The Difference Read online

  As we lay in bed to go to sleep tonight, Brian leans over to kiss me on the cheek. I turn my head and catch his lips. He smiles, closes his eyes, and hits the pillow.

  I see him holding his smile, which spreads to me grinning.

  I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift. It must be the magic of pasta Sunday that sent me, and us, on this new course. I know there’s a long way to go, but after crying spells in my office this week, a new low, the only way I can go is up. Please, God.

  It dawns on me that this little project may be something to help me with my black hole of emptiness. How could finding out more about my grandpa be anything but fun?

  Chapter 8

  “Hey, Mom.” I drop onto the couch and press the speakerphone button.

  “Hi, honey. You are calling on a Monday night. What’s wrong?”

  Brian smiles and starts washing the dishes from dinner.

  “Nothing. I’m doing okay, I guess. I was just wondering if we could come visit soon.”

  “You don’t sound good. Is everything really okay?”

  “Yes and no. It’s been a while since we’ve been out there, and I want to talk to you both about our family’s history. I’ve started researching Grandpa but keep hitting a brick wall. I want to know more about him and Great-Uncle Vince, and their dad. The Granza family in general.” Messing around on the site all day long between clients didn’t get me one step further than yesterday. How is it this hard?

  “Oh. You would leave the city for a little while? I may be speechless.”

  “Mo-om!” I roll my eyes, which is basically my autopilot move nowadays when I speak to her.

  “Your dad and I would be happy to share what we can about Grandpa. That sounds like a nice idea, honey.”

  Mom doesn’t sound nearly as thrilled with this as I feel she should be. In fact, she sounds outright bored with the idea.

  “Helloooo? Mom, this is an awesome idea. I’m glad you want to help, but why aren’t you excited?”

  “Oh, I am, Rachel.” It’s never good when she says my name. It usually means my whiny teenage voice has crept out and aggravated her. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. Grandpa kept his past private for a reason. I don’t want you to dig up anything that he wanted to keep buried.”

  Who would discourage their child from researching their family history? Something is strange here.

  “Do you know something?”

  “No. But if I did, it wouldn’t be my place to share it.”

  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, gritting my teeth. “Um, okay. I’m interested in Grandpa’s life. He was my world and I think finding out about his past could help me with my future.”

  “I know, I know. Well, just come out this Sunday and we’ll go from there. I’ll ask Dylan to come over for dinner. Maybe we can have cavatelli, bread from Mario’s, and your favorite dessert.”

  “Cannoli?” My mouth waters and I lick my lips. The rest of the rigamarole left my brain for a second.

  “Of course. Okay, well, see you then. Remember to email me with the time your train comes in and I will ask Daddy to go and pick you guys up.”

  “Okay, I will see if I can switch my clients around on Monday so we can stay the night. I’d rather do that than come home so late.”

  “Whatever you would like.”

  “Love you. Thanks, Mom.”

  “Sure. Love you too.”

  I hit end on the screen and wonder why she isn’t as enthusiastic as I am. What a weird conversation with her. Maybe she doesn’t quite realize how much I need this little project. And I do need this. Not just want this.

  I’ll have to try to force myself to relax tonight so I can forget about her reaction. I could go back to my research but would just end up at the same impasse, finding all the Granzas who aren’t part of my family. That’s a waste of time. I’ll get the information I need this weekend and will know more about Grandpa then. A week more won’t kill me.

  Brian walks over and sits down next to me. “You don’t seem very happy that they’re willing to talk about your family.”

  “I am, but you heard Mom. She clearly isn’t interested and is just placating me.” I pull Brian’s arm around me.

  “I’ll go with you…if I’m invited.”

  “Of course you are invited. But I will be trying to stay into Monday. Can you miss work?”

  “Maybe I can go in late. I can figure it out. I can’t miss Sunday dinner at the Granzas.”

  “Sounds good to me. Thanks.” I smile as he grabs the remote off the cushion.

  “What should we watch tonight? Something Titanic related again?” He smiles.

  I shake my head. “You can pick.”

  I slide my blanket over me and try to concentrate on anything but my mom.

  Chapter 9

  Sunday morning finally arrives. How am I this elated to leave the city and go to Philly? People try to come to the city. Changes are happening all around. But will they remain?

  “We’re on our way, Rach.” Brian taps my lap and exaggerates a smile.

  “Yes, finally! This week dragged on and on. Ugh.” I need this train to get to Philly fast. Like, in warp speed. That isn’t asking too much, to expand the limits of space and time.

  I slouch into my broken-down seat and try to get comfortable for the hour and a half ride. Brian’s eyes are closed, his usual move. How can he sleep anywhere? It must be nice to be that relaxed.

  Looking around the train car, I see that everyone seems peaceful though. Some people are already listening to music through their earbuds, reading newspapers and books, and busting into their snacks. Meanwhile, I can’t stop shaking my leg. The energy has to escape somewhere, I guess.

  I pull my legs up on my seat to sit cross legged and force myself to focus on my ‘90s pop playlist. Prince will help me out today. I discreetly mouth the words to “Diamonds and Pearls.” Good thing I’m sitting by the window because Brian obstructs passengers from seeing me. But this doesn’t last long anyway.

