Page 33 of The Vow

I only wanted to run away once. I was thirteen years old when my mother caught me ogling breasts in Playboy with a kid I used to play road hockey with; a juvenile delinquent from the wrong side of the tracks. I was mortified, but it was the disappointment on my mother’s face that made me think I wasn’t worthy of being her son. I even went so far as to write her a good-bye letter. The following day, she took me to confession. Father Salvatore laughed, and said, “Boys will be boys, Mrs. Conti.” That same afternoon, I found a stack of Wonder Woman comic books on my bed with a note attached that read: “At least she has clothes on. Stop being stupid. Ti Amo.” I thought Alex would run, but instead, she stood her ground, which apparently impressed my mother.

“That’s okay,” ma said. “You can always adopt. You love my son?”

“Ma, it’s not like that,” I said, secretly wishing it was like that.

“I’m... I’m a widow.”

“A window? What do you mean you’re a window?” Ma’s hands flailed left and right. I was afraid she’d hit Alex in the nose.

“A widow. My husband died. I lost our baby from the trauma. That’s why I don’t want kids.”

“Sweetie...” I said, approaching her.

“No. It’s okay. I never talk about it. You couldn’t have known. Simon didn’t even know. I... didn’t get a chance to tell him.” Alex pulled her crucifix from her blouse and kissed it. I had never in my life wanted to stop time more than I did then, because in that moment, my mother – my wonderful, hard-headed mother – picked up the crucifix and kissed it the same way Alex did.

“I’m a widow too.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“Pippo, go get my purse.”

I picked up ma’s purse from where she left it in the foyer and brought it to her. We waited while she found her wallet. “This is him,” Ma said, showing Alex an ancient picture of pop.

“He looks like a movie star.”

“I wasn’t so bad myself.” Ma’s laugh was raspy. “But I’m too old now. I don’t care about things like that. You know what I learned, child?”

“What?” Alex asked, sniffling. She accepted an embroidered handkerchief from my mother.

“God took them for a reason. Don’t get me wrong. I was furious at God, but in time, I came to realize that my husband isn’t gone. He’s my guardian angel, and I have to trust His plan. It makes no sense why some people are allowed to grow old together. But for me, my husband left me Pippo, and I see his father in him every day.”

I couldn’t speak. I had no words, but even if I did, I couldn’t produce a sound.

“I think for me, God wanted me to write.”

“You write, Alessandra?”

“Yes. Thanks to Pip.”

“What did you do?” It was ma’s favorite question. It could be posed in anger, or laced with joy, but she always wanted to know what, exactly, someone did to warrant their current situation.

“Nothing,” I told them both. “I guess it was just God’s plan.”

“Can I find your books at Bruno’s, Alessandra?”

“It’s a bookstore,” I explained.

“No. I’m not published.”

“Yet,” I said, winking at my new roommate.

The unthinkable happened. My mother took us both into her arms. They say a hug is healing, but it was more than that. It was acceptance. Pulling away, she kissed us both on our cheeks. “I go home now. I’m tired.”

“Are you sure you won’t stay? We can have dinner together.”

“Thank you, child, but I barely eat these days.”

“I’ll drive you,” I said.