Brava, Valentine

I text Bret:

Me: LOAN APPROVED!

Bret: Congrats!

Me: Thanks to you.

Bret: Now we find a factory.

Me: In the U.S.?

Bret: Arguing with your brother about China.

Me: I knew he’d be a problem.

Bret: That’s why I’m here. I fight. You make your beautiful shoes.

Me: What would I do without you? I know: I’d be in proper therapy!

Bret: You’re my therapy. Nobody makes me laugh like you.

Me: Or you!

Bret: xo

Me: xo

Tess, Jaclyn, and I sit in the rotunda waiting area of Sloan Kettering Hospital. Dad is here for his checkup, and Mom seemed nervous about coming alone, so we all came to give them our support. You would think, after the diagnosis and months of treatment, that we would be used to the grind that comes with a diagnosis of stage-two prostate cancer, but we’re not. We live in fear, but we don’t talk about it. We put on big smiles, joke and laugh to keep our parents’ spirits up. But all the while we grip the rosaries in our pockets, holding on to the beads, praying for good news every time Dad has to walk through those doors.

We love the word remission, and we throw the word cure around as our deepest wish (because it is). But cancer is now an official member of the Roncalli family. We don’t like it, we didn’t ask for it to be born, but it’s here, and we have to accept all of it: its cranky moods and unpredictable behavior, its sudden retreat when the doctors try a new drug and tell us to go home and wait for the results. In the meantime, we cope with the toll it takes on our father, who goes from normal to exhausted to sick as the doctors try to make him better.

But today, I’m feeling unusually lucky. With the loan approval, maybe we’re on a roll, and things in general will begin to go well for my family. I’m superstitious, though, because I’ve seen momentum go in the other direction, so I keep my optimism to myself.

“Do you think Dad will get a good report?” Jaclyn asks.

“He looks good. You know, physically.”

“Val, he always looks good. The people in our family can be at death’s door and they never look sick. They die in the picture of health. You can’t count on visuals,” Tess says.

“I hope I age like Dad. He’s looked the same since he was forty.”

“It’s the nose,” Jaclyn says. “A nose is important as you get older. It holds everything up. Like a tent pole.” Jaclyn scrolls through her BlackBerry. “Look. Gram sent a picture of Dominic and her. Check it out.”

Gram and Dominic embrace on the deck of a cruise ship. There are foamy white caps on the Black Sea. They are bundled up like sherpas, in down coats, knit caps, dark sunglasses, and thick gloves.

“Are they on their honeymoon, or did they join the Russian mob?”

“It must have been cold over there,” Tess says. “Freezing. Hey, here’s one with Gianluca.” Jaclyn hands it to me.

I look down at the picture. He’s standing by the hood of his car with a peevish expression on his face. Gram and Dominic must have been late to go somewhere. A

“Have you heard from him? I mean, any word since I caught him in the bathroom?”

“Yes, I’ve heard from him.”

My sisters lean in.

“Are you Skyping?” Tess asks, trying not to pry, but desperate to know every detail.

“No. We write letters.”

“With stamps?”

“Yes, Tess. With ink, stamps, envelopes. The old post office routine.”

“Wow. How romantic.” Tess says the word without meaning it. Her idea of romance is cards that play songs when you open them, huge floral arrangements, and a diamond heart suspended on a thick gold chain. A handwritten letter is the poor man’s way to a woman’s heart, and Tess, like my mother, prefers the glitz. “An old-fashioned letter.”

“But why?” Jaclyn, not yet thirty, does not remember life before cell phones and e-mail. “How long does the mail take from Italy? Isn’t it years? Mom sent us a postcard from Italy, and she’d been home three weeks when the card arrived. Why would you bother with all that when you can text him?”

“He’s not a technical guy,” I tell them.

“He’s old.” Jaclyn shrugs, satisfied that she’s cracked the Vechiarelli code.

“Yeah, he’s older…ish, but it’s not that. He really pays attention to the people around him. It matters to him how he spends his time. I don’t know him that well yet, but everything he does, everything he says, has meaning. He thinks things through. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“Do you think it’s serious?”

“Don’t buy your bridesmaid dresses.”

“But Bendel’s is having a sale,” Jaclyn whines. “I got my eye on a Rodarte sample.”

Tess turns to me. “Don’t let her push you. There will always be perfect dresses and weddings to wear them to. You make sure he’s right for you. Take your time. Eventually, you’ll know for sure if Gianluca is The One.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t know if I believe in that anymore.”

“Of course you do! Look at us!” Jaclyn says. “One Charlie! One Tom!”

“Well, it’s worked out well for you guys. I’m different.”

“You always say that, but you’re really not that different from us,” Tess says.

“Believe me, I wish I was exactly like you. You get an idea in your heads, and you see it through. Some people go for the brass ring, and you went for the diamond version. It worked out for you. But I never fall in love with men who do what I want to do. There’s always a conflict.”

“Maybe this is it. Maybe Gianluca will compromise,” Tess reasons.

“When is he coming over to visit?” Jaclyn asks, hoping that gown she likes will still be on sale when Gianluca convinces me to take the next step.

“He’s ru

“So you have one of these Jane Austen romances where there are letters but no actual sex.” Tess sounds disappointed. “No action. Just words.”

“Poetry,” I correct her.

“What does he say in the letters?” Tess asks.

“None of your business.”

I will not make the mistake of showing my sisters the letters from Gianluca. Gabriel’s dissection of Gianluca’s letter left me stone cold. June’s assessment helped because she put her opinion in the context of her extensive life (and love) experience. The last place I’m going to look for validation is my immediate family. I’m long past the days when I have to run everything I’m feeling by my family.

As the last single person in a family of married people, I have become their final frontier, their project. They will not rest until I’m taken. I would prefer they use their energy to help Mom install her dream lily pond on Austin Street instead of meddling in my love life.

Mom pushes through the swinging doors that lead to the interior of the hospital. She is dressed head to toe in yellow. Sunshine gold. Mike Roncalli has brought a splash of color therapy into Manhattan’s palace of healing.

“Oh, girls! All clear!” Mom embraces the three of us and begins to cry. “Every time I set foot in here and we get a decent report, I realize how completely out of my mind with worry I am every single day. Ordinary life can drain you.”

“Yes, it can,” I agree.

“It’s not the big things, you know-it’s the maintenance. But thank God and Saint Teresa, who never fails me, Dutch is all clear for now.”

“I’ll text Alfred,” Jaclyn says.

“Thanks,” Mom says, tightening the belt on her yellow princess coat. Something bothers her still. “You know,” she says, “your dad notices that Alfred never comes on these appointments.”

“He’s back at the shop, Mom,” I tell her. “He’s researching-”

“Don’t make excuses for him. You make the damn shoes, Val, and you find the time to come here and be with your father and me. No, your brother doesn’t get it. And you know what? He never will! He will hold a grudge against your father until the day he dies.”