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Signs From Above is now being reposted at www.crabbygolightly.com every Sunday night—with a spiffy new logo, thanks to the divine Miss Rachel A. 

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8

It’s late, and Sandy is exhausted. The food, set out in an appetizing buffet style in the dining room, has grown cold and congealed. The TV moans softly and Sandy awakens on the couch, wipes a little spit from the corner of her mouth, and gently nudges Kathleen out of her warm couch cocoon and into her bed. Emily stirs. “Shh,” Sandy tells her. “Go back to sleep. I’ll put you in bed in a minute.”

Whirr, ka-chunk. Whirr, ka-chunk. The oxygen machine is still going strong, and, in a way, so is Anthony. He’s sleeping somewhat peacefully, with an occasional gasp letting forth from his embattled torso. Sandy peeks in to make sure his chest is still rising and falling. She exhales deeply, reassured for the moment, and heads down to retrieve Emily.

I watch him sleep for a moment, and then he opens his eyes, as if he knows I’m there, lurking in the quiet, waiting and watching. He can’t say much, but I know what he’s thinking: Is it time?

I can’t tell him anything, of course. He has to just wait; even if he’s so ready to leave his body he can’t stand it. This is the cruelest part, where you are stretched, helpless, between this world and the next for an indefinite period of time. Where your relatives begin to worry whether you’re sleeping or dead. Where you wonder when it will finally end. Where your children begin to panic about how they’ll manage on without you.

And that’s what Sandy’s worrying about right now. With David out of the picture and these two young girls needing constant attention and guidance, who will be the man in their lives? Who will be able to guide them—and more importantly, HER—like Papa?

As if I were answering her from above (I wasn’t, but she’ll look at it that way), in walks Bobby with a frazzled Beth in tow. Her coat is ripped and her dirty blonde hair is standing up oddly in some places. A faint cologne scent follows her inside.

“My wife is completely pissed at me, Sandy. She’s not coming,” Bobby tells her, giving Beth an irritated sideways glance. Beth looks at the ground, not in the mood to talk. For once.

“I figured THAT out about two hours ago, but thanks for the update,” she replied sarcastically. “Now quiet down. I just put the girls in bed.” She looked squarely at Beth.

“I don’t think she has much to say right now,” Bobby offered. “Let’s get something to eat, huh?”

“Where’s Dad?” Beth asked meekly.

“Upstairs, sleeping. Don’t bother him with whatever tonight’s issue is, Beth. He’s struggling to breathe and needs to relax.”

Beth rolls her eyes. “You just don’t understand. You’ve already got the kids and stuff.” Sandy, exhausted, doesn’t even want to discuss Beth’s comparison of their lives. They’re both a mess, she reasons.

It’s at times like these where I ache to make myself seen or heard. But it’s not possible. I can only watch, and that’s the hardest part. I may have done things differently if I’d known I would have to be the one to take away Anthony from our kids. But that’s the thing about  life. You don’t—can’t—know. There would be no surprises, good or bad. And if there are no surprises, if you already know the outcome, then what is the point?

“Do you even want me to bother you with what happened, or can we just forget it?” Bobby asked.

“Forget it. Really,” Sandy replied, scooping some pasta onto a plate. She began to eat like she hadn’t in months, mouthful after mouthful. It tasted just like I had made it. Sandy had finally recreated my sauce, perfectly. She smiled to herself and then licked a red glob of tomato from the corner of her mouth.

My children surround a large oak table covered in food. Bobby is already unbuttoning his pants, just like he used to do when I’d make gnocchi. “Brava, Mama,” he’d say, and then burp loudly. Tonight, though, there’s a pronounced silence, as if they know. But how can they know? Maybe I’m just picking up a sense of dread, of the inevitable.

I head upstairs and overhear Beth remark on how depressing the evening has become. As I get closer and closer to Anthony’s labored breathing, I couldn’t agree more.

7

A perfect storm was brewing back at Two Eleven North Campbell. Ella found some court papers, a formal letter from the firm and a few bounced checks, and she was waiting, fuming.

She was planning to move back to New York to live with her mother. The kids would come with her, and they’d forget they ever knew Greg Bollardi. She would change her name back to Smith, and hopefully, return to anonymity in the upstate suburb she’d grown accustomed to.

Hmm, she thought, Ella Smith. It’d been a while since she’d responded to that name. She’d have to get used to it again, and teach Brittany how to spell it. Brian, in the second grade and already ridiculously smart (if a little high strung), would probably just fall in line, and pick up right where he left off, albeit with a new name.

