The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z. (3 page)

“We’re
friends,
Nonna,” I say again.

“We’ll see,” she says.

Dad turns up the radio. Mom goes back to balancing the checkbook, with papers and receipts spread out all over her lap. I can look out the window in peace.

I love to watch how things change when we drive into the city. Condominiums are the first signs that Montreal’s getting close. They’re built up along the St. Lawrence River, thicker and thicker until you get to the bridge. It’s named after the explorer Jacques Cartier, but Dad calls it “the ol’ Jack Carter Bridge” to bug Mom. She thinks everything should be pronounced properly.

Traffic isn’t bad, so fifteen minutes past the bridge, we pull into the big parking lot for the market. I complain about getting up early on Saturdays, but I love this place. It’s like jumping into a giant tossed salad—fruits and vegetables and flowers of every color. People of every color, too. You can walk around and sample cheese from Quebec goats, crunchy apples, tangy dried cranberries. There’s a store that just sells olive oil—about a million different kinds. One bottle costs five hundred dollars! Every time we go in there, I wonder what it must taste like. They never offer samples of that one.

Today, Nonna needs a big jug of regular, normally priced olive oil, so she picks out her favorite kind and chats in Italian with the old man at the counter while he puts the jug in a paper sack. Mom and Dad have gone to pick up a bottle of wine. I’m checking out all the different shapes of bottles while I try to keep Ian from destroying them. I love the lines in the bottles, the way they overlap one another, the way some bottles have big loopy handles. This would be a great place to sit and draw, but I left my sketchbook in the car.

Ian and I follow Nonna out into the crisp air. The smell of fall leaves mixes with hot apple cider someone is serving from a cart.

“Want some?” Nonna asks.

“No thanks. I want my hands free for pictures.” She buys Ian a cup while I unzip my camera case and snap a few pictures of the vegetable vendors as we pass. Maybe I’ll draw one of these scenes later.

So many colors get thrown together here, like they’re all shouting to be heard at once. Orange pumpkins next to bright pink mums with dark green leaves. Yellow gourds piled high next to crates of polished red apples. I’m clicking away when Ian pulls on my sleeve.

“Nonna went over there to get some eggplant. You’re in charge of me.” He grins and dribbles cider down the front of his shirt. “She says she’ll meet us in the bakery when you’re done.”

The bakery isn’t just any bakery. It’s the greatest bakery in the universe. The best thing about market Saturdays is when we all meet there for the last stop of the day. There’s a glass case full of desserts that look like they were clipped out of food magazines. My favorite is the Royale.
“Une Royale, s’il
vous plaît,”
is how I order it, since the bakery staff only speaks French. If I get it right, I end up with a perfect little rectangle of dense cake layered with fluffy mousse. It’s like eating a chocolate cloud.

I’m hungry just thinking about it, so I put away my camera and take Ian’s hand. Mom and Dad are walking up to the bakery door too.

“Nonna’s grabbing an eggplant,” I tell them.

“Mmmm.” Mom licks her lips. “Is she making eggplant parmesan tonight?”

“She didn’t say.”

Ian snatches Mom’s cell phone back from her purse while she’s busy thinking about eggplant. A burly man in a blue flannel shirt opens the door for us.

“Merci.”
Mom steps inside. Ian snaps his picture.

The smell of the bread almost lifts me off the floor. How do people work here all day and not eat everything? I’d constantly be sticking my fingers in the frosting and licking them.

Mom takes a number and waits for them to call it. I try to tune out the bustling feet of the crowds, the clinking of coins in the cash register, and listen for our number. It’s my first year of French class in school, and we’ve already done numbers, but Madame Wilder speaks slowly and clearly when she’s teaching us. Here, French words just fly out of people’s mouths like barn swallows. I have to listen hard or our number flits past before I can blink.

“Trente-huit?”
The woman behind the counter looks around and I think hard. Thirty-eight. That’s us! Mom nods at me and I step forward to try our order: two baguettes, three cream-filled éclairs, a fruit tart for Nonna, and my royal chocolate cake. I may not have studied the body parts, but I did look up all my favorite food words and practice the order at home last night so I could get it right.