  My mind drifts to the food I hope that will be at my parents’ house. Since they have frequented their local Italian deli since I was a baby, I know exactly how the pepperoni and provolone will taste on their butter crackers; like perfection. I could taste them in my imagination.

  Grandpa used to bring me a plate filled with stacks of the combination, just for us to share. His slippers dragged on the floor as he called out for me and pretended to hide the plate from the others. I can still hear the sliding sound and feel the childish laughter.

  How I wish he would be there today when we arrive. I’d watch him, Grandma, and my dad eat the hot peppers, Grandpa’s name for jalapeños, while they sniffled and had watery eyes. Mom and I always laughed at the absurdity of their actions because who wants a burning mouth? I guess I do now that I partake as well.

  Dad or my grandparents always said something to the effect of “That’s a good pepper,” with flammable mouths mumbling barely audible sounds. Next, they’d take turns blowing their noses. Then another person would chime in with, “Yeah, but could be hotter.” And this was all said in seriousness.

  I laugh and notice Brian looking at me from my peripheral vision.

  “All okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” I look past him to see if I was loud enough that other people also noticed. Thank God, it doesn’t seem so.

  “I was just resting my eyes.”

  I grab his arm and squeeze. “Rest your eyes some more.” That’s his code phrase for sleeping that he doesn’t know I’ve decoded.

  After a few minutes the train comes to a stop at a station. As I click play to resume my music and glance outside until we move again, my body freezes. I don’t hear any music playing. I only see the slender man with straight brown hair and dark skin who looks just like Dylan from the back. My brot
her can’t be here. Turn around, Mister, turn around! No!

  I get as close to the glass as possible without touching the dirty thing and try to will the man to turn around. I know I haven’t seen Dylan in a long time, but I would still recognize my own flesh and blood, right? Even if I wish I could erase him from my mind. I know that’s harsh, but it’s true.

  Ooh, that would be just like him to show up on my train unannounced. He loves to hassle me. Ever since we were kids, he’s had it out for me. I shake my head to try to stop the memories.

  The man outside my window finally turns around and peace is restored in my body. I feel my heart rate slowing back to normal and I can breathe deeply again. But I haven’t thought about my mom’s mention of inviting Dylan to dinner today until now. Damn it! How did I gloss over that from our call? Old habits die hard, and blocking him out is one of them. I have too many other things on my mind to clutter it with someone who dislikes me.

  Talk about a mood changer. Think about something else, anything else. Okay, how about the information I’ll get from Dad. He must know everything I need to enter in my searches. I bite my lip. Will I have all the answers I desire? Will I have none? Stop with the black or white thinking, Rachel! Gray thoughts, gray thoughts, gray, gray, gray. Think of possibilities.

  My attention goes back to my music. Come on, George Michael. Come to my rescue and distract me.

  I thought this week was slow, but this ride may have it beat. Please step on it, Conductor.

  We step out of 30th Street Station and see my dad waiting near his car, a big grin on his face. I love seeing that smile. It’s always makes me feel safe.

  “Hello, strangers.” Dad opens his arms and wraps me in a giant bear hug. His familiar cologne graces my nostrils with nostalgia. He turns toward Brian and repeats the action. Italian and Italian American men don’t seem to care about restrictive American social norms for showing affection to other men.

  American Brian, on the other hand, looks like he’s in excruciating emotional and physical pain with this interaction. His stiff reciprocated hugs to my dad provide a hilarious comical viewing experience. Even though he has been subjected to the Granzas’ affection for a long time, he’s clearly still not used to it.

  “You two ready to go?” Dad opens the trunk.

  We drop our bags inside and climb into the car.

  The short drive to my parents’ house is racked with unpleasant memories. I always dislike being in my old neighborhood. It’s where all the self-doubt, feeling different than everyone else, and daily overwhelming desire of bursting into tears started, long ago. Not much has changed over the years—for me or the neighborhood.

  The split-level houses look the same as they did a decade ago, most with dingy, old red brick or deteriorating siding. At least the spring flowers add a pop of color that is otherwise lacking.

  As we turn the corner and my childhood home comes into view, my anxiety skyrockets and I start counting backwards from ten to gain calmness. Ten, nine—argh! Oh, stop, it Rachel. Don’t live in the memories of the past. Eight, seven—well, at least when they are negative—six, five…

  I reach number one as we get to our driveway. Nothing looks new on the outside of my old home. I’d wage a bet that few changes have occurred inside as well. My parents pride themselves on their lack of remodeling unless absolutely necessary. Must be a neighborhood pact.

  I open the door from the garage and step inside the familiar house, the smell of my mom’s cooking smacking me in the face. That can ease anyone’s anxiety and to this Italian girl, there is nothing better than the smell of garlic. I recognize the old Italian tunes floating through the house with the scent. The mandolins, accordions, and smooth voices fill the air.

  “Well, if it isn’t the big city people,” Mom quips as she pulls me in for a hug. Just like that, she has the ability to make me feel irritated and loved all at the same time. Are all mother-daughter relationships like this or is it just us?