She sipped her wine slowly, trying to calm down long enough to wait for Greg to walk in. From the picture window in the living room, she could see his car up the street, dropping off Mrs. Olson and the demon cat, and that strange woman who cruises down Campbell every now and then. Her car was parked out front, flashers still blinking and bouncing off the yellow hydrant at the curb. What was she even doing here? Ella wondered.

It was at this point that she got her answer.

“Thanks for the ride…Greg?” Beth said in a kittenish voice, warming up to this handsome man who’d graciously stepped in to help her. Like a knight in shining armor, she thought to herself. I rolled my eyes at my youngest daughter. “I would not have been able to deal with her alone.”

“No problem,” he answered, flashing his dazzling smile as Beth got in the front seat and he backed up the block toward her car. He parked parallel to it, and she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Ella, a little drunk and filled with anger, did not hesitate to run outside and confront them both. Bobby called the police as he pulled up to our old house, completely confounded by what he saw: a strange woman with short brown hair, flailing her arms and slapping her husband’s face as Beth stood and watched. It seemed to Bobby as if Beth were enjoying what she was seeing, and he wondered to himself if maybe Cynthia might be right about her.

“A mixed-up, misguided drama queen,” Cynthia had called her the other day. When Deb repeated it, I had a little laugh at Beth’s expense.

Where was this fucking cat she supposedly hit? he wondered. “BETH!” Bobby yelled to her. “Get in the car, NOW.”

It was like she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—hear him.

“YOU STOLE FROM WORK AND NOW THEY’RE GONNA GET US!” Ella screamed. “And you’re gonna do THIS, too? You son of a bitch!” She looked around, wild-eyed, for something to throw at him. Finding nothing in the dark of a late-October sky, she reached inward…and let loose some disgusting spit, right in Greg’s direction. It crept down his right cheek, and Beth, misguided as she is, tried to step in between.

How is it that I raised all three children the same, and got a different result with Beth?

“Whore!” Ella screamed and charged at Beth, tearing at her jacket.

Sirens began to approach Campbell Street, thanks to some nosy neighbors at 213, who muttered to themselves about those “idiots next door,” and wondered aloud if there might be a Cops taping in the neighborhood in the near future. The middle-aged father reminds me a little of Anthony at that age—gruff, weary and ready for retirement. He peers out the window disgusted, but somehow unable to look away.

Bobby struggled to separate the women as Greg wiped his face with his wool coat. Pieces of lint stuck to his cheek as he did this, and I couldn’t help but laugh at this pathetic man who thought he could cheat on his wife without any melodrama. Silly little man.

6

At the vet’s office on Clybourn Avenue, Beth was wondering if this guy might have been sent her way by me. Again, if I could be there to tell her so, I’d set the record straight: sometimes fate intervenes, and sometimes fate just minds her own damn business. This is one of those times where fate is just not getting herself involved in the mess Beth’s about to create for herself. I guess that’s why I’m here right now.

The cat, a tangled mess of orange fur, bloody paws and feisty energy, growled on the metal table as Mrs. Olson stood watch, glaring at Beth.

“I don’t even understand what you were doing on our block again,” she snarled at Beth. “Once your parents left, I thought that would be the last I’d have to deal with you!”

“Yeah, well, think again, lady. I guess I was put here on this Earth just to piss you off.”

Greg snickers.

“This woman has been a thorn in the side of at least five Rossis – my parents, my brother, my sister and me – since what feels like the beginning of time.” Mrs. Olson rolls her eyes.

“Well, if your mother would have just agreed to move her party –”

“Oh, I KNOW you’re not bringing that up again.” Beth scoffed.

“It wasn’t that big a deal. You know, they’d already been married. It wasn’t like I was asking her to move her wedding date!”

“No, just her wedding anniversary. You’re ridiculous. You and that stupid cat. I don’t even remember why you wanted her to move her party. And frankly, I don’t care.”

Everyone in the room except for this Greg character remembers exactly why. It was my 20th wedding anniversary. Some of Anthony’s family was coming in from Italy. We’d been planning for a month when Mrs. Olson started putting together a block party for the same day. We fought for days, not speaking. Our friendship was never quite the same after that. It was a shame, too, because before she became a bit of a recluse, Angela was a great friend and neighbor. Everyone on the block liked her. She ran the church bake sales and always made the best strudel. Kids flocked to her front lawn to pick apples from her short, fertile tree. And she never shooed any of them away.

I had a feeling about what happened, but I wouldn’t know for certain until years later. She’d been trying to steal away Anthony, that much I knew. What I didn’t know (or, maybe more accurately, didn’t want to consider) was that he did sleep with her once or twice. He told me that as I lay dying. I still haven’t decided whether or not I will forgive him. I suppose I’ll figure it out soon enough.

