Page 22 of A Winter in New York

“She already has an excellent teacher,” he says, clipped.

“Dad, you’re embarrassing me,” Bella says under her breath, pulling her sleeves down over her hands.

“Enough for today,” he says curtly, and turns away as the bell over the door rings. “These people haven’t come in here to listen to this.”

“But I always practice in here and you never…” Bella starts to answer back and then thinks better of it, probably because of the long warning look Gio gives her.

I find myself reminded of how I felt in that bookstore all those months ago, and I need to get out of here. Standing abruptly, I put a hand briefly on Bella’s shoulder.

“Good luck tomorrow, just relax and you’ll do great.”

I can’t look at Gio as I gather my bag and coat, because I’m aware my cheeks are burning and I’m swallowing down my emotions. Anger, confusion, humiliation. I absolutely refuse to cry in here. His sharp, unexpected change in demeanor has me shaken up, is taking me back to that horrible apartment in London with Adam, and I just want to leave. Nodding a quick goodbye to Sophia, I lift my head high and walk straight out of Belotti’s.

9.

I’m not going back. Notthis morning, not tomorrow, and maybe not again. I spent yesterday turning it over in my head, running through the scant conversation to understand where things went wrong, why it felt so harsh, why I reacted so strongly. I’ve felt worse in the last twenty-four hours than I have in months with the reminder of my previous life, and logicallyof courseI know Gio isn’t Adam, nor is he anything like him, thank God. These emotions are mine to work through. It’s just that he’s the first person outside of the Very Tasty Noodle House that I’ve allowed myself to get to know in New York, and I guess I haven’t taken the time to see him, or anyone else at Belotti’s, as whole people, with their own complex emotions. I’ve defined them by who they are to me and what they mean to my mother’s story, and yesterday brought home to me the fact that they’re people in their own right with their own stories and their own baggage. They’re not the von Trapp family, all singing and dancing, they’re a real family. And while I think that makes them even better, it also means I need to take a step back.

I’m secure here in the noodle house. This place is the safety curtain to my life’s stage; I step behind it with Bobby and co and we are a well-oiled crew. Even Smirnoff knowshis role. Real life exists out on that stage beyond the safety curtain, and Gio and his family are the first people I’ve allowed to step on to it. I’ve painted their glass door into my set background, allowed Mulberry Street to become part of my production. I understand now that it’s not a one-act performance. My set needs more buildings, it needs to be bigger, fuller, and richer, so while I’m not going to Belotti’s this morning, I am going out. I’d become too accustomed to spending my mornings hiding behind the safety curtain before I saw that painted door, but I’m ready to step out from behind it now. New York is on my doorstep in all its messy, energetic glory—I’m taking myself out there to paint some new colors on my backdrop.

—

Clichéd as it might be,I’ve decided to start at Katz’s Deli. Not because Meg Ryan faked an orgasm there, but because I’ve got such fond memories of watching that movie with my mother. So actually, yes, maybe Iamgoing because of Meg Ryan, in a roundabout way. I ducked in there when I first arrived in NY and pulled myself straight back out again; the place was jumping with an energy I didn’t feel up to being part of. I don’t expect it to be any different today, butI’mdifferent, and hopefully that’s enough. I haven’t told Bobby what happened at Belotti’s yesterday so I can’t ask him to come with me, but that’s okay. Part of painting my background set involves being assertive enough to do things alone, otherwise my background will always be someone else’s take on life, and this needs to be mine.

It’s one of those bright blue-sky days, the kind that looks warm through the window and then you get out there andfind yourself in need of a warm jacket. And preferably a scarf. I have both of those things as I put my best foot forward and try to project New Yorker confidence, striding with my hands in my pockets and my head high. It’s not much of a walk, twenty minutes or so, but it’s wide, bustling streets and cluttered sidewalks, snatches of conversations, truck horns, street art, and kids on skateboards weaving either side of an old woman pulling a shopping trolley. It’s alive, a sense of forward travel that gives me a low buzz of nervous excitement. I almost reach for my cellphone to video call Bobby just to show him where I am, and then I change my mind. I can tell him later. I see Katz’s coming up on the corner in the distance and I instinctively twist the heart-shaped ring on my wedding finger for comfort. My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, sliding it from its forever spot on her hand to its forever spot on mine. She was a bit of a magpie for jewelry, the more bohemian the better, but the signet ring never left her hand until the day she gave it to me. All of her rings hold a special place in my heart, but this one is a little extra-special.

“Come on, Mum,” I whisper. “Let’s go in.”