“Je voudrais deux baguettes, s’il vous plaît. Aussi trois éclairs
de la crème, une tarte de fruits, et une Royale.”
I search the woman’s face to see if she knows what I mean. Mom nudges me and I remember to add
“S’il vous plaît,”
which means “please.”

The bakery lady smiles at me and starts putting things in a box. Apparently, I’ve done all right. I turn around so Nonna can congratulate me and realize that she hasn’t met us yet.

“Shouldn’t Nonna be done by now?” I ask Mom. “The eggplant guy is only a few booths away.”

“She’s probably chatting up Mr. Passini.” Mom’s ogling the croissants, but they’re made with so much butter she never lets herself have one. She checks her watch. “We should be leaving soon. Go see if you can hurry her along.”

I’d rather wait for our bakery order and maybe rip off a hunk of bread to sample, but I grab Ian’s arm and pull him toward the door.

“Smile!” He clicks a shot of the bakery staff on his way out.

When we get to the booth where Nonna buys her eggplant, Mr. Passini is there with his cocker spaniel.

“Ah,
come stai,
Gianna?”

“Bene, grazie, e tu?”
I tell him I’m well and ask how he is. That’s about as far as I can go on the Italian that Nonna’s taught me, though. Mr. Passini understands.

“Just fine. Your grandmother hasn’t found you yet?”

“We thought she’d be here.”

“No, we were out of eggplant, so I sent her to Hassan.” He points to the next row of vegetable sellers, past a display of cornstalks and pumpkins.

“Thanks.” Ian snaps a photo of Mr. Passini waving.

“Grazie!”
I try to grab the phone from Ian, but he’s too quick. “Quit it! Mom’s going to be mad.” He follows me across the aisle.

“But I like taking pictures, so I can remember important stuff.” He holds the phone up to get a shot of some rutabagas.

Hassan, it turns out, still has eggplant and tells us Nonna left with one of them about fifteen minutes ago. She should have met us at the bakery.

Ian and I walk up and down the aisles looking for Nonna until we end up in a big booth bursting with pumpkins. She’s not here either, so we start up the last row of vendors.

My heart’s pumping faster, and my stomach feels all tight. What if she fell? What if it’s her hip again, or worse? I look at the cell phone in Ian’s hand and wish Nonna had one that we could call.

“Let’s go find Mom and Dad,” I decide, pulling him away from a plate of pineapple samples. A car horn blasts on the street next to us and makes me jump. When I look, I see an old lady scurrying out of the way of a delivery truck. A man in a green wool hat shouts something in another language from the driver’s window. When the truck passes, the woman is standing at the side of the street. She looks scared and confused. Wisps of gray hair drift out from under her scarf, and one of her shoes is untied. She looks down the alley one way and then looks up toward the bakery, like she can’t remember where she is or where she’s supposed to be. Her jacket hangs over one arm. In her other arm, she’s cradling an eggplant.

“Nonna!” Ian pulls away from me and runs across the street without checking for cars. When I catch up, Nonna is already shaking her finger at him, warning about city traffic.

“What happened?” I ask her. She still looks confused, and somehow, it makes me a little angry. I want her to tie her shoe and fix her hair.

“I picked up the eggplant and then I couldn’t find my car,” she says, looking toward the parking lot. “I thought I parked on the street, but maybe not.”

“Nonna, we drove the van, and we parked in the lot. You were supposed to meet us at the bakery. Remember?” How could she have forgotten the bakery?

My heart is still thumping from our search through the market, and here she is wandering around with her eggplant. How could she not remember to show up at the bakery?

“Of course.” Nonna’s mouth forms a tight grin, and she fakes knocking herself on the head. “Now I remember.” But I’m not sure I believe her.

Mom and Dad walk up with long French bread in a paper bag and a bakery box tied with blue ribbon. “There you are, Mom. Are we all set now?” she asks Nonna.

“She got lost, Mom.” I try to tell her about Hassan and the delivery truck, but she just puts her hand on Nonna’s shoulder. Dad takes the eggplant from her and holds her elbow when we step up on the curb.