  In the small kitchen, she stands at the stove, her simmering pasta sauce behind her. “Water, tea, soda…what you want?” Mom asks in her faux, though accurate, Italian American accent. She says that being married to my dad for over thirty-five years gives her that privilege. And she lives in Philly, which is populated with many Italians. I guess the dialect was easy to pick up with those factors in play.

  I take a slice of pepperoni from the platter on the table. Even though there are countless Italian delis and bakeries in the city, the food is never the same as it is at home. It’s the taste of home.

  She wipes her hands on her full-length red apron. “You know what they say. You can take the girl out of Philly, but you can’t take Philly out of the girl. I’m glad you’re eating.”

  Upon entering the Granza house, one has no choice but to saddle up and eat… All. Day. Long. For as long as I can remember, there’s been a huge sign in the kitchen that says “Mangia” in the same bright green, white, and red colors as the Italian flag. The word should be on the country’s flag for how much we value it. Eating is an experience and not just a basic need.

  “I’ll leave you two to chat in the kitchen with Mom.” Dad grabs a handful of appetizers before he escapes to the living room.

  Brian gives me a deer-in-headlights look as he chooses to follow my dad. He’s told me several times that he’s always torn between wanting to bond with him and being too scared by the thought. Maybe he’s afraid he’ll be crushed in another hug.

  When the TV goes on, the music stops. Sportscasters’ voices replace the crooners from the 1940s and ‘50s.

  Not even a minute later my dad yells to my mom. “Hun, can you bring me the snacks?” This is one dynamic that has always bothered me about my parents—their 1950s roles. Music from the ‘50s, good. This, bad. My mom goes right along and serves my dad, and he enjoys every second of it. I think he expects it too. They never realized this wasn’t a good example to set for me when I was a child.

  I bite my tongue and keep my thoughts to myself though. Whenever I made sarcastic remarks about this behavior as a kid, I always got the same response, so I gave up a long time ago and internalize my frustration instead. I know it’s not the kind of relationship I want—nor the one Brian and I have.

  I peek in the living room to check on Brian and Dad. At least Brian looks comfortable. When there is something to take over his stress of thinking up topics of conversation with Dad, like the TV that’s saving him right now, he does well. He sits on the opposite end of the couch from my dad, with closed body language and staring at the TV. His legs are flat on the ground and his hands are folded in his lap as if he is praying. Maybe he is.

  Dad spreads out, moves his body position to having one leg on the old rectangular dark wooden coffee table and one on the ottoman, remote in hand, with a smile on his face. Does he realize how Brian feels? I bet not a chance. He never has a smile when someone else is uncomfortable. That is not like my dad at all. He wants everyone to feel at home.

  I drop into a kitchen chair at my grandparents’ old white and red Formica table my parents inherited and take a few deep breaths, exhaling slowly through pursed lips, to gain composure before I jump into my starter question.

  “So, Mom, when do you think we can all talk about the details I need about Grandpa’s life?”

  “There’s plenty of time for that later.”

  “Why can’t we talk right now? Nobody is doing anything important,” I nudge.

  “I am just about to start the soup for dinner. Want to chop some veggies for me?”

  Not really, but if it helps move things along, why not? I’ve already waited this long, what’s another hour or two?

  Before I can take a step, I’m blindsided. “Hey, little sis.” Dylan picks me up, throws me over his shoulder, and runs a few laps around the kitchen table, knocking chairs astray.

  “Stop! Stop! I’m gonna barf.” I pray all the
good food I’ve been eating doesn’t pay me a repeat visit I’d never forget.

  “What is your problem? You are no fun.” He drops me onto the floor and stomps away, pushing chairs out of his path and leaving as quick as he came.

  “Hey, Mom.” I groan. “Why must he always make such an entrance? It’s just so embarrassing.”

  “It’s the way he shows his love for his little sister. You should go and talk to him while I get the last things ready for dinner.”

  “What would Dylan and I ever have to talk about?”

  “Well, he is a history teacher. Maybe he can help you find some of the info you’re looking for?”

  “I never thought about that. I can’t believe the state allows him to teach kids.” I look down and mumble. “Maybe he doesn’t act like a stunad there.”

  “Don’t call your brother an idiot.”

  Oops, she heard me.

  “Now, go, go. I’ll handle the chopping.” She waves me along as she straightens the chairs.

  Entering the family room, I notice that Brian looks positively bored out of his mind by now. His eyes are glazed over and he’s leaning on the arm of the couch with his head on the palm of his hand. He only cares about when the Phillies play, so that must be why.

  Dad is catching Dylan up on what happened in the game before he arrived.

  To ease Brian’s discomfort and provide a little moral support, I sit on his lap. Listening to the details of baseball, which I don’t care about, is fun for all of three seconds.

  “So, Dylan…um…how’s your class?” Dylan teaches eleventh grade and I never have any idea what to talk about with him so I’m thankful for the suggestion from my mom.

  “It’s cool. Getting to the end of the year. Same old.” He keeps his eyes on the TV.

  “Okay, good. Well, let me ask you something, since your specialty is history.”

  He looks my way. “Huh?”