The silence in the vet’s office is deafening. Greg, unsure of his neighbors, sat with his hands in his lap, twiddling his thumbs and staring at a Frontline poster. He almost had it memorized when Mrs. Olson spoke up.

“Beth,” she said quietly. “how is your family doing?”

“My father’s dying,” she snapped bitterly.

Angela blinked, clearly caught off-guard. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

Greg offered Beth a hug, which she pushed away. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”

I’m quite glad that Beth doesn’t know the whole truth. Mother’s intuition tells me that there would be damages charged to her by Rainbow Pets, Ltd., and today was just not the day.

A knock at the door signaled the doctor was finally ready to see Hell’s Furry Little Wonder and reset his mangled paw. Some yelps and hisses led to a slightly costly bill, which Angela wisely paid from her own pocket.

As the car glided underneath the familiar, dim streetlights of Campbell Street, Beth thought she glimpsed a track of tears streaming down Angela’s face, but she couldn’t be certain. It seemed to her that Mrs. Olson didn’t cry for anything or anybody anymore.

As she stepped out from Greg’s sedan, she said, “Please let me know where I can send a card, Beth. I would like your family to know that my prayers are with them.”

“Yes, fine, send a card. That’ll bring him back from the brink,” my daughter quipped. So rude, I would have scolded her, but I can’t say that I would’ve been much more polite. In fact, I don’t know what I would have said, and I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.

I miss my Anthony.

5

Inside Two Eleven, the children are going crazy. “Mrs. Olson’s a meanie!” they screech, bouncing on the couch. Outside, down the street a little way, Mrs. Olson’s arms are flailing and Ella can faintly hear the sound of one neighbor berating another. This is the least friendly street she’s ever lived on and she misses the hell out of New York. The quiet streets upstate could have been the perfect setting for raising Brittany and Brian, and now look at them. Hyperactive, sometimes insane. Are these even my kids? she wonders sometimes.

Ella turns her attention back to the dimly lit Campbell Street, wondering who is going to take Mrs. Olson to the vet center with that damned cat. All it takes is one of these two kids to pull its tail and it’s Rabies City, and that’s all we need, another bill, she thinks to herself. Greg tells her not to worry about money, but she wonders if his “chump change” might be dwindling down to a few pennies. He put off grocery shopping last night…and the night before. Ella’s been working miracles since Tuesday, and now it’s the weekend.

The door swings open, and Greg grabs his coat, pecks Ella’s cheek and says, “I’ll be back. Mrs. Olson needs a ride to the vet with that damn cat.”

“Can’t that cat just die already?” Ella replies cuttingly as Greg walks back outside.

“Yeah! Mrs. Olson’s a meanie!” the kids screech in unison. Did my children ever do this? I’d be too embarrassed to leave the house with them, ever.

“THAT’S IT. UPSTAIRS, NOW.” Ella blows up. “Now, now, NOW. Don’t you two ever get tired of yelling all the time?” The tears begin to fall down her cheek. The children are stunned, and race upstairs to figure out what just happened.

Ella needed some answers, and if Greg wasn’t going to give them to her, she’d get them on her own.

The first place she always looked—the top drawer in the office desk—was locked. Weird, she thought. I didn’t even know this drawer could lock. Unfastening a bobby pin from her short brown hair, she began to furiously pick at the lock, her bangs falling into her face as she moved.

“Damn,” she muttered to herself, slamming her hands on top of the desk in frustration. It was then that the drawer lock popped, surrendering a tousled mountain of ripped-open envelopes and loose papers. “Just another mess,” she sighed hopelessly.

As she was standing to leave the room, she noticed a piece of paper bearing Greg’s firm’s logo at the top. She didn’t know they were corresponding with him—maybe he could get his old job back! She grabbed the letter and scanned it.

And that’s when Ella got really, really mad.

4

Bobby is changing out of his oil-stained Dickies and into some jeans when the phone rings. “Cyn? Honey? Can you get that?” he calls down the hallway to my always-frazzled daughter-in-law. There’s a mess of dishes in the kitchen, the baby is covered in strained carrots, and Cynthia is fielding questions from Debbie about…well, everything. Deb’s at that age now. Kindergarten. Why, why, why, she’s constantly asking.

“Deb, honey, now is not the time. Let’s talk about this later, okay? Can you wipe your brother’s face while I get the phone?”

I see Deb give her mother a little sideways glance and I think, “Better nip that in the bud.”

“Hello…whoa, Beth, hang on. Slow down. Deep breaths. Where are you?”

