The young man, who until this moment had been leafing through a magazine, happened to glance her way and notice the rosary beads and photographs.
“A little nervous about flying?” he said with a kind smile.
“Eh,” Francesca replied with a shrug. “I’m an old lady, so who cares if I die, right? But if you ask me, this thing is nothing but a big sardine can with wings. It’s a crazy way to get from one place to another.”
“Well, I guess you have a point there,” the young man laughed. “But it’s still the fastest way to get from one place to another.”
“Ayyy, there’s more to life than speed,” answered Francesca with a wave of her hand.
“Not when you’re in a hurry,” the young man kidded her. “Besides, they say flying is the safest way to travel—you know, statistically anyway. So you shouldn’t worry.”
“I’m a grandmother. All I do is worry.”
“You sound just like my grandmother.”
“We’re all the same.”
The young man laughed again before nodding at the photographs in Francesca’s hand. “Your family?” he asked, as if he sensed that it might make the old woman feel better to show them to him.
“My grandchildren,” said Francesca, smiling for the first time since she had come on board. She knew the young man was just trying to be nice by asking, but she was grateful for the distraction. “See,” she said, passing one of the photographs to him, “those are my two grandsons, Will and Charlie. Look how big they’ve gotten. They live out in Oregon with my daughter Alice and her husband, Bill. That’s them in this other photo. They all moved out west a few years ago, after Bill took a job with some big company out there.” She paused for a moment and let out a sigh. “Seems silly to pick up your wife and children, and move so far away from all your family and friends just for a job,” she went on, “but he makes lots of money—I guess. What do I know?”
The engines gave a brief roar as the pilot maneuvered the plane along the runway into its position behind the other planes waiting to take off. The sound gave Francesca another start, and she clenched the rosary beads tighter in her fist.
“And who’s in the other pictures?” asked the young man, trying to keep her focused on her grandchildren.
“My daughter Roseanne’s three kids,” she replied, passing him another photo. “Rosie lives down here in Florida with her husband, Frank. That’s Dana and Sara, the two oldest girls. Dana’s a teenager now, and Sara’s not far behind. And that’s little Frankie; he’s the youngest. They all came out to the airport today to put me on the plane. I hated to go. I spend so little time with everyone nowadays. Breaks my heart to say good-bye.”
“I’m sure they must come home sometimes to visit you,” offered the young man. “That must make you feel good.”
“Oh, sure,” said Francesca, heaving another sigh. “I fly out to see all of them once or twice a year, and sometimes they fly home to Rhode Island to see me, but it’s not the same as having people close to you all the time. You never feel like you’re a part of each other’s lives, the way you’re supposed to feel about your family. It always feels too rushed, too confused.”
Francesca paused and let her thoughts drift back to the two weeks she had just passed at the home of her daughter and son-in-law. Roseanne was her oldest daughter, and Francesca missed her terribly when they were apart, just like she missed all her children and grandchildren. They were much alike, she and her daughter, both headstrong and independent. Consequently, they had spent the better part of the two weeks quibbling over just about everything. The way Rosie had decided to wear her hair these days—so short, instead of beautiful and long, the way it used to be. What was that all about? And the scandalously skimpy bikinis she let the girls wear to the beach. Francesca would never have let her daughters out of the house wearing such things! The late hour Frank inevitably returned home from the office, and the way he was always too tired to take care of some of the things around the house that she had noticed needed fixing. Maybe he should get up a little earlier in the morning. And the television shows she let Frankie watch, and those crazy video games she let him play. And the way Rosie made her marinara sauce or fried up the eggplant, which wasn’t at all the way she had been taught by her mother. From the moment she had awoken every day to the moment she had gone to bed, it seemed as if Francesca had spent her entire visit bickering nonstop with her daughter.
It had been wonderful.
Francesca understood, of course, that her daughter and son-in-law had built a life of their own together. They had discovered their own ways of doing things, their own ways of raising their children, keeping their house, sharing their meals. They were a family, and their life together had acquired a unique rhythm, which was beautiful and perfect in its own way. Francesca knew that it was she who was out of step with it, she who was disrupting the ordinary ebb and flow of their days. She knew that she made all of them a little crazy whenever she visited, or when they visited her, but wasn’t that what grandmothers were for? Besides, she knew how to make it up to them. When things started to make everyone a little too frazzled, she would offer to stay at home with the kids so that Rosie and Frank could have a night out together just by themselves. When she wasn’t babysitting the kids, she took them to the mall and bought them anything they wanted. She pitched in by helping Roseanne keep the house clean, sweeping the floors and making the beds (which were supposed to be the kids’ jobs, but she didn’t mind), and anything else she happened to notice that might need doing. Most of all, she cooked.
Francesca loved to cook, and she loved to watch people eat what she had cooked. It was one of her greatest pleasures in life. She had that special touch that some people have in the kitchen. She didn’t need to go shopping to prepare a meal. Given five minutes to poke around in the cupboards and the refrigerator, Francesca could always roust up enough ingredients from whatever happened to be on hand to make something that would set mouths to watering. What was to be had? A clove of garlic and a little bit of olive oil? An old box of spaghetti or a leftover piece of meat? A single egg left in the carton? Maybe a bag of spinach or a couple of zucchini that had been forgotten on the bottom of the vegetable drawer? A block of cheese? A can of tomatoes that had been sitting on the back of the shelf for who knows how long? Some crusty old bread that even the birds wouldn’t want?
Nothing went to waste.
Francesca would just add a little of this and a pinch of that to whatever creation sprang from her imagination, sauté it up in the pan or let it simmer in the pot, and before you knew it, dinner was served. Bring her to the grocery store, of course, and the possibilities were endless. Then, if she had a notion to bake a cake or a pie or a batch of pizzelle or a tray of biscotti, and the house suddenly took on the sweet aroma of a bakery on Sunday morning—well, a lot could be forgiven.
And so, when it came time for Francesca to go home, when they all drove out to see her off at the airport, there were hugs and kisses and tears galore. There were promises to call as soon as she made it home and promises to visit again soon. She had looked back only once when she had finally pulled herself away from everyone and made her way to the gate where the plane waited. Little Frankie had been draped over his father’s shoulder. He had waved his little hand and called, “Bye-bye, Nonna,” to her, the sound of his voice so sweet that it had brought the tears anew to her eyes.
Now,