Chapter 9 Madmiral Briggs
Madmiral Briggs
Lying in bed the next morning, Bianca didn’t want to open her eyes. She thought she could deal with her dad, but one day in and she was exhausted. It took about all she had to shift her mindset, but eventually she reframed the situation.
She was a warrior and today was a day for warriors. Her father’s visit, on top of everything else, was the ultimate showdown, her opportunity to grow, to mend the broken parts of that little girl inside of her for good.
If she could survive this, then she might finally be set free.
In her book, Bianca had helped Peggy Meh change the stories she’d been telling herself, urging her to become Cap’n Megawatt, the director of her own thoughts. Bianca Briggs would take her own advice and become Peggy’s direct superior, Admiral Gigawatt. How silly!
“Her royal wattness, Admiral Gigawatt,” she said out loud, seeing a supercharged Bianca standing at the helm of her boat.
She chuckled and pulled a leg out from the sheets.
God, this was fun. New ideas for Insta posts and even a live Substack sprang to mind. Creativity shot up her spine. Maybe she did have another book in her.
Hold on. There were far better ways to suffer than to go to war with another blank page, only to be shat on by reviewers. She’d been trying not to read reviews, but she’d gone down the rabbit hole late last night and found a one-star that called From Meh to Mega a nothing burger. Ouch.
Recalling some of the other reviews, a wave of shame knocked the last of her smile off her face.
Maybe it was fun thinking about becoming Admiral Gigawatt, but she wasn’t a funny person.
Aside from Moira and the other Megawatters, the self-help reading collective had either rolled their eyes at her attempt at humor or hadn’t even picked up that she was being playful—and even silly—in the first place.
So what was she doing laughing at herself?
Fighting to stay positive, she set her bare feet on the rug and stretched.
“What a blessing,” she said, careful not to speak too loudly.
“I am so fortunate for this opportunity to grow.” Captain Peggy Megawatt had said exactly these words multiple times.
Admiral Gigawatt—no, Madmiral Gigawatt from the helm of her ship—added, “I’m eager to spend more time with my dad. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
Charged with determination, she dressed for the day and made a Nespresso shot, telling herself she’d figure out how to use the Moka pot in the cabinet soon.
She’d not planned it this way, this battle. Her time in Italy was a time to heal and recharge, but it had become more than that, a battle against—no, a dance with—her father issues too.
Today, she would focus on looking at George Briggs, the ultimate to-do-lister, through the lens of understanding, knowing that she had the same desperate need to check things off, to accomplish, and knowing that everyone had their faults and hers and George’s were mostly to do with being insecure overachievers.
The floorboards on the other side of the apartment creaked. Her dad was up; it was go-time for the madmiral.
In the living room, George said, “I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. I was tired and let my mouth start running. You have your own path, and I need to be okay with it. It’s not my business anyway.”
Bianca slipped her arms around him. He still smelled like “Dad” after all these years, like a pine tree.
“I can handle some advice from time to time, but I need you to understand that this is where my ancestors come from, at least half of them, and when I’m here, my soul glows. Don’t hate on my journey.”
“I’m not hating on it,” he said. “Just micromanaging you, as I’ve been known to do. But I’ll do my best not to meddle.”
Bianca appreciated his honesty and self-awareness.
“Thank you. Now let’s get on to a great day.
I thought we might leave in an hour or so and go do all the touristy things, see a few museums, that kind of thing.
Then we’ll have lunch, take a nap, and then I have my signing this afternoon at four.
How does that sound?” She was trying not to think about the signing, how empty it would be.
“Yeah, sure, to all of it. And I thought I might help you get organized around here too. Just a bit of the old George touch, sweep off the balcony, get your closets and cabinets straight.”
Bianca smiled, at first resisting but then remembering that George was George, and she had to let him do his thing. This was his way of expressing his love.
“I could definitely use the help, but no rush. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“Had I been there, I could have built Rome by noon on Monday.” Then he winked.
Only once they had reached the Fountain of Neptune did George start to niggle at Bianca’s sanity again. What had happened to her earlier pep talk?
They’d had a perfectly nice morning, enjoyed a pastry at Le Briciole and eaten it while talking about the latest news in Phoenix and Scottsdale, and shared some wonderful memories from back when her mom had still been in the picture.
