Page 31 of The Vow

“Who the hell are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where’s my son!?”

I never wanted to convert religions until now. Jumping from the couch, I intercepted the onslaught. My mother stood on the porch carrying two bags full of foil pans and Cool Whip containers. What made the situation worse was that she was dressed in her Sunday best, right down to the fancy hat that she normally only wore to weddings.

“Ma...”

“Who is this, Filippo?”

“Um... this is Alex. Alex, this is my mother.”

Ma dropped the bags and made the sign of the cross. Right then, I knew we were in trouble. “Alex is a girl!? You are living in sin! You can’t live in sin. You’re Catholic!”

“Ma, come inside,” I said, picking up the bags. I nodded at my neighbor who was washing her Toyota and pretending not to listen, but it’s hard not to eavesdrop since Italians speak as if they’re yelling. Even when we’re talking leisurely, we yell. I remember the day my grade-school teacher gave me detention for screaming at her. When my mother found out, she took time off work to confront Mrs. Ashton: “My son respects his elders. It’s just how we talk. But I told him not to answer any more of your questions.” Then she shoved a chalk tablet in my hands and told my teacher that from then on, she should consider me mute.

Ma came in and deliberately left her hat and shoes on. She keeps a pair of her slippers at my house, so I knew it was a bad sign. “Was I bad mother? Am I a bad person? What did I do to deserve this!?”

“There you go being melodramatic again. Calm down. Do you want an espresso?”

“What I want,” she said, emptying the bags I left on the kitchen island, “is for you to tell me what’s going on here.” There were a million questions in Alex’s eyes, but like Nick had done at the bar, I made the slashing motion across my neck to silence her. We watched as my mother angrily produced tray after tray of food from her bags. “You might want to freeze this one,” she mumbled. “It’s manicotti.”

“Um... can I help, Mrs. Conti?”

“Help with what? Why you call yourself Alex?”

“My friends call me Alex. My full name is Alexandra.”

“Alessandra is a beautiful name!”

“Thank you... “

“But I still don’t like you.”

“Ma...”

“You shut your mouth... melodramatic. I’ll give you melodramatic!” And then my mother went on an Italian tirade, swearing, and asking God to forgive me. “This one is leftover meatballs,” ma said, exposing what was inside the Cool Whip container. “I’ll put this one in the fridge. They turned out a little hard, so if you don’t like them, throw them away. Does Nick know about this?”

“He helped us move Alex in, ma.”

“He helped you move!? I’m calling his mother.”

Ma is up there in age and has limited mobility. On bad days, she even uses a walker. Propelled by anger, she gathered superhuman strength and marched towards the telephone. “Stop,” I said, guiding her by the elbow back to the kitchen. “It’s not Nick’s fault.”

“Just wait until I see him again! Oh, I forgot to write instructions on this. Defrost it at room temperature and then bake uncovered for thirty minutes. It’s pre-cooked lasagna.”

Despite the rising tension, I smiled. The last time she cooked this much was for her friend Claudio’s retirement party.

“Mrs. Conti, may I say something?” Alex, I quickly realized, is braver than a lot of guys at the gym.

“What do you have to say? Hmm?”

“I owe a lot to Pip. He’s helped me a lot. My own parents don’t really speak to me, and...”

Alex hit ma’s soft spot, because there’s nothing more sacred to Italians than family.

“Your parents don’t speak to you!? Why? What did you do?”