Chapter 10 #2
“I have a bunch more photos to add,” she says, looking at the computer. “Everyone sent me pictures but there were a lot of photographs I had to scan. Look at these ones from when Nonna was a teenager. This was during the war.”
“Wow.” I study the old-fashioned images as Ayla clicks through them. I wouldn’t recognize her nonna other than maybe the smile.
I watch Ayla add photos to the PowerPoint slide show: wedding photos from 1947, a young mother Nonna with babies. So many babies.
“She had seven children,” Ayla murmurs. “Amazing. And only four of them are still around. She outlived three children.”
And then we both go very still and quiet. I can feel Ayla’s pain at the memory that we, too, outlived our child.
As usual, it makes me angry. That should not have happened. It just shouldn’t have.
Unable to stop myself, I set my hand on her back and gently rub. Usually, whatever I try to say at times like this comes out wrong. So I say nothing.
The urge to pull her into my arms is overpowering. I was never able to offer much comfort with words, but I could always show her that I was there for her. That I cared for her. But I can’t do that anymore.
She takes a deep breath and lifts her head and resumes her work.
There are pictures of the family at the Jersey Shore. At drive-in movies. In front of what appears to be a castle.
“That’s the Gingerbread Castle, in Hamburg,” Ayla says, smiling. “It was a theme park, but it’s closed down now.”
More pictures show the kids in a miniature train, at a Wild West-style town, and at Palisades Amusement Park.
“It seems like they did a lot of adventuring,” I comment.
“Yes! And I love that.”
There are also lots of pictures of family in New York at Christmas time, and more wedding pictures from the next generation, Ayla’s great-aunts and uncles.
“That’s Grandpa,” she points out in one. “Ernie.”
“Oh yeah. That’s cool.”
It’s fascinating following the generation of the family through births, weddings, funerals.
And there were a lot of births. Out of the seven children, six married and had more kids.
Only Ayla’s great-uncle Antonio did not marry, though he was in a long-term relationship with his partner, Victor. They’ve both passed on.
“You have a lot of material to work with.”
“I sure do. Ninety-nine years’ worth.” Ayla grins.
We pass the rest of the evening doing that, and then making a playlist in Spotify that she downloads and adds to the slide show.
Picking appropriate songs is tough. We listen to so many, old songs from the fifties like “A Teenager in Love,” James Brown’s “Please, Please, Please,” and “All I Have to do is Dream.”
Dammit, that song is fucking romantic. It makes me want to pull Ayla out of her chair and slow dance her around the room.
I give my head a shake, a weird ache pressing behind my sternum.
“I’m hungry,” I say.
She smirks. “Of course you are.” She always liked to give me a hard time about how much I eat.
She stands and walks over to the small kitchenette.
There’s a bag sitting on the counter, and she pulls out a couple of boxes of crackers, then opens the fridge.
She emerges with cheese and a bunch of grapes.
“It’s magic,” I say, making her laugh.
“I knew we’d need snacks. I also have a couple of bottles of wine. Should we open a red?”
“Hell, yeah. I’ll do it.” I find a bottle and luckily, it’s a screw cap because I have no idea if there’s a corkscrew here. I locate glasses in a cupboard and pour wine into them. When I hand one to Ayla, she balks and makes a face.
“Eeeew. Is that the best glass they have?”
I look at the glass. It’s old and small, with a thick stem. She was always so picky about wine glasses. They had to have the right shape, a skinny stem, and be made of thin glass. I can’t hide my amusement as I say, “Come on. The wine tastes the same whatever you drink it out of.”
Her lower lip pushes out. “You always say that. But it’s not just about the taste. It’s about the sensory experience. The feel of the glass in your hand. But fine, I’ll drink it.” She takes the glass I’m holding and chugs back a mouthful.
Yeah, I feel like that, too.
We take a plate of crackers and cheese over to the couch, where we sit in front of the fire. Snow falls outside the windows, slow and fluffy against the darkness.
“Thanks for your help,” Ayla says.
“I don’t know how much help I was, but you’re welcome. What’s your plan for tomorrow?”
“The calendar. I’ll get things ready for the genealogy display table.”
“The what now?”
“I’m setting up a table in the pavilion with a display of the family tree, some of the old photographs and heirlooms. Stories about our ancestors. I asked everyone to contribute to it.”
“Cool.”
“Then I have to meet with Norm to go over everything.”
I scowl. “Oh fuck.”
“What? He’s the manager of the resort! I have to deal with him.”
“He’s hotter than a six-peckered alley cat for you.”
She chokes on a laugh.
“I don’t like him,” I add. “Be careful.”
She regards me, eyes wide and her jaw slack. “You don’t even know him.”
“Yeah. I should, though. I’ll come with you. You can introduce me.”
“I… That’s…” She sighs. “Fine.”
“What do you have to talk to him about?”
“The schedule. The menus. When we need the tea and scones. We’re going to have a beverage station set up for hot chocolate and coffee and tea and juice for the kids, and a buffet breakfast Saturday and Sunday morning.”
I nod slowly. Once again, this seems like a big undertaking that she’s doing all herself.
We fall silent. She picks up a piece of cheese and takes a bite, looking intently at the fire as if it might reveal the secrets to climate change.
“Do you ever think about Kane?”
Jesus.