They’d even laughed, and Bianca felt so proud of both of them, escaping the headbutting of the previous day and facing forward.
But then something had changed in George, a shift in his easy demeanor, as if that last cup of coffee had done him in.
As Bianca passionately relayed what she knew about the Fountain of Neptune, an evocative work with nude mermaids staring up at the well-endowed Roman god of the sea, George’s eyes kept drifting away.
Piazza del Nettuno formed an L shape with the adjacent and grander Piazza Maggiore, and together they were the heartbeat of Bologna.
Each brick building that surrounded the piazzas was a work of art worthy of its own history book, but dominating them all was the exquisite Basilica di San Petronio, a giant church the Bolognese started building in 1390.
1390! They’d never finished the exterior due to political and financial reasons, but that was part of the charm.
While the bottom half featured some of the most important marble work in human history, the top half consisted of merely exposed brick, creating a unique masterpiece.
As the Italian sun warmed the crisp May air, pigeons bathed in the water of the fountain.
A guitarist sang pop songs. Scents of coffee beans swirled in the air.
Groups gathered for their walking tours, the guides holding up signs.
People sipped cappuccinos and planned their days at the many tables tucked under the colorful awnings of the lively cafés.
In short, Bologna was giving everything it had, singing its best song, reminding Bianca exactly why it had grabbed her heart. And yet her father was beyond detached and distracted.
“What is it?” Bianca asked calmly, stopping midsentence as she explained how the fountain had been built for the pope.
George wore another pair of khakis with a golf shirt and those bright-white tennis shoes. He couldn’t have looked more American if he wrapped an American flag around his body and started singing Lee Greenwood.
“Sorry,” he said, “I was looking at the line forming. That’s the entrance to where we’re going next, right?”
Bianca looked across the square to a line of maybe thirty people waiting to get inside the Palazzo d’Accursio, where one could enjoy the municipal art collection, climb the clock tower for a view of the city, and maybe even get a glimpse into the stunning Sala del Consiglio comunale, or city hall, where Bolognese leaders had been meeting for hundreds of years, debating politics as they sat in hand-carved chairs under a gorgeous frescoed ceiling that rivaled any in the Old World.
“Oh, the line’s not that bad,” she said. “We’re still early.”
“Yeah, but it’s growing.”
What was he in such a rush for? Last time she checked, he was a tepid art lover at best, but right now he had the energy of a bull about to be let into the ring.
Taking another breath, pausing for four seconds before exhaling, she touched his arm.
“We’re not in a rush, Dad. Besides, I want to show you my favorite thing in all of Bologna. ” She took his hand. “Come here.”
They walked twenty feet toward a daunting stone wall of the Palazzo d’Accursio.
Just out of reach stood two eagles sculpted in stone.
Bianca pointed to one. “Niccolò dell’Arca did that one; he was the reason Michelangelo came to Bologna and spent so much time here. And then Michelangelo did this one.”
“The Michelangelo?” George said, suddenly interested.
“That’s right.”
George stared hard at the eagle. “Hold on; it’s not even protected. You’re telling me one of the most famous artists in the world did that, and I could pull up in a pickup truck with a chisel and drive away with it.”
Bianca imagined the two of them executing a father-daughter heist. “It’s not very well known, and not everyone agrees that it’s a Michelangelo.”
He pulled his eyes away. “Then how do you know?”
Bianca touched the stone under Michelangelo’s eagle with her full palm and looked up at the sculpture, feeling the bird’s wings as if they were her own. A rush of energy ran through her, generations of her ancestors standing there with her.
“I just know.”
As they joined the line to get into the palace, you would have thought George was a little girl dressed in a princess outfit trying to get a picture with Minnie Mouse.
Bouncing in those white shoes with their cushioned soles, he kept peering past the people in front of them, trying to see when the doors would open. He’d likely trample small children if need be.
The moment the guard unlatched the gate, George said, “Okay, I’m thinking we go right.”
Bianca shook her head. “You may be the most excited person in history to ever walk through this gate.”
He shrugged it off. “I don’t like waiting around.”
Oh, she knew. She’d endured thirty-two years of her father’s impatience. And he’d passed it along to her too.