Vivien
…
MULBERRY STREET, MAY 1989
VIVIEN ADJUSTED THE SUNSHADE ON the thrift-store stroller to shield her baby daughter from the late Sunday afternoon sun.
“I’m nervous, Iris,” she whispered, safe in the knowledge that her nearly two-year-old child didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about. “What if he isn’t here anymore?”
But, in her heart, she knew Santo would be here. He’d said he’d be there forever. They hadn’t spoken a word since the day she’d walked out of the gelateria four years ago, her head too full of starry-eyed ambition to realize that she was walking away from her best chance at forever happiness. She knew it now, though, and she could only hope she wasn’t too late. Life on the road hadn’t quite panned out the way she’d expected: too many late nights and smoky backstreet clubs, the occasional brush with stardom that could so easily have sent them stratospheric yet somehow didn’t. Getting pregnant with Charlie Raven’s child didn’t feature anywhere in Viv’s life plan, yet there wasn’t a single moment when she regretted bringing her child into the world.
“My baby” quickly became her favorite words in the English language, closely followed by “my daughter.” Being a mother turned out to be more important than being a singer in a band, eclipsing everything and everyone, even when she found herself alone in L.A. trying to scrape together enough money to buy baby milk. As usual, her voice saved her—the cute busker with an even cuter baby strapped to her front was hard to pass by without dropping a few coins in her upturned hat.
“He might not even recognize me,” she whispered to Iris, who laughed, delighted as she waved her beloved plastic giraffe in the air. Viv couldn’t help but grin back; her daughter’s joy was infectious.
“I hope your life is always this simple,” she said, swallowing hard as Belotti’s familiar green-and-white awnings loomed up ahead. “What am I even going to say?” she muttered, tucking herself into a doorway a few stores down to catch her breath. “Hi there, Santo, remember me, the girl who you gave your secret family recipe to? Anyway, I brought it back—I said you could trust me. I know it’s been a few years but I’ve been kind of wondering if you still love me because I’m ready now? He might tell me to piss off. I would. I totally would, especially turning up with a kid in tow.” She glanced down at Iris and immediately felt regretful. “Sorry, baby, it’s not your fault.”
She leaned down and brushed her hand over Iris’s wild dark curls, so very like her own, and as she straightened a young woman stepped out of the gelateria pushing a baby around the same age as Iris in a stroller, a small dark-haired boy in shorts and a Spider-Man T-shirt skipping a few steps ahead. The woman called out to the boy to wait up then turned back toward Belotti’s, and a joltingly familiar guy stepped out and joined them. Viv froze as she watched the idyllic scene unfold, a slick of panic sliding over her bones as she saw Santo bend to pull silly faces at the laughing child in the stroller. Jamming her cap down hurriedly over her face, she unzipped the baby bag hanging on the back of the stroller and rummaged inside it for something to do rather than look up, distracting herself enough to miss the fact that Iris had dropped her giraffe on the floor until she yelled.
“Shushhh,” Viv said, urgent and fast, but before she could reach it the small boy in the Spider-Man T-shirt dashed over and picked it up. Viv scanned his serious little face and instinctively smiled, and he blinked as he held the giraffe out to Iris.
Iris beamed, thrilled to have her favorite thing back, and for a second the two children studied each other curiously.
“Gio, come on,” the woman called, and the boy gave Iris a shy smile before turning on his heel and running back to his family. Viv kept her head down, surreptitiously watching the small family turn and walk away from the gelateria in the other direction. Once she was sure Santo hadn’t spotted her, she raised her head, tortured as he slung his arm around the woman’s shoulders and hoisted the small boy on his hip.
“They look really happy, don’t they?” she whispered, half to Iris, more to herself. She’d imagined herself coming back here many times over the years, and now she’d finally plucked up the courage only to find she’d left it too late. She bore Santo no ill will. They hadn’t made each other promises to wait, and she could hardly think badly of him when she’d had Iris.
