up after us.