Deb stops wiping Michael’s face and looks up at her mother. Bobby bounds down the stairs, refreshed and ready to head over to Sandy’s. He strolls into the kitchen, pats Deb’s head and stops short when he sees Cynthia motion to him.

“Hang on, I’ve got Bobby for you.” She hands him the phone, rolling her eyes. “This shit needs to stop.” She looks down at Deb. “Yes, this was an occasion where an adult would use that word. It does not mean you can use it. Go play. I’ll take care of your brother now.”

Oh, Cynthia. You’ll never be able to get between Beth and Bobby. Thick as thieves, those two. And now with baby Michael occupying more of Bobby’s time, Beth’s clock is ticking away, counting off the days without a baby. She was entertaining the idea of adoption last week, but the paperwork has only been briefly shuffled through, and is lying on the floor in her bedroom. Her dog is actually piddling on it right now, something she’ll perceive as a sign that it wasn’t meant to happen. If I could, I’d tell her that it’s simply a sign that she needs to housebreak her dog, and that if she can’t do that, then she’s not ready for a baby. What? It’s true, yes? Beth has always had a hard time prioritizing things. She lives in the moment. The adoption thing will probably pass.

“Beth? Where are you…why? Okay, calm down. I’ll be there.”

He looks at Cynthia. “Can you take the kids to Sandy’s? I’ll meet you there.” Running upstairs, he decides to change back into the Dickies, grab a few tools and go back home to two eleven North Campbell.

Cynthia rolls her eyes, heaves a deep sigh, and says to herself, “I don’t think so.”

3

Beth is driving down the highway, and detours off near Western Ave., by our old house. There’s something about this house that keeps all of us coming back from time to time, perhaps just the fact that, at one glorious moment, all five of us lived there, together and happy.

But time marches on—with or without us. Beth turns up the radio a little and I watch her cry from inside her car. That damn cat—it’s still alive after all this time—peers at her menacingly from across the street.

“Stupid fucking cat,” Beth says bitterly. I’ve never known Beth to be so angry. Tonight, there’s something different about my youngest daughter. As she puts the car into gear, I see the cat’s hind legs spring up in anticipation. It’s going to pounce in front of her.

The green eyes, wide and surprised, scare Beth into skidding down Campbell Street. The neighbors snap to attention, peeling themselves off their trendy leather furniture and peeking out of picture windows into the crisp fall night.

Leaves crumple under her tires and so does a part of the cat—the left hind leg. Beth leaps from her car to the wounded animal, who hisses at her violently. The man—Greg, I think is his name—dashes out from our old home with a blanket and a cell phone.

“Are you okay, Miss?” His gray eyes widen when he glimpses the cat. “Oh…we’d better find its owner…do you live around here?” He begins dialing for help.

Shaken, Beth asks what she already knows. “Do you live at the end of the block?”

“Yes. Two-one-one.”

Even in this inappropriate moment, we both cringe, thinking, “It’s TWO ELEVEN.”

2

The last of my things are with Sandy, and she is sitting on the bed with my beautiful little granddaughters, showing them my watch and my wedding ring. I can smell the perfume in the air and hear the clunk-clunk of too-big shoes on the floor. The girls are playing dress up again.

“Someday, Emily, you can wear this watch. It was your Nana’s favorite.” Emily bends sideways across her mother’s lap to take a look. “It’s very old, sweetie. Be careful.” A short, pudgy finger strokes the watch face for a second. 

“Can we go play Princess for a while, Mom?” she asks.

Sandy chokes back tears when she hears this. Emily doesn’t understand what her mother is feeling—she’s only four, after all. “Yes, go play Princess.” Emily bounds out of the room with her sister Kathleen wobbling behind her. My Sandy. Such a good girl, and so strong! I am glad that Anthony is here, with her.

“Dad? Hi, Dad.” I hear Sandy’s voice as she wanders into his room and sits down on the bed, raising her father up with the remote. He grunts in response, trying to tell her about the dreams he’s been having about me. He’s just too weak today, though. Maybe tomorrow, he thinks, but I know better. That’s why I’m at Sandy’s today, and not nosing through my children’s business or snooping on our old house like I normally do. 

The oxygen machine whirrs and ka-chunks next to the bed while Sandy holds his hand for a quiet minute or two.

“It’s been kinda hectic around here with the girls today, so I’m sorry I haven’t had time to sit with you.”

Whirr, ka-chunk. Whirr, ka-chunk.

Sandy still has my watch, and she starts fiddling with it nervously. Her breathing gets heavier and a tear falls down her face. “Dad…I just wanted to tell you that I love you.” 