Acute loneliness settled over her as Santo and his family disappeared out of sight. She’d always held on to the idea of him as her security blanket; letting him fall from her shoulders left her shivering now, even on the warm New York afternoon. Glancing down, she saw that Iris had fallen asleep, her giraffe clutched tight in her chubby hands.
“Just you and me against the world, baby,” she whispered. She’d never experienced so much as a single second of regret over becoming a mother; when it came to the choice between baby or band, there was no decision to make. She’d struggled through a difficult, sickly pregnancy in a bedsit in L.A., some days eating only Santo’s gelato, which she made from memory now. But the moment her small, red-faced daughter was laid on her chest would always stand out as the most significant of her life. She would never be alone again, because she was a mother.
Sighing heavily, Viv took one long last look at Belotti’s green-and-white awnings, and then she let that particular happy-ever-after dream float away like a balloon released on the warm breeze. She’d tried. She’d come to the United States on a wing and a prayer, and she really had given it her all, but she didn’t belong here. It was time to go.
32.
WHEN I WAS A LITTLE girl my mother and I spent our Christmases in various provincial towns and cities up and down the country. She’d made quite a name for herself on the pantomime circuit, always in demand because she looked the part and her Joni Mitchell-ish voice helped carry the less vocally gifted stars of the show, usually soap actors and comedians. She never made the posters or the big bucks, but it gave us a secure income and a place to hang our hats for a few weeks over the holidays. The cast became my temporary family. I was the child helping out backstage or studying at my table and chair in the corner, they’d blow me kisses as they dashed past for a whirlwind costume change and the ensemble would mill around swapping gossip and heel plasters. They answered my math problems and told me stories that were wildly inappropriate for my young ears, but those frenetic weeks were always my favorite time of year. Christmas Day was the only day the theater closed, a precious few hours together in whichever digs we’d been given. My mother didn’t subscribe to the turkey tradition on account of the fact she was a terrible cook, but it was festive on our own terms. We’d have fairy lights and golden fir cones, tins of sweets and gelato, and we’d crash on the sofa or the hotel bed and watch Christmas TV. It wasn’t grand scale or full of annual traditions, but it was ours and we loved it.
I woke this morning and thought about those Christmases, made myself a coffee and touched the fir cones around the mirror as I passed them.
Today is going to be my first experience of a big, traditional family Christmas. I’m nervous, even though I know everyone will go the extra mile to make me feel welcome and included. I’m relieved to have met Santo in advance, at least, so there shouldn’t be any surprises there. I’ve made truffles and bought small gifts for everyone to say thank you, wrapped them prettily and put them beneath my tree ready for today. My outfit is hanging on my wardrobe door, a green dress threaded with silver that catches the light, high heels and a vintage holly hair clip I spotted in a thrift-store window and fell in love with, my mother’s magpie genes coming out. My cab is booked for midday. I’m organized, on the outside, at least. On the inside, though, I’m a jumble of emotions. I let them run riot through me as I shower and dry my hair, acknowledge all of my fears as I apply a thankfully perfect cat’s-eye flick. I feel all of those worries and nerves now, in the hope that if I let them have my morning, they might let me have one afternoon of peace and joy. I allow the devil on my shoulder to whisper that I’m a terrible, selfish person, and the snake in my gut to coil around my fragile happiness and attempt to squeeze the life out of it. Adam Bronson manifests in my living room and orders me to spend the day here with him instead, sneers and asks me who I think I am pretending I belong somewhere. And then I smooth out the poster of my mother with her pregnancy test in her pocket and look at it until the devil on my shoulder pops like a soap bubble, until the snake realizes he’s not feasting today, until Adam Bronson eats glass instead of roast turkey. Enough, all of you. I put on my dress and slide the clip into my hair, let my high heels and fake fur coat lend me confidence, and by the time the cab horn sounds on the street outside, I’m ready.