Chapter 25
Nightmares Return
That night, I dream again of Vero Roseto.
But not as it is, as it was. Not even as it was in my childhood, but on the day the last brick was laid in 1945 at the end of World War II. In the dream, I leave my bed and go walking into a sunny, misty afternoon. I’m wearing luxurious satin pajama bottoms, champagne colored with a violet pinstripe. I’m bare-chested except for the expensive silk robe flowing openly behind me like a cape while I stroll the grounds in a serene haze. The house is empty but lived-in, as if everyone vanished, leaving behind their knitting and loaves of rosemary bread cooling on the stovetop. The scent of fresh paint is everywhere.
The walls are blank, though. That’s the biggest difference.
No memories yet, no family pictures. Not even a family yet, but there will be. I’m filled with certainty about that much. Romance, children, grandchildren, an empire. It’s all coming.
“Is anyone there?” I call out, to no response. “You don’t know me yet, but I’m your family.”
When I emerge outside onto the deck, the crisp newness of the wood makes me smile. The world has turned black-and-white, like an old movie, but I’m in color. Somewhere, big band music plays, faint and ghostlike. It’s disorienting, but somehow, I know where to go:
Straight ahead, to the rose garden.
When I cross the lawn and pass under the archway, I see the first speck of color that isn’t me—a young woman stands by the Wishing Rose bush. Her collared farm shirt, tied in a knot above her belly, is as screamingly red as the rose she’s holding. Her hair is raven dark. Her cheeks are round, cherubic, and pretty.
It’s my great-grandmother. The original Mama Bianchi.
Only it isn’t her, it’s me. I’m dressed as her: long black hair, crimson lips, and in sensible, feminine work pants. It’s me, but I know it’s really her inside. I’m so lovely.
As I approach Mama Bianchi, the vines that once smothered the rose garden walls pulsate and shift, as if they’re living tentacles. My silk robe billows in the growing wind, the cape-like hem somehow longer than before. I am commanding and elegant, and so is Mama Bianchi. We are worthy opponents on a battlefield. Our meeting has an adversarial energy I can’t explain.
She’s been expecting me.
When she looks up, she extends a rose. “Want to do the Lindy Hop?”
I shake my head. “There’s no time for that.”
Sadly, she nods. “I’ll wait here for my husband, then.”
“He’s not your husband yet. He’s overseas.”
Mama Bianchi chuckles and smacks my shoulder playfully. “Do you really think I’d build all this if I wasn’t sure he’d be my husband?”
My great-grandmother gestures beyond the garden archway. It’s true, Vero Roseto was her handcrafted love letter to an impossible man. Was it faith in him that drove her to invest this much in an uncertain prospect? Or was it delusion? Overhead, the big band music changes to the melancholic Duke Ellington song “(In My) Solitude.” Piano and brass notes fill my heart with heaviness.
There’s no way I’ll ever have an ounce of that kind of faith in a guy.
I scowl at my great-grandmother, my robe flapping like a flag in the windstorm. “Your rose is ruining my life! You made up this whole rose myth, and now everyone in our family thinks it’s the only way to find true love!”
She smiles—it’s my smile. And a happy tear falls. “I have a family?”
“Yes! And I’m part of it. You die when I’m six, but you keep controlling our lives.” My chin trembles, but I refuse to cry for her. “I need you to take back your curse. I’m in love with a boy, and I can’t lose him again.”
Her hand—my hand—black-and-white except for brilliant, scarlet nails, grazes my cheek. Her eyes—my eyes—fill with pity, the kind you have for someone sick. “My roses don’t curse.”
“They do,” I whisper pathetically. “I can’t be Ben’s boyfriend if you don’t take it back. Something’s going to happen to ruin it. I need him in my life. Please. And yes, I’m with a boy!” My heart shakes with rage inside my chest. “That’s why I wished on your rose to make me different. I wanted what the rest of you had! You didn’t make space for me in the rose myth!”
Gently, Mama Bianchi pulls me into her arms—my arms—and cradles my head. I’ve never hugged myself before. It’s nice. As she pets my curls, she whispers, “I didn’t make space for you. My father didn’t make space for me. My husband didn’t make space for me.” Her tone intensifies into an ominous growl. “Make me make space. Show me what you’re worth. I showed them and turned this filthy sheep farm into Vero Roseto—stone and clay and vines and myth. Roots so deep they can never be pulled out. This is the moment my family began, not when my husband came back from France. If I didn’t show strength when I had it least, I would have never trusted it. Show me. If you say there’s a curse, break it yourself.”
Mama Bianchi releases me from the hug and drifts away with her rose.
“Wait!” I say, my robe whipping violently. “I need your help!”
Under the archway, she turns back. “Yes, you do. But all you’ve got is you.”
She leaves. I chase her.
“Wait! I can’t lose Ben! I can’t hurt Ben!”
When I reach the archway, Mama Bianchi has already traveled to the patio. She smiles—my smile—and waves the rose. I follow, sprinting as she disappears inside. But when I reach the patio, she’s already at the top of the East Wing stairs. She waves the rose, and I chase her again. But when I reach the stairs, she’s already walking inside my room.