Anthony smiles that bright smile like he does, and sort of squeezes her hand back. Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t. “Everyone’s coming over for dinner later. Do you think we can put you in the wheelchair for a while tonight?”

Whirr, ka-chunk. Whirr, ka-chunk.

Anthony closes his eyes as if to surrender to the throbbing tumor in his chest. It seems to grow bigger by the minute, the way he continually winces. Sandy has a hard time watching her Papa go through this, wondering when all his suffering will be over, and being terrified for that day to come.

 

Whirr, ka-chunk. Whirr, ka-chunk.

Anthony gasps in air, lips dry and cracking. Sandy applies some salve and kisses his head. “Get some rest, Dad. It’s going to be a long night tonight.”

Sandy had no idea how right she’d be about that.

1

You should hear the way these people say the address. “Two-one-one North Campbell. That’s right, two-one-one.” They must be from the East Coast or some place, because they don’t have that Chi-caa-go accent. Their voices are pinched somehow.

All this family does is run around—soccer practice, band rehearsal, tap-dancing class and PTO meetings. Meanwhile, things stay quiet in the street. Garbage cans stay on the curb. Mrs. Olson’s cat crawls along the yard undeterred. The neighbors all stay tucked cozily away in their cavernous living rooms, staring into their flat screen TVs.

And then there’s Two Eleven, sitting, waiting, in need of some repairs and a family to love it instead of driving past it, pretending it’s not theirs. Pretending the situation isn’t as dire as it is. Pretending they belong on this otherwise picturesque street. At least we knew the score. We were here first, before the Whole Foods, the mall, the movie theater, and we wanted so much to stay and keep the neighborhood somewhat as it was.

We had good intentions, despite the messes piling up in the den and Anthony’s increasing inability to climb the stairs. Picking up the tipped-over trash outside just wasn’t possible—if only our new, Starbucks-guzzling neighbors understood, or at least reached out to see if they could help. But, before we knew it, the neighborhood had changed and left us behind.

The dog went first. When he attacked Mrs. Olson’s cat, we knew it was the beginning of the end. The day they made us put Smokey down was one of the saddest in my life. He was such a great dog, except when it came to that damn cat. One time it got hold of the squirrel in our yard and Smokey ripped part of the front door off with his teeth to try and protect it. That old door was made of solid oak, and he just tore through it. And then the neighbors started calling the cops about the vicious dog, like they ever get involved with anything in this neighborhood in the first place. They’d just sit inside all day with their laptops and coffee like nothing else matters, and then they decided, somehow, that this was the last straw, and to come after Smokey. Maybe Sandy will let the girls get a dog and they’ll teach it to fetch and sit and all the other things that Smokey did.

There’s no lingering garlic smell from the pastas and sauces I used to make. In fact, I bet these people don’t even know how to cook anything without using the microwave. No wonder the kids are hyperactive. Always with the jumping and yelling, as if tap dancing, band rehearsals and soccer aren’t enough to wear them down. Beautiful noise, these two keep telling themselves, but the walls are decorated with Crayolas instead of the fine coats of carefully applied paint we used to touch up every year. How beautiful can that BE? They say they’re gonna update and fix things, but they certainly don’t have the money for that, let alone this new mortgage. Keeping up appearances is difficult, you know.

He’s a banker of some high order, but he knows something everyone else doesn’t. Keeps talking about the market busting up, and how everyone’s mortgages are in trouble. That’s ridiculous—the most stable things in the world are the four walls around you. Especially if you build ‘em right. Hell, we spent forty-two years here. He tells his wife when they lay in bed at night worrying that it’s all a big scam, and that they’re lucky he walked away with some of the chump change when he did.

He’s not working right now. Got out before it was too late, he says to his wife. She’s not happy and you can tell. They’ve lived here six months with no smiles. The moonlight that peers in from their window just right, like it did when we lay there, doesn’t inspire romance, it just keeps them awake—arguing, worrying and waiting.

Our son Bobby drives by once in a while, stopping at the curb to take a quick look. Sometimes our granddaughter is with him, and he points to the window on the side to tell her that that was his room, and he and Aunt Beth used to pretend they lived in a castle, and the thick tree branches that extended toward the pane were a bridge he had to cross, and that one time, he fell and broke his leg. How he wailed for me!

The tree’s tentacle-like branches finally extended up with the rest of it into some power lines, and it was cut down last month. Bobby cried just a little when he saw, turning his head away from the babies in the backseat. He called Beth right away to tell her the news. It was sweet that they planted some of the tree at my stone. It’s grown a bit this year, and the grandbabies leave pictures and things under it for me and wonder if I will ever see them. I wonder if they’ll begin to understand soon that I see everything.