Chapter 10 - The Book He Kept
Vincent wanted to be furious.
He was too tired.
“Where?”
Angelo stared at the ceiling.
“In my study.”
“For twenty years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Vincent laughed quietly.
“You always know.”
“Not this time.”
Angelo turned his head toward him.
“She left it with my attorney after Maya was born. He gave it to me because it was addressed to the Romano family kitchen.”
“And you kept it.”
“I told myself I was preserving it.”
“From who?”
Angelo closed his eyes.
“From consequences.”
That answer was finally honest enough to end the argument.
The next morning Teresa retrieved the book.
Vincent did not open it.
He called Maya.
“I have something that belongs to you.”
She was quiet.
“What?”
“Your mother's recipe book.”
Another silence.
“Where did you get it?”
“My father had it.”
Maya exhaled slowly.
“Of course he did.”
Vincent winced.
“I haven't opened it.”
“Good.”
“I can bring it to you.”
“No.”
He waited.
“I'll come get it after work.”
“Okay.”
She arrived at the hospital instead.
She had come straight from work. Flour marked one cuff, and a paper cup of coffee sat forgotten in her hand. She looked tired enough to turn around twice before the elevator doors even opened.
Vincent was surprised to see her step out in her chef jacket and winter coat.
“You came here.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
Maya glanced toward the nurses' station.
“Because if I picked up the book somewhere easier, I'd spend the whole night wondering whether I stayed away from him because I wanted distance or because I was afraid.”
Vincent waited.
“I don't like not knowing which one is making my decisions.”
He understood the sentence immediately. For twenty years he had called avoidance certainty because certainty sounded less shameful.
Maya noticed the recognition on his face.
“Don't make that expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one where you turn my sentence into a life lesson about yourself.”
Vincent almost smiled. “Fair.”
She took a breath and looked at the door to Angelo's room.
“I may leave after thirty seconds.”
“You can.”
“I may say something ugly.”
“You can.”
“I don't need you to defend him.”
“I won't.”
That answer seemed to settle her more than reassurance would have.
He held out the cloth-wrapped book.
Maya took it.
Then looked toward Angelo's room.
“Is he awake?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know I'm here?”
“No.”
She stood there for a moment.
Then said, “I want to talk to him.”
Vincent did not ask if she was sure.
He stepped aside.
Angelo looked smaller in the hospital bed.
Maya pulled a chair near the window, not too close.
“I got the book.”
Angelo nodded.
“I should have given it to your father twenty years ago.”
“No.”
He looked confused.
“You should have given it to my mother.”
Angelo swallowed.
“Yes.”
Maya held the wrapped book in her lap.
“Why did you keep it?”
He thought before answering.
“Because every time I considered throwing it away, I knew that would make what I had done final. And every time I considered returning it, I knew I would have to admit what I had done.”
Maya looked at him steadily.
“So you kept it where nobody could use it.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“That sounds like the whole family.”
Vincent looked at the floor.
Angelo almost smiled.
“Probably.”
Maya unwrapped the book.
It was stained, swollen from years of kitchen steam, and held together with tape.
Elena's handwriting filled the pages.
Notes in margins.
Ingredient substitutions.
Small complaints.
On one page she had written: Vincent says this needs more salt. Vincent is wrong.
Maya laughed.
Vincent looked over from the doorway.
“She wrote that?”
Maya tilted the page toward him.
Angelo watched them.
Something in his face collapsed.
“I took that from both of you.”
Maya looked at him.
“Yes.”
No softening.
No cruelty.
Just yes.
Angelo turned his face toward the window.
The monitor beside him marked time with soft electronic beeps.
After a moment he said, "Your mother once told my lawyer that she would rather raise you in one room than let me buy her a house with conditions attached."
Maya's grip tightened around the book.
"Did that make you respect her?"
Angelo gave a tired smile. "Eventually. At the time it made me furious."
"Why?"
"Because I thought money was proof that I was solving something. Her refusal meant I had to consider that I might be the problem."
Vincent, standing near the door, felt the sentence reach him too.
Angelo swallowed.
“I am sorry.”
Maya touched the book's cracked spine.
“I believe you mean that.”
He looked back.
“But I don't know you,” she continued. “And I don't owe you comfort because you're sorry.”
Angelo nodded.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
He almost answered quickly.
Then stopped.
“I am trying to.”
Maya stood.
At the door she paused.
“My mother wrote about you sometimes.”
Angelo's face went pale.
“What did she say?”
Maya considered.
“That you were afraid of losing your son and solved that fear by making sure he lost us.”
Angelo closed his eyes.
Maya left.
In the elevator, Vincent said nothing.
Maya hugged the recipe book to her chest.
“You okay?” he asked finally.
“No.”
He nodded.
“Do you want company?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
The elevator reached the lobby.
Maya stepped out, then stopped.
“Actually.”
Vincent waited.
“Walk me to the train.”
They walked six blocks in cold afternoon wind.
Maya did not talk.
Vincent did not fill the silence.
At the station stairs, she looked at him.
“This is weird.”
“What?”
“You're getting better at shutting up.”
Vincent smiled.
“Expensive therapy.”
She rolled her eyes.
Then she touched his sleeve lightly.
It was the first time she had touched him on purpose.
“I'll see you Thursday.”
“Dinner?”
“One dinner. Don't make it a franchise.”
He laughed.
That night Maya opened Elena's recipe book alone.
Between two stained pages near the back, a photograph fell out.
She stared at it for several minutes.
Then she called Vincent.
“Do you remember a restaurant called Bellini's?”
Vincent sat up in bed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother and I had our first real date there.”
Maya looked at the photograph in her hand.
It showed Elena sitting at Bellini's table twenty years ago.
Across from her was Vincent.
And between them, on the white tablecloth, sat a tiny pair of baby shoes.
May you like
On the back Elena had written:
The night I tried to tell him.
