Zia nods her head, like she heard and then smiles. “Obviously. Why else do you think I’m speaking in my mother tongue?”
Oh,shit! Shots fired!
“Come here, zia, come sit next to me. What can I get you to drink, I’ve got this guy, and he’s really taking care of me,” I say, patting the chair next to me. She moves over, settling her ass on the chair and looks at me with a mixture of worry and confusion.
“Dov'è tuo papà?”
I lean closer because my brain can’t think right now. “As if Dad would show up. Are you crazy? You want Malcolm dead? Ha, that’d be a sight to see,” I say, grinning.
Zia says nothing, and the light tone of the violins is getting on my nerves.
“Piccolina, what are you doing?” She runs a hand through my loose hair, and I’m suddenly five years old again and she’s braiding it for me. I sniff hard, and move back in my chair, putting space between us. “Why are you hurting so much, mia bambina? You knew this was coming.”
I nod, taking another gulp of my drink – it numbs me nicely.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m here, aren’t I?”
Zia nods. “You are, but you aren’t all here. Come, tell me what’s wrong. I can make it better.”
I shake my head. “There’s no making anything better. She’s going to marry that sack of shit, and I’m going to have to put up with him for the rest of my life. Unless I move away, but then Dad will be all alone, and I can’t do that to him. So I’m basically stuck here for all of time, wanting to vomit every single time I see the two together.” I shrug like it’s not a big deal.
“All this anger you’re holding onto is not healthy, ‘lina,” she says, and I wait while she orders a drink and gives the waiter a wink. My zia never got married, she played the field and she’s still playing the field. “Your mother has her faults but so does your father. You’re being blind to the full story.”
“Don’t. I’m not drunk enough for you to talk bad about my dad. He loved her, the idiot, and look where that got him. Utterly fucked. And now, these two are getting married? That didn’t work for her the first time, what the hell does she think is going to happen the second time around? She’s so stupid,” I say into my glass, knocking back another swallow. I don’t even know how many it’s been.
Do I even care?
“That’s my sister you’re talking about. Niece or not, I’m going to have to kick your ass.”
I choke on my drink, and find it hard to concentrate. We might have an ‘are you talking to me?’ argument in two seconds, and for some reason I find that hilarious.
Yes! Drunkenness achieved!
I giggle, snort, and clap my hands over my mouth while looking at my aunt with blurry eyes.
“Yeah, right. You can’t take me. I’m invincible!” I screech, raising my arms in the air knocking cutlery to the ground in an aching chime that grates on my nerves. Even that’s freaking hilarious.
Malcolm’s all up in my grill, he’s ugly face twisted into something like fury. I like this me, hiding behind maybe four or five drinks. I like this me a lot. I don’t care – here, I’m safe.
So I grin at him, wave hello just like Mom wanted me to.
“You’re embarrassing me and your mother,” he growls, breath reeking of scotch straight up. “Stop acting like a fool.”
I look at my Mom whose face is completely twisted into disappointment. I’m her fucking kid, and she’s looking at me like that? Like I don’t belong to her anymore?
Well, I thought I couldn’t hurt anymore, so bottom’s up. Shit, I have no new glass in front of me. Where the fucking fuck is the waiter?
“Well, you know what, Mal? You embarrass me. You too, Mom. What the hell are you doing with this asshole?”
Why weren’t we good enough? What was so wrong with Dad and me that you couldn’t take being with us anymore?
“You know what? I’ve been here long enough, and I’ve seen all I care to see. Have a nice fucking wedding. Mom, I hope you trip down the aisle – I’m only sorry I won’t be there to see it. Arriverderci, motherfuckers!”
I peace out, wobbling on my feet. I still have the wherewithal to call a cab, and wait only a few minutes outside to get in and give directions.
When I get to my destination, I hobble up the stairs after paying the cabbie, and as luck would have it (I have my luck back!), some jerk is holding the door open for me and I smile with what I hope is gratitude.
I get up to the fourth floor and frown down at my hands with my keys. I don’t recognize this door. Oh, man, where the hell am I? I blink stupidly at the door number, staring hard at it.