I queued to get inside the first time I came here, but when the guy in the entrance held out a ticket to me I lost my nerve and turned around. This time I smile as if I know what I’m doing. I don’t, but I’ve looked it up enough to know it’s going to be hectic and I need to hang on to my ticket as if it’s made of pure gold. I hesitate once inside because, genuinely, it’s kind of mind-blowing, especially on my own. I’m glad I’m early, at least: it’s just before ten in the morning and, thankfully, quieter than the last time I was here. It’s just how you know it’s going to be inside, no frills, and neon, faded memorabilia and multiple queues, a sense of chaos and orderrunning hand in hand. I follow the guy in front as he seems to know what he’s doing and find myself in line at a cutter station. I don’t mind the wait. The smell in here leans heavily toward savory; if a caveman ever found himself unexpectedly defrosted and in NYC this place would draw him in like catnip. I listen to the guy ahead of me rattle off his order and scan the menu quickly—if there’s one thing that’s valued here, it’s knowing what you want when it’s your turn upfront. I twist my signet ring again, repeating “half pastrami on club” until I’m there and say the words clear and loud, earning myself an efficient nod from the woman wielding the knife in front of me. The cutter stations are exactly that: places where the meat gets sliced and loaded on to bread—and, oh my sweet Lord, is there a lot of meat. She spears a sliver of pastrami for me to test as she builds my sandwich, her experienced hands a blur as she slices and fills my order. The pastrami is something else in my mouth as I wait, melting to nothing but flavor. And then I’m done and moved aside, tray in hand as I weave toward the back and find myself a table.

Coming here was never about the food for me, but now I’m actually sitting with this gigantic sandwich in front of me, it momentarily becomes so. I’ve worked in kitchens all of my adult life, but I’ve never been called upon to serve up a sandwich with proportions like this. I can’t help myself snapping a shot of it for the food file in my phone, then I count the meat layers: eight, I think—there might even be a sneaky ninth. I don’t think my mum ever actually came inside this place, and she certainly wouldn’t have eaten anything of this magnitude. She floated barefoot through my childhood on a diet of Marlboro Lights and here-and-there meals, oftensitting beside me and picking at my dinner plate rather than serving herself. As an adult looking back, I realize now how tight money was for her, and I wonder if she sometimes missed meals to make sure I didn’t.

A woman sits alone at the table marked as the one used inWhen Harry Met Sally,and I wonder if she sat there purposely. She flicks the page of her book as she eats, absorbed in her story, and I find myself hoping she knows exactly which table she’s sitting at and not giving a hot damn. I pick up my sandwich and people-watch, letting the hubbub move around me as I eat, soaking in the noise and the movements. As expected, the sandwich is as epic in deliciousness as it is in scale, and I take this moment alone to give myself a mental once-over. A year ago I felt hopeless, trapped in a controlling relationship, and going further back again, I was floundering around in the murky jaws of grief. Adam found me there and reached out his hand, and I clung on because someone, anyone, felt better than no one. I didn’t realize how wrong I was until I was in way over my head and couldn’t see a clear way out.

A nearby customer knocks an empty soda bottle on the floor, and the clank is enough to jolt me back from those unwelcome memories. I take a few deep, calming breaths and remind myself where I am now. I’m here in New York, sitting in the legendary Katz’s Deli eating eight or nine layers of histrionically excellent pastrami, and I’m free to paint my background colors any which way I choose. I close my eyes for a second and mentally add a splash of Katz’s red and biscuit beige. That’s really what lies at the heart of my discontent yesterday: it reminded me how it feels when someone makes you feel as though you’ve done something wrong when youhaven’t, just to distract you from their own mistakes—a lesson I learned the hard way. Gio wasn’t to know that, and of course I realize it wasn’t his intention and I understand he has his own agenda and emotional flashpoints, but he will always have his family and Bella to turn to when he needs them. I don’t have that kind of safety net, so I have to hold myself together instead.

—

Wednesday morning finds rainbattering my windows and me unwilling to leave the sanctuary of my bed, my get-up-and-go got-up-and-gone. I haven’t heard from Gio, but then I haven’t made contact either. He doesn’t know my address, but Sophia has my cell number if she, or he, wanted to get in touch. I’m not surprised by the radio silence—I’ve been the one doing all the running, after all. It’s been a really complicated few weeks, an emotionally draining merry-go-round. I feel as if I’m constantly trying to balance doing more good than harm to the Belotti family. It’s so difficult being obscure with the truth regarding the recipe, but at the end of the day my loyalties lie firmly with my mother. I’ve squared it with myself by holding fast to the fact that I’m trying to honor her memory by helping Santo’s family without compromising a secret that’s stayed buried for more than thirty years. And that’s felt okay, in the main. I’ve nudged Gio closer and closer to the recipe, but the more time I spend at the gelateria, the more compromised I feel on a personal level.

