The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z. (21 page)

“Well, no . . .” Zig looks down at the cookie plate. “I just provided some electrical consulting. Can I have one of these?” He pulls up a chair as the doorbell rings.

“I got it!” Dad yells from the living room.

“Help yourself. I’m writing down Nonna’s recipes.” Mom reaches for another index card.

“So I don’t forget them,” Nonna adds.

“You’d never forget the recipe for the wedding cookies!” I say. And then I remember. She probably will. And my eyes well up again.

“Bella faccia.”
Nonna lifts a wrinkled hand to my chin and tips it up. “Beautiful face,” she calls me. Even with my red nose and puffy, watery eyes.

She moves her hand up to my cheek and brushes away my tears. “I may not always be here,
bella,
but here I am now. And here you are.” She turns to Mom, who is scribbling recipes like her life depends on it. “And here’s my Angela. We’re all here, right now, and right now is the best we can do.”

There’s a knock at the kitchen door.

It’s Ruby, holding her bike helmet and a big blue binder. She steps inside. “I wanted to show you something.” She slides the binder onto the table and flips open the cover. Inside is the picture of her with her grandmother at fifth-grade graduation. The picture Dad used to dress her for the funeral. The picture Ruby loved so much.

I turn the pages carefully and watch Mrs. Kinsella’s life flip by, in color photographs and black and white, in letters and movie tickets and pressed flowers. It’s a scrapbook. No, a memory book. And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Ruby’s smiling. “I finished it this afternoon, now that the leaf collection’s out of the way. I wanted to show you because you helped me say good-bye.” She turns a page in the binder, to a picture of her grandmother standing by the shore of a lake in one of those bathing suits with the skirts. It’s hot pink. She’s laughing, like whoever is taking the picture just said something hilarious. Ruby taps the picture. “This is what I want to remember.”

Ian zips into the room, sliding on his socks on the wood floor like a baseball player trying to get to second base. He’s safe. And he’s holding something behind his back. When we start to look at Ruby’s memory book, he whips out Dad’s camera—Dad’s expensive camera—and snaps a picture. He’s somehow managed to find a setting that causes it to make loud shutter noises when he takes a photo, even though it’s digital.

Ka-chick.
Ruby leaning on the table.

Ka-chick.
Mom reaching for another cookie.

Ka-chick.
A close-up of Ruby’s red high-tops.

Ka-chick.
Nonna sipping her tea.

Ka-chick.
Zig and I looking at the memory book, standing so close our shoulders are touching.
Ka-chick! Ka-chick! Ka-chick!

“Ian Thomas Zales!” The full-name treatment from Mom. Ian better run. “What on earth possessed you to take your father’s digital camera and—”

“Wait!” I grab Ian’s arm just as he’s about to take off and disappear into a paparazzi getaway car. “Let me see that camera a minute.”

I hit the review button and start thumbing through the digital images stored inside. Ian must have heisted this camera off Dad’s desk days ago. There are more than a hundred pictures, some of them pretty good ones.

There’s a whole bunch of Nonna baking. There are close-ups of her hands measuring flour. Her oven mitt, easing a tray of cookies onto the rack to cool. Her face, as she leans down to breathe in the cookies cooling on the paper bag.

There are medium shots where you see all of Nonna in her flowered dress and knee-high nylons sagging around her ankles.

And there are long shots—Nonna in her kitchen, where she’s the queen of food and love.

Ian is a genius.

“You’ve got to let him keep using this.” I pass the camera over to Mom before she can object, and I watch her eyes water as she scans through the pictures of Nonna. “We can make a memory book for Nonna—so she’ll have it later, when she can’t remember things by herself.” I’m getting excited now. “We can have pictures of everyone with their names, and family stories . . .”

“And Nonna-isms,” Zig says. “All her quotes and words of wisdom and . . . uh . . . predictions.”

“And recipes,” Mom adds.

“You should have older pictures, too.” Ruby shows us one of her grandmother as a little girl.

“And pressed flowers,” I add.

