Chapter_22_Dad

Fold it in half, diagonally. Take the two ends and make a double knot.

Place it around your neck.

Put the ends through the loop and adjust accordingly.

The European loop, aka the Parisian knot, aka the Italian twist.

Whatever it’s called, my dad, Gio, an effortless dandy, always rocks his scarf like a classically handsome Italian GQ model. Go, Dad!

Growing up, I never really took notice of my extremely stylish dad. I figured every father wore Italian loafers and head-to-toe Brunello Cucinelli.

I was always—embarrassed isn’t exactly right, more like self-conscious—by a few things.

First, my dad was way older than the rest of my friends’ dads. By ten to fifteen years. Having an older dad never bothered me, but I noticed at school plays and science fairs that other people were aware that my dad was different. “Is that your grandpa???” kids would ask.

It didn’t help that my eccentric dad grew out his wild gray hair to make him look like “Pedro Almodóvar meets Ursula from The Little Mermaid” as Wyatt once accurately coined.

I was also briefly embarrassed by my dad’s thick Italian accent. My mom’s accent was softer—she had assimilated more to the flat Chicagoland vowels. Plus, Dad has such an animated way of speaking, which often takes people out of their comfort zone.

I was an average American kid but at first, my oh-so-very midwestern teachers, peers and their parents didn’t quite know what to make of my dad, the exotic Italian creature. Once everyone was able to get past that, they realized Dad is a warm hug of a man.

The next morning at my parents’ house, I decide to put a pin in everything with me and Wyatt. Today I just want us to have a blast with my family.

After a homemade breakfast feast, we pile into various cars, and the Petterelli caravan heads to each niece and nephew activity.

First, there’s Izzy’s figure skating practice, where everyone dutifully sits in the freezing-cold ice rink bubble, blowing on their hot coffees.

Next, Mia’s karate class makes us all afraid that the impressively rough-and-tumble seven-year-old could kick all our asses.

After that, the tiny-for-his-age Leo shows off his wobbly rock-climbing skills while we all can barely look.

While sitting next to my dad at little Ruby’s soccer game, I notice he’s wearing his perfectly knotted cashmere scarf and wool sport coat on this oddly cool and windy day. I’m proud that he’s not only joining us on this epic family outing at his age (seventy-eight!) but that he looks so damn good while doing it.

When my sisters and I stop gossiping and I actually pay attention to the soccer game, I’m shocked to hear the unfiltered outcries of the parents; aggressive yelling at the ref, shouting impossible commands at their innocent kids (“Hustle, Jaxtyn!” “Step into it, Maverick!”) and occasionally swearing at each other face-to-face. It’s like a viral video of parents behaving badly come to life.

When I look down the row and see Wyatt at the other end, he doesn’t look back; a sign he’s still upset with me for not telling him about my job, among other things.

Thankfully, it looks like Wyatt is enjoying the game, laughing with Daniella and Antonia, who are all making fun of one especially overly dramatic set of parents about to have an aneurysm over their mini–soccer players.

“This game is giving me anxiety,” I say to my dad.

“Did you eat enough?” he asks. Food. It’s the solution to all of our family’s problems.

“No, I mean, what if we have a kid who becomes super serious about group sports?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, you were never a team sports kid, kiddo. Let the ex–hockey player lead the way,” he says, referring to Wyatt.

“He begrudgingly played hockey as a kid because his mom forced him. I don’t think he’s a team sports kinda guy at heart.”

“Then you’re both screwed!” Dad says, with his infectious laugh.

“Gee, thanks,” I say, watching the kids dominate the field. “Seriously, though, I’ve avoided sports my whole life and now I’ll have to participate.”

“Remember Mr. Katrakis?” Dad asks, conjuring the ghost of my hard-ass high school gym teacher.

“He bullied me because he knew I wasn’t athletic,” I say, feeling sick at the thought.

“What a miserable sonofabitch,” Dad says. “I remember you’d come home crying because he’d make you run extra laps or drop and give him twenty for no good reason.”

“Dizzy Bizzy. That’s what he called me,” I say. A wave of childhood trauma shudders through me. My dad ropes his arm around me.

“We should’ve sued the school,” he jokes.

We watch the kids huddle and high-five one another on the field and I’m sick to my stomach. “I need some dad advice, Dad,” I say in all sincerity.

“You’ll be fine.” He clasps his arm in mine. “I had five daughters. You think I knew anything about little girl stuff? It wasn’t like I could teach them about cigars and good red wine.”

I take this in. “Why not?” I wonder. “Now they all love cigars and good red wine.”

“Good point,” he says with a snort laugh.

My dad was so good at everything he did. From the designer rug warehouse he owned in Chicago where he poured his heart and soul, to wooing my mom with nights at the theater, to making all of us kids feel extra loved. It didn’t occur to me he was lacking in any way.

“Maybe there’s a night class where I can study soccer,” I joke.

“Watch a YouTube tutorial on how to yell at your kid’s little league game,” my dad riffs back.

“Siri, how do you tackle a free throw on third base?” I say as we both howl with laughter.

But as the refs whistle and the parents yell, it all still nags at me. I never understood the rules of most sports and faked my way through playing them in school. I’m a former happy-go-lucky theater kid.