I hate, hate,hatethe lie about Adam’s death. I wish with all my heart I could rewind the clock and have a rerun at that bookstore encounter—I’d suck those words back in quicksmart. Yes, I might sometimes, privately, inside my own head, tell myself that my ex is dead. It’s an ugly admission to make, even silently, and I judge myself harshly for it. Not because it’s wrong to wish harm on Adam—frankly, that man deserves whatever is coming to him. It’s the detrimental effect on my own mental health that bothers me, that the only way to keep putting one foot in front of the other every day is to lie to myself and others about his demise. How could Gio even begin to understand that? There isn’t a scenario where I can unpick that lie and come out of it with a shred of dignity or self-respect. Gio will hate me when—if—he ever finds out, and justifiably so—from his perspective, at least. Life has dealt him a very different set of cards and he will play his hand accordingly. I remind myself that I’m a decent human trying to do a decent thing, and then shove my head under my pillow and block the world out for a while.

10.

One of the nicest thingsabout living on Chrystie Street is the long, skinny park that stretches the length of it, a shimmering green line separating it from Forsyth Street on the other side. Bobby tells me it hasn’t always been the safest place to hang out, but these days it’s a shady refuge on hot city days and an oasis on any kind of day. Kids come for the playgrounds and basketball courts, green-fingered locals come for the community gardens. I don’t feel much like it, but after my self-pity party yesterday I’ve pulled on my big-girl pants and hauled my ass outside to take a walk. I paint seasonal shade into my backdrop as I go—russets and burnt orange, evergreens and blackcurrant mauves, and the smoky, earthen scents of autumn. I feel…I don’t know. Peaceful? I’m still undecided what to do about Belotti’s, but after my strung-out morning yesterday I’m cutting myself some slack. I’ve got a home, friends, a job. Everything I had before I saw that door, I still have. All of the progress I’ve made since leaving London still shows.

Snatches of music catch my ear, and I follow them toward a busker who’s set up a synthesizer on wobbly legs, a microphone in front of it. She’s young, younger than me, and she’s playing that small keyboard with some serious skill. Irecognize the upbeat opening bars of “Don’t Get Me Wrong” instantly—the Pretenders were a huge influence on my mother’s musical style. Even in her later years she rocked a Chrissie Hynde fringe and heavy eyeliner. Other people linger to listen too, and I find myself sympathizing because the girl has the most beautiful tone but is clearly struggling with a throat infection. It’s cold out here; she nods gratefully when someone throws a few coins in her upturned cap. It reaches deep inside me, reminding me of the way my mum would sell her soul to be out there performing. Music has always been my lifeblood too, so I sit for a while to show my appreciation to this girl for showing up even when she clearly feels like death.

When she plays the melancholy opening bars of “I’ll Stand By You,” all I can hear is my mother; it was one of her favorite songs to perform. I find a note and approach to put it in her hat, bending to tuck it inside the brim so it doesn’t blow away with the autumn leaves. I’m singing with her as I straighten, as much in solidarity as anything, when her voice cracks. I see gratitude in her pale-green eyes and I smile in sympathy, but as I walk away she catches hold of my sleeve and nods toward the microphone. I falter, and although she keeps singing as best she can, it’s clear she’s not going to make it to the end of the track and is desperate enough to ask a stranger for help. Me. Can I? I’m paralyzed in the moment, wanting to help, not feeling able to. She holds my gaze, her fingers still around the sleeve of my jacket. My mother would have done it in a heartbeat. Did she ever come to this park? For all I know, she could even have busked here. I swallow, summon up what vestiges of courage I have, and for thewoman I am now and the woman my mother was then, I step up and help this girl out in her hour of need.

“Okay,” I whisper, pulling my bobble hat off and tucking my hair behind my ears.

She closes her eyes momentarily with sheer relief as she hands me the microphone, and I sense a ripple of anticipation among the people standing around. I’d be the same if I was watching this play out. I’d wonder if this random person was going to be able to hold a note or if it was going to be a bit of well-intended earache.Please let it be the former,I think. Singing in the shower is as good as it gets for me these days, and Smirnoff is an unreliable judge on my skills. Rolling my shoulders, I clear my throat and listen to the music. I know this song like the back of my hand.

“I’ll stand by you…” I sing, picking the song up at the chorus, my eyes trained on the busker, her eyes watching me, a cocktail of hope and fear. She barely looks down as she plays the keys from memory and I hear my voice amplified in the park. Relief dissolves the fear from her eyes and a slow smile creeps across her face as she listens to me sing. An answering joy blooms in my chest as I find myself in the music and lose myself in the aching lyrics.This.Just as it was playing piano in Belotti’s last week, making music is like watering my soul.

There’s applause when the song comes to an end, and I can’t quite believe I’ve just sung in public and that it felt so good.

The busker shrugs, laughing when I look her way. “More?”

---