“No. Leaves.” Nonna pats me on the hand. “I like leaves better.”

“I have a bunch of old pictures next to the bookshelf.” Mom heads into the living room.

“I’ve got that binder upstairs from my leaf collection—I mean
Mom’s
leaf collection.”

“I can help with the cutting and arranging pages,” Ruby offers. The pages in her grandmother’s book are bright and just feel good, like a story with a happy ending.

Deep inside, I know this story won’t have one, but right now, I just want to feel better for a little while. And someday, when Nonna can’t remember my name anymore—maybe one year from now, maybe five—I want to remember her voice, and her stories, and her cookies, and days like today.

Maybe it will help.

I run upstairs to get the one red maple leaf I have left from my project, but I stop halfway down.

Ruby’s flipping through her grandmother’s memory book, showing Nonna pictures. They’re smiling. Mom and Zig are flipping through old pictures. They’re laughing at the one of me in the tub when I was three. Dad is in the kitchen, sneaking cookies while Mom is busy. And Ian just caught him on camera. With his new status as family memory keeper, Ian is on a mission.

Ka-chick.
Dad’s guilty cookie face.

Ka-chick.
Ruby’s smile.

Ka-chick.
Mom’s hand on Nonna’s arm.

He’s snapping photographs like every second counts, like every moment matters.

And it does.

As we sort through pictures so old their corners are yellow and soft and pictures so new Ian’s smile shows missing teeth that still haven’t grown back, the sun slips lower into the neighbor’s oak tree. I’ve pretty much given up the idea of a run tonight, even though I was itching to go.

I feel like I should stay to trim the corners and press leaves and be the glue-stick person so Ian doesn’t get goop all over the table.

But Nonna catches me looking out the window.

“Go,” she says. She nods at the orange glow painting the curtains. “You’re going to miss the prettiest light of the day if you don’t get moving.”

“And you have sectionals to get ready for now,” Zig says. “I’ll hang out here until you get back.”

“No, I’ll stay. I don’t want to miss everybody.”

“I’ll be here.” Zig grins. “At least as long as the cookies hold out.”

“I’ll be here, too,” Nonna says, and gives me a shove out of my chair. “Go. It’s good for you.”

Somehow, Nonna always knows.

“Tie your shoes,” Mom says.

“I was going to.”

“I know.” She watches me tie them. “Sometimes I like to tell you anyway, okay?”

“Okay.” I make double knots, bound down the steps, and open the door. A bunch of oak leaves scuttle in onto the welcome mat, as if they’d rung the doorbell and waited forever for somebody to show up. I step out and pull the door shut behind me before more blow in. I push against it to stretch my calves and start at a jog down Washington Street. It’s empty except for maple leaves from our front yard scratching across the street to crowd up against Mrs. Warren’s fence.

Mr. Webster’s catalpa tree is mostly bare. Its dry, elephant-ear leaves are flying everywhere. I love it when I step right on one and my foot lands with a big crunch instead of just a little thud, so I try to step on as many as I can without breaking my stride, but it’s hard and I’m weaving all over the place, and finally I see Mr. Webster looking out his office window, laughing, so I stop and run straight again. Focus.

The sun’s still out, but it’s sinking closer to a bank of dark clouds over the lake—the TV weather guy with the huge smile said there’s a storm coming overnight. Rain, maybe sleet. Even through the sunshine, great gusts of wind are picking up by the minute, whipping leaves off their branches, whirling them into a last dance before the snow.

I love it when they fall on me. Especially the little ones. It’s like running through confetti.

The honey locust in Mr. Nelson and Mr. Collins’s yard showers down tiny leaves that look like teardrops. I hold out my hand and try to catch them while I run through.

“Still working on that leaf project, Gianna?” Mr. Collins is trimming a bright red shrub in their garden. Mr. Nelson holds open the trash bag for him.

“No! I finally finished this afternoon.”

“Did you include our Kentucky coffee tree?” Mr. Nelson asks.

“Honey locust.” Mr. Collins tosses another branch into the trash bag.