“It
is
awfully busy here today.” Mom pats Nonna’s shoulder again. “It’s tough to find anyone in this crowd.”

“Hey, look,” Dad says, holding up Nonna’s eggplant so the stem sticks out like a nose. Above it are two dents like squinting eyes. “Doesn’t this sort of look like Mr. Passini?” Dad wiggles the eggplant so it looks like it’s talking.

“Hello, Gianna,” Mr. Eggplant-Passini says as Dad bobs his head up and down. “You’re looking lovely today. Are you having me with olive oil or marinara sauce tonight?”

Nonna shakes her head, laughing, and takes her eggplant back.

On the drive south, we talk about Italian recipes and French pastries, fancy olive oil and when we’ll carve our pumpkins for Halloween.

But I keep remembering the look on the face of that old lady across the street. She had no idea where she was. And it scared her.

CHAPTER 3

W
hen we get home, Mom won’t talk about Nonna getting lost. I try to bring it up while we’re making the salad.

“Mom—you should have seen her.” I slice the cucumber into the bowl and reach for a potato chip from the bag Dad bought at the market when Mom wasn’t looking.

“Put that down,” Mom says. “Do you know how much trans fat is in those?”

Mom tosses the chips into the trash. Dad walks by and gazes in at them like he’s saying good-bye to an old friend.

“Don’t you have a French quiz coming up? Have you studied?” Mom asks. She points to her elbow. “What’s this?”

“It’s your elbow.” I start slicing a second cucumber.

“
En français,
Gianna!”

I have no clue what her elbow is in French, and even if I did, I can’t concentrate. “Mom . . . ,” I try again. “Nonna had no idea where she was.”

“So she was confused for a minute.” She scoops up the salad bowl before I’m done slicing and whisks it over to the table.

“But she was standing there in the middle of the—”

“It’s a big market, and it could have happened to anyone. You forget things too. Now go wash your hands and come sit down.”

We eat our eggplant parmesan in silence.

Sunday morning, I wake up to Zig’s special knock and shuffle downstairs in my Big Bird slippers to unlock the door.

“Come on in.” I lead him toward the kitchen. “I think everybody’s eating. I’m the last one up.”

“Is that my future grandson-in-law?” Nonna calls. When we walk in, she gives Zig her biggest smile and puts down her rolling pin. “I’m going to make these cookies for your wedding someday, you know.”

She’s rolling dough between her palms, shaping little round cookies for later. The first batch is already cooling on the counter. Her eyes twinkle at us. “What do you think, you two? Will you want them with sprinkles or powdered sugar? Go ahead and try both. Then you can decide.”

“Nonna!” My face feels like I’m standing too close to the open oven door. She’s always joked about how I ought to marry Zig, but never in front of him. Geez!

“Uh . . . I think I’ll just have a muffin,” Zig mumbles, and shuffles over to the table, looking at his feet the whole time.

I look at Nonna with big cut-it-out eyes, but she just smirks again. I take a cookie, even though I’m annoyed with her.

Nonna makes the best Italian wedding cookies in the world, even if they aren’t really served up at weddings. At our house, Nonna’s cookies usually end up being funeral cookies. She always brings them when Dad has calling hours scheduled downstairs. Whether she knows the family of the dead person or not, Nonna shows up with a big plate of cookies. She says food holds sweet memories, and those memories help people say good-bye.

“Hey, Zig!” Ian looks up from his riddle book with jam on his face. “Why did the cookie stay home from school?”

“I give up. Why?”

“Because it was feeling crummy! Get it? Crumby?” Ian laughs so hard, toast crumbs spray out of his mouth. Zig smiles and hands him a napkin.

“Morning, Mr. Zales.”

Dad nods from behind his coffee. “Helping Gee with her leaf project?” He points to a plate of Nonna’s apple crumb muffins on the table.

“Yep—twenty-five leaves by Friday.” Zig reaches for a muffin. “And I have the perfect idea for helping her remember the kinds of leaves.” He turns to me. “We should change the dog game to the tree game for the next week.”