I burst inside the room, furious. “Hey!” I shout, but once I’m inside, I look out the bedroom window and see Mama Bianchi back outside on the lawn below, waving that goddamn rose. “Wait! WAIT! WAIT!”
It’s dark in my room, except for a small touch lamp turned to the lowest setting, which is as bright as a candle flame. I sit straight up in bed, staring at the window where, moments ago, I screamed at Mama Bianchi. My chest is slick with terror sweat, and for some reason, I’m still hollering, “Wait! Wait!” to an empty room.
Except it’s not empty.
Someone is dabbing my shoulders and head with a cool cloth. Frantic hands try to dry me off before pulling me into a fierce hug. Whispers come: “It’s okay, Grant, stop it, you’re awake, you’re here, you’re okay.”
“What?” I ask, not fully awoken. “No! No. N—”
“You’re dreaming,” Aunt Ro says, her concerned voice far away but traveling closer. When I turn, I finally see her. Not me in Mama Bianchi drag. No black-and-white house. It was just a dream, but it was so vivid. Ro, wrapped in an oversize nightshirt, smooths my hair with a trembling hand. “Grant, you were screaming. Are you okay?”
“Ro…” I say, grasping weakly for her. My entire body is quaking. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this scared. My heart won’t settle. I think I had a panic attack.
Anxiety won’t release its stranglehold, even when I’m unconscious.
“Ro,” I say, clarity returning. “I can’t hurt Ben. I’m not stable enough to be what he needs. I can’t do long distance. I just can’t. I’m not strong like Mama Bianchi.”
“What?” she asks, sleep-deprived but desperate to understand.
“If I lose him again…My curse…”
“HEY.” Ro snaps her fingers loudly. My spiraling attention collects and obeys her command. “There’s no curse. There’s no myth. It’s just a rose, Grant. I’m sorry we fed you this dumb story, but it’s just a story, that’s all. It’s not worth destroying your life over. Or losing a boy like Ben. Or waking up screaming, honey. I’m so sorry we did this to you.”
Her hug swallows me again, but I scramble out of it. I feel unhinged, like I need her to understand something primal about me. “It’s not you, I did this. I made myself sick.” I wince back a splitting headache. “The curse is real to me. I know myself, I’m gonna end up doing something that scares Ben or pushes him away.” Now the tears come. “He can’t know I’m still messed up—”
“Grant.” Ro hands me a travel pack of tissues from her pocket. I dab at my eyes as she strokes my leg above the covers. “Loving someone means they have to see your vulnerabilities. They see what you don’t want other people to see. Do you know the gross things your uncle does? Do you know the scary shit I say to him sometimes? No. That’s knowledge for him and me alone. You are human. This isn’t anything I haven’t seen before. Ben’s seen you more intense before. Remember your grandma’s wake?”
I moan unexpectedly. “I tried to wish away one of the most important parts of me. What’s wrong with me?”
Silence crackles in the empty bedroom as Ro considers my question.
I lace my fingers behind my head like a long-distance runner, willing my breaths to slow.
Finally, Ro looks up, her dark features hardened in the low, flickering light. “Grant, when are you gonna give yourself a break, huh? I promise, you’re not the first boy in history to make that wish. And by the way, everyone regrets the dumbass things they wished for when they were thirteen. I wished for a third Reagan term. You know why? Because I didn’t know a goddamn thing, and the planet is lucky that wishes are just make-believe. Wishes are intentions. They are you. It’s all just you. You want to mess things up with Ben? They’ll be messed up. You want to make it work? I believe you can do it. The rose is just a token of your intention.”
Mama Bianchi’s dream words find me again.
You say there’s a curse, break it yourself.
But in the dream, I was Mama Bianchi. This knowledge is already in me.
“Thanks, Ro,” I say. “Sorry to make you philosophize in the middle of the night.”
Chuckling, Ro stands from my bed, her eyes glistening. “It’s God’s punishment on me for letting you make that wish. I should’ve told you that night you didn’t have anything to worry about.”
I smile weakly. I don’t know if that would’ve been comforting or frightening, to have someone so close reveal that they heard everything—that they knew what I was trying to bury.
“God’s punishment, huh?” I ask, smirking. “A minute ago, you said there’s no such thing as curses, that we’re all masters of our own intentions or some garbage like that.”
Without missing a beat, Ro waves me away. “For you, there isn’t. For me, there’s mystical punishment.”
“Nice talking to you, Ro.”
We blow each other a kiss, and she returns to her room. I lie awake, the touch lamp’s low light still flickering like a candle, and I wonder exactly how much intention I really have in this situation. Do I want this to work with Ben? Yes, but there are more things to consider than a relationship.
What if school in London works out?
What if Ben really would be happier in Scotland?
What if we do long distance, and I see him on Instagram with another guy…and then I make bad assumptions again? I don’t know if I’ve done enough work on myself yet to be stable for him.
What if Ben and I are meant for each other, just not right now? I want to be healthy enough to treat him the way he deserves. I have to figure out this curse on my own, without the pressure of letting down Ben.
Could we split up and find each other again a third time?
If my great-grandmother could build Vero Roseto for a man that she didn’t know could really show up for her, then I can have faith that Ben and I will work out someday.
Just not now.