Chapter_23_Gio

It’s endlessly fascinating to me just how much Biz’s family loves spending time together. Biz and his dad splitting off from the group to have their own little one-on-one makes me a little envious. It doesn’t even matter what they’re talking about. I had zero quality “Dad Time” growing up, let alone any words of wisdom Gio is probably generously giving his son.

Even seeing Gio and Sylvia together all the time—glued at the hip, never afraid to show public affection toward one another—it’s both adorable and a foreign concept to me. Biz’s mom has a partner to hang around with twenty-four seven. My mom never had that.

I hope Biz appreciates his luck of the family draw.

Biz and Gio finally join us, and the family sustains quiet reverence as we tour the Art Institute together, lingering in front of Hopper’s moody and existential Nighthawks, Monet’s calming Water Lilies and everyone’s favorite, A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.

I direct and take a picture of Biz, Zia and Daniella perfectly imitating Ferris Bueller and friends, standing in the modern wing with their arms crossed, examining works of art.

Devouring deep-dish pizzas later at Gino’s East, it’s another Petterelli feast. Gio enthusiastically serves slices to everyone as if he made the pies himself. We eat spicy pepperoni and sausage, green peppers and mushrooms. A couple husbands scarf down Italian beefs. Glasses of cabernet flow.

Biz and I barely speak or have eye contact. There’s almost zero interaction except for once passing the red pepper flakes.

There’s too much chatter and commotion with everyone trying to talk over one another anyway. Conversations start, get interrupted, detoured by tangents and obstructed by random thoughts. Almost no one finishes a complete sentence. It’s overwhelming but fun. Even if issues between Biz and me aren’t resolved, I can still enjoy his family and not take anything out on them.

Back in the suburbs, it’s getting dark as the nieces and nephews hug and say goodbye to us in the driveway before their little bodies struggle to climb into their parents’ SUVs.

Like a wedding or funeral procession, in true Petterelli tradition, the sisters and husbands line up to say goodbye, double kissing each cheek. This affection is something I’m definitely not used to. I wonder if Biz will teach our child how to kiss hello and goodbye like a European.

The sisters let the waterworks flow, crying over their baby brother and me, missing us already, demanding photos of our baby immediately out of the womb.

“Thirty-five more days! Thirty-five more days!” they chant as they disappear one by one.

Dinner later is leftover pizza that Biz and I share with his parents at the kitchen table. The house feels too quiet now. No more talking over each other, no uncontrollable laughter. Just the four of us chewing and swallowing. The next couple weeks are on everyone’s mind.

“Next time we see you, you’ll be fathers,” Sylvia says with a mouthful, picking up a stray pepperoni from her plate and tossing it into her mouth. An echo of what my mom said.

Maybe our families aren’t so different after all, I think.

“I still can’t believe it. The kid’s gonna have a kid,” Gio says with a big smile, tears forming in his eyes. “Which sperm is he gonna come from?”

“Dad!” Biz says, sitting back in his chair, wanting to shut down the question.

“Gio!” Sylvia says practically at the same time. “You shouldn’t ask that!”

“Why not? It’s a legitimate question,” Gio doubles down.

Sylvia shakes her head and chomps down on her perfectly burnt crust.

Biz’s eyes roll their eyes. He doesn’t want to go there and neither do I. We can agree on that.

“I told you, we won’t know,” Biz explains, probably for the hundredth time.

“If he has your Roman schnoz we’ll know,” Gio says.

I can see Gio doesn’t want to let this go, so I try a more direct approach. “We decided to have a dual sperm source, so potentially, the child could come from either of us. But we don’t want to dwell on it. We’re a family no matter what happens. When the kid is old enough, and if they’re curious, they can meet their egg donor.”

“The mom?” Gio asks, puzzled.

Sylvia’s jaw drops. She’s not on board with her husband’s line of questioning.

“I’ve told them all this,” Biz says to me, exasperated.

“We opted for an open egg donor versus an anonymous one in case the kids want to meet her,” I explain, hoping this will satisfy Gio.

“But it’s like she’s their mom, right?” Gio asks, still grasping to wrap his head around the concept.

There it is. I love Gio but I can tell he’s never going to one hundred percent understand this modern feat of technology; certainly not two dudes having a kid together without a mom. He’s a product of an older generation. He’s okay with it all—ecstatic is more like it—for his son and his son’s life partner to have their own kid with the help of science. But neither of us have ever expected Gio, or even my mom for that matter, to fully grasp every detail.

“It’s not their mom. Our child will have two dads. End of story,” Biz explains in the plainest of terms, officially done with this conversation.

“I get that. Yeah, I understand.” Gio tells himself this more than us, clearly still trying to understand. “But I’m just realizing that my grandkid won’t have a mom. Not saying that’s good or bad. Just hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well, now you have,” Biz says, getting annoyed and defensive with his parents in a way I haven’t seen.

“Either way, I know you two will be the best dads on the planet. I can feel it,” Gio adds. He wants us to know we have his full support. He picks up the last slice of pizza, and in the most casual of ways, says, “Okay if I have the last piece? Could be my last one for a while.”

A confused look forms on Biz’s face. I try to play it cool even though I fill with dread.

“Gio, my god, don’t say things like that,” Sylvia says with a sigh, picking up our plates and carrying them to the sink. “They still don’t know.”

“Know... what?” Biz asks, tensing up, bracing for the unknown.

“Should we tell ’em?” Gio asks Sylvia, clearly wanting to tell us.

“Cat’s outta the bag,” she says.

Gio munches on his slice.

“Tell us what, Dad?” Biz almost grows upset.

“Don’t worry. It’s treatable,” Gio says, skipping over the headline as if we know what he’s talking about. But I can guess.

“Dad, what are you talking about? What’s treatable?” Biz leans in, full of fear.

“It got me. The goddamned C word. Can you believe it?”

Biz has no words. I can see his dad’s entire life flash before his eyes. “Like cancer?!”

“Oh, don’t say that word! Basta!” Sylvia says, stacking the dishwasher in defiant anger.

“What kind? How bad is it?” Biz asks.

“The good kind,” Gio says, wiping grease off his mouth.

“The good kind? It’s not like an avocado and the good kind of fat, Dad. There is no good kind,” Biz says.

“He means it’s stage one. It’s in his stomach. It could be worse,” Sylvia explains.

“They’re gonna laser beam it out. How cool is that?” Gio says, trying to downplay it.

“Do the girls know? Why didn’t you tell me before?” Biz asks.

“We just found out the other day. We told all your sisters right before you got here.”

“How the hell did they all keep that secret?” Biz is in shock. Like me with my mom, Biz assumes his dad will magically live forever. Parents are immortal until they’re not.

With that, Biz erupts into tears. Gio stands behind him and puts his hands on his shoulders to console him. Sylvia sits next to him with both of her hands grasping his face.

“Don’t worry. The doctor is great and said he’ll be okay,” Sylvia says.

“You gotta face the facts that your old papa is getting even older, kiddo,” Gio says.

They hold their son as he sniffs and wipes his tears, like Biz is a kid again, only this time he’s an adult, looking directly at his parents’ mortality for the first time.

I want to grab Biz and hold him and tell him everything will be okay.

Biz grabs his dad by the waist and buries his head, sniffling into his cashmere sweater.

I look down at the vintage salt and pepper shakers on their kitchen table, feeling heartbroken, knowing we’ll always remember this exact time and place.

“You’re gettin’ snot on my shirt,” Gio says to Biz as we all laugh through our tears.