The Loose Ends List(76)

I didn’t know it would happen so quickly.



I haven’t seen Gram undressed since Rio. She’s a skeleton with a pregnancy bump, covered in purple scabby patches and needle marks. Mom and Janie and I pin her funeral dress behind her wasting frame and dot her cheeks with blush. Janie fluffs her thinning hair, freshly done at the salon, and I paint her nails seashell pink.

“Stop fussing over me,” Gram says. “I’m fine.”

“We love you, Gram. We’re just trying to make you look pretty,” Janie says.

“You’re trying to make me look alive,” she says.

We nearly crash wheelchairs with Mark as we round the corner to the ballroom. Enzo’s pushing him, and Burt’s bent down tying Mark’s shoe. There’s an emptiness in Mark’s expression, like he’s tired of being fussed over, too.

I’m wearing red for the service in honor of Gloria’s lips and Vito’s love of Christmas. Enzo is wearing his Armani suit. I am an evil pervert for thinking about sex at a time like this.

“Bride’s or groom’s side?” Vito’s son-in-law jokes as we file into the ballroom-turned-funeral-parlor. Roberta and one of the other daughters pass out programs. There are two screens, one showing photos of Vito’s life, the other of Gloria’s. Gloria’s recipes are displayed on an easel for everyone to see.

“They were both attractive,” Mom says. Mom has been crying off and on all day. “Who knows why I so enjoyed spending time with Gloria. Maybe it was that we both love makeup or that I have a passion for baking and she loved to cook. Whatever it was, I miss her. I miss her a lot.”

Mom’s lip quivers. I put my arm around her shoulders. “Isn’t that what soul mates are? People who are drawn to each other?” I say.

“I guess it is. You are getting philosophical on me, hon. But, yeah, it’s true. It’s hard to put a finger on what connects people.”

The minister talks about the power of family and friendship and how blessed Vito and Gloria were to have all of us. He tries to get through a story about when Gloria was diagnosed and the first thing she said was, “Who will cook your eggs, darling?” but he breaks down and Bob has to help him to his seat.

Roberta talks about her dad and how he supported all his children through tough times. He was their rock. He was their Father Christmas.

Overall, it’s a pretty painless service, maybe because it was exactly what Vito and Gloria wanted.

“It’s so weird we’ll never see them again,” Janie says.

“Holy Christmas,” Wes says as I elbow Uncle Billy out of the way so I can sit near Gram. I’m wearing the sapphire. I want her to see how much I cherish it.

The dining room is ablaze in twinkle lights. The crew moved Vito’s Christmas village to the back wall near the giant heavily tinseled tree. I butter my roll and gear up for an Italian Christmas Eve with twelve trays of fish and Gloria’s eggplant lasagna.

Uncle Billy clinks his glass with a knife. “I’d like to read our special message to Gloria. I hope we did our girl justice.”


Gloria, Gloria, you bald beauty.



You swept us off our feet with your gorgeous face and knocked us off our feet with your fabulous recipes. We will never look at a lipstick without thinking of you, your quick wit, and your beautiful heart. We love you.

The Wishwellians





We clap and cheer when Jeb rolls the paper and sticks it in the paper bottle. Apparently messages in papier-maché bottles is our new thing.

Dad stands up next.


Dear Vito,



It is no wonder you loved Christmas so much. You embodied the true spirit of Christmas. You were bright and shiny, generous and charitable, and full to the brim with love for family and friends. We will never forget the cheer you spread every single day. We love you.

The Wishwellians





We make our way out to the deck. The minister and the former Mrs. Vito, who is more of a mess than any of his kids, kiss the bottles and fling them overboard. We lean over the railing and watch the bottles flip and flop until the sea swallows them up.

Eddie pulls out the karaoke machine. Our family can dance to anything, but singing is a different matter. Nobody seems to care, since “The Twelve Days of Christmas” was meant to suck. We take an eggnog break while Bob sings “O Holy Night” with a voice as rich as red velvet cake and the Ornaments deliver a moving rendition of “Ave Maria.”

For the grand finale, we sit Gram in a chair on stage and serenade her with “Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer.” It wouldn’t be Christmas without Gram saying “Thanks a lot, *s,” at least once.

I get a knot in my stomach. It’s easy to make fun of Gram while she’s still here. But when she’s gone, swallowed up by the sea, with the bottles and Heinz and Vito and Gloria, what then? Who will fill the void she leaves in this world? Who will fill the void she leaves in me?

We linger, all of us, as if nobody wants to pull away from the comfort of the group. Janie and I wheel Gram up to her room and crawl under the covers like we’ve done so many times.

“When are you going to do this, Gram?” I blurt. I can no longer deal with the anxiety of not knowing. I push it away. It comes back. I do something fun. It comes back.