“It is no such thing,” Mr. Nelson says, “and I certainly hope she didn’t label it as one in her project. She’ll flunk.”

“
You’d
flunk. It’s a honey locust.” Mr. Collins tosses another branch, but he misses the bag because Mr. Nelson has pulled it away and closed it.

“I know a Kentucky coffee tree when I see one, James.”

“Actually, he’s right,” I say. “Zig and I checked our leaf guide. It’s a honey locust.” Mr. Nelson drops his yard bag like I just slapped him. “Sorry. Kentucky coffee trees are bigger and usually have seed pods, too.”

“Told you.” Mr. Collins shakes his branch.

“Hmph.”
Mr. Nelson opens the yard bag again, and they get back to work.

“Thanks for the leaves anyway.” I pick up my pace and pass Mr. Randolph’s house. His miserable black walnut tree looks even more poisonous than usual. I hope they’re happy together.

By the time I hit Drummond Street, I don’t even feel the bite of the wind anymore. Just the pounding of my feet and my heart and the leaves dancing around me. I reach out to see how many I can catch as they fly past.

Maple. Catalpa. Birch. Oak.

I turn the corner for home as the sun drops into the clouds. Our five pumpkins wait for me on the porch, and Zig’s bike in the yard makes me smile.

I put on a last burst of speed, but with my hands full of leaves, it’s hard to keep my stride, and the wind’s blowing harder. It wants its leaves back.

I slow down and hold them in front of me like a bouquet.

Maple. Catalpa. Birch. Oak.

Scarlet-orange. Dark green-gold. Ripe banana yellow. And rich, warm brown.

I hold them to my face, breathe in, and let them go.

They dance off into the end of October.

And I run.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I offer bouquets of autumn leaves and many, many thanks to everyone who helped bring this book into the world:

Writer friends Julie Berry, Linda Urban, Linda Salzman, Bonnie Shimko, Loree Griffin-Burns, Ammi-Joan Paquette Tanya Lee Stone, and the rest of the Kindling Words crew, Judith Mammay, Candice Hayden, Gail Lenhard, Marjorie Light, and Stephanie Gorin. Whether you critiqued this book in its early stages, organized the retreat where it was revised, or just listened, it wouldn’t be as bright without you.

Early readers Amy DeMane, Molly Schneider-Ferrari, and Eunice Choe, who helped me fix the spots where the kids weren’t talking like real kids.

Dick and Lorraine Walker of Walker Funeral Home, who taught me about life and death in a funeral home family.

Kevin Larkin, my consultant on all things cross-country.

My friends on Verla Kay’s Blue Boards, who chimed in with thoughts on everything from Italian grandmothers to not giving up.

Science teacher Barbara Napper, who started the leaf collection that started it all and taught me much about leaves and life along the way.

The SMS English Department—Andrew Ducharme, Marjorie Light, Karen Rock, Nancy Strack, Michelle Walpole, and librarian Russell Puschak, who connect kids with books every day.

My fantastic agent, Jennifer Laughran of Andrea Brown Literary, whose guidance made this book stronger and found it a perfect home, and whose tenacity and love of books never cease to amaze me.

The fantastic folks at Walker whose hard work shines in these pages: copyeditor Sandy Smith, designer Nicole Gastonguay, and everyone else.

My delightful editor, Mary Kate Castellani, whose brilliant ideas and enthusiasm helped bring Gianna’s story to life.

The Schirmers, Rupperts, Messners, and Alois—family members who have joined me on this journey, encouraged me along the way, and put up with my daydreaming and bouncing of ideas. I’d imagine it’s been sort of like living with Ian’s riddles.

Jake and Ella, my companions in leaf catching, birch swinging, and memory making. Thanks for being terrific kids and letting me borrow little bits of your lives for my stories.

And Tom, my husband and best friend, who is tough to pin down but might be a cross between a white oak and a sugar maple, bright and full of energy and steady, all at once.

BOOKS BY KATE MESSNER

The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z.
Sugar and Ice

Readers have fallen for Gianna Z.

An E. B. White Read Aloud Award Winner