“Maybe our future kid will want to take up musicals about sports rather than actual sports,” I say.

“Damn Yankees, anyone?” Dad jokes. We both laugh as it hits me how my dad always makes me feel safe and secure.

After the kids’ activities portion of the morning, it’s time for some grown-up fun.

“We could have lunch downtown then hop into a museum?” I suggest. This is completely unplanned but, just like me, my family loves a poorly thought-out, sporadic idea that would most likely revolve around food.

Wyatt and I sit in the back of Zia’s SUV. After about twenty-five minutes of singing show tunes with the kids, Wyatt turns to me.

“Wait—downtown means the city?” he quietly asks as Chicago’s cityscape comes into focus with the Willis Tower and John Hancock rearing their heads in the distance.

I realize he forgot what downtown means.

“Yes, ‘downtown’ is what people in the suburbs call Chicago,” I remind him.

“I was thinking it meant downtown Arlington Heights,” he admits. It usually confuses anyone who’s not from here.

We park in a garage in the Loop and walk to the museum.

Passing the beautiful Millennium Park, I find myself trailing my family, pairing up with Dad again. He clasps his arm in mine, always in a loving gesture, molto Italiano. This time though, I feel there’s more than just a display of pure love.

He needs me physically. His reactions are slower than the last time I saw him, and he’s having slight trouble keeping up with the fast-moving group. I look at our shoes as we walk. My dad always in those stylish loafers.

“All good, Dad?” I ask, open to him interpreting this any way he’d like.

“I’m fine. How are you feeling, Bizzy boy?” he asks me.

“I’m good!” I say too brightly. It’s even windier downtown so I knot the scarf my mom told me to bring like his. Now we’re identically dapper.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.” He grins dryly; the lines surrounding his festive eyes make themselves known.

“Whaaaat?” I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise. “Why would you say that?”

“Your mom and I stopped sleeping eight years ago. Now we just stay up all night, playing stupid word puzzles on our computers. We heard everything,” Dad says.

I tilt my head toward him. “Everything meaning...?” I ask, continuing to feign ignorance.

“Last night. The job, the baby, your guy. We heard it all.”

I pause.

I glance up ahead to make sure Wyatt isn’t within earshot. He’s three sisters deep, intently listening and laughing as Zia tells another one of her hilarious stories. She has Wyatt laughing so hard, he has to wipe away tears.

I turn back to our shoes. “We’re both stressed about the baby coming. It’s been a lot to plan for the last couple years.”

“You know how much planning your mom and I did with you guys? Zilch. We did it and out you all came. One of you was an oopsie baby. I won’t say who.”

“Dad, we all know it’s Zia. Anyway, you’re lucky. We had to test our sperm. Then we had to search for an egg donor. Then have our egg donor medically cleared. Then we had to find a surrogate and have her cleared. Medically and legally. And this was all before we even could think about transferring our embryo...” I could go on.

“I don’t understand any of it but I feel for ya, kiddo.” He inhales deeply. He seems unsure if he should ask this next part. “But you’re serious, right?”

I turn to him. “What do you mean? Am I serious about what?”

Dad sighs and stops walking.

He looks me in the eyes.

We stand there, in front of the Art Institute, between the two giant cement lions adorning the entrance, those larger-than-life icons of my childhood. We stare at each other until the entire family detaches from us, heading inside the museum. My sisters look back at us.

“We’ll meet you in there,” Dad shoos them off. Wyatt glances at us but continues listening to Zia’s story.

With our family inside, Dad looks at me and holds my shoulders, like I’m a life preserver in open water. “What I mean, Massimo, is are you serious about having this baby?”

“Of course I am,” I say to him unblinking.

“That wasn’t a question for you to answer, Massi. Let me finish,” he says, looking into my soul. “I know you. I was the same as you back when I was your age. Wild. Carefree. Always looking for a party. Only caring about yourself.”

“That’s not entirely—”

“You need fun to feel alive, to feel joy and stay happy all the time. I understand. But you know what’s going to bring you the most joy, the most fun, the most happy? It’s not an out-till-four-a.m. party-of-the-century artificial high. It’s a stroll around the park with your baby. It’s seeing him smile for the first time. Watching him laugh. Hearing the baby say your name, watching him grow.”

“Or her,” I add. “Or they.”

“Or five hers,” he adds. We both laugh.

“Whatever emptiness you’re feeling right now won’t be there. I promise. And before you know it, she’ll be a teenager off to college and you’ll be a crying mess.”

Dad lets all this hang in the air. He tightens my scarf and wipes off imaginary lint. Tears in his eyes. “I know you’re scared. But stop doubting yourself,” he tells me.

I swallow. He hit the nail on the head. I can’t bring myself to tell him just how much doubt I’ve been having. My dad. A tough act to follow.

“I know I’m biased but you’re one of the most beautiful, fun-loving, nurturing souls I’ve ever met in my life,” my dad says. “You have what it takes to be the greatest dad. You’ve got the stuff. You’ve got more than I ever did when I was your age, that’s for sure. I believe in you. We all believe in you. Now’s the time you have to believe in yourself.”

My dad’s faith in me has given me a much-needed jolt of confidence as we turn and walk up the steps into the museum, arm in arm.