In my early 20s, I followed a boy from Los Angeles to Cleveland. At the time, I believed I was madly in love with him. What I was truly seeking was the comfort and love of a family.
“Jerry” came from sturdy stock, second-generation Italians on both sides. I craved being part of a gaggle of humans, no more or less important than anyone else. Just in the mix, inside a normal, boring life where whatever was happening was enough.
Jerry’s family welcomed me warmly. We arrived at Jerry’s childhood home, where his parents and younger sister still lived. The house felt huge to me then. I had grown up in an original two-bedroom, one-bath house. Years later, we added a living room and an extra half bath. My sister and I shared a tiny bedroom with crusty avocado-green shag carpet. A line ran halfway down the room: my sister, the neat freak, and me, the slob, each kept to our own side.
My childhood was shattered by thirteen, after years of abuse and my father’s early death from cancer at forty-three. My sister was six years older and already out of the house. That left my mother and me, with little connection until shortly before her death, just after her sixtieth birthday.
So off I went in search of my “forever home,” a family who would take me in and love me. At first, I convinced myself this new family was the answer. Jerry’s mother became especially dear to me. I think she had a maternal instinct and could sense I had been wounded. She wanted to take care of me. She drew me into everything. Fridays were my favorite. They were pizza night. Italians know where to order the best pizza, and it was delicious. Chicago-style with pepperoni was my favorite. Jerry’s mother always made a crisp salad to go with it. Before we ate, Jerry’s parents, Jerry, and I always sat and relaxed on the backyard patio. It was peaceful and warm in the middle of summer. I loved sitting there with this family, no tension, just being. I had never known that before. After dinner, we watched television or sometimes worked on a puzzle.
Jerry’s great-grandmother stayed with us a few times a week, moving back and forth between our house and another relative’s. I loved this woman deeply. At ninety-four, she seemed ancient to me. Full of wrinkles, with no teeth, and a mumbled vocabulary that moved between English and Italian, she sat in a recliner. She was a true matriarch. Seeing her brought back memories of my own maternal grandmother when I was a little girl. I would visit Nana and sit on her lap while she rested in her recliner. I was fascinated by how the chair could vibrate and move up, down, and back and forth. It was like being on an amusement-park ride. As I sat with Nana, I delighted in lifting the crepe-like skin on the backs of her hands, where it stayed for what seemed like forever. I would squeal with laughter, which made Nana laugh too.
I gave this new life a real chance. I found a temp job as an administrative assistant in downtown Cleveland. I played the part of the charming, docile girlfriend. Jerry’s extended family welcomed me into the fold, including me in birthdays, anniversaries, and every other gathering. I even went to Jerry’s older brother’s wedding, a huge, old-school Italian ceremony.
As much as I tried to integrate myself into the life of Jerry and his family, I always felt like a guest. It was no fault of theirs. It simply wasn’t meant to be.
I wasn’t used to Ohio summers. One evening, the heat and humidity reached their peak. Then came a monstrous thunderstorm, lit by lightning. I remember being at Jerry’s parents’ house, under the covers beside Jerry, in a safe environment. Yet I had never felt more alone. It was time to admit this wasn’t working, nor would it ever work between Jerry and me.
Almost as quickly as I had arrived, Jerry’s parents kindly drove me to the airport, where they, Jerry, and I said our goodbyes.
I flew back to Los Angeles, back to the town where I had grown up, a bit bruised by the experience. Still, in spite of it all, I felt less alone by myself in L.A.
Carol Ornstein writes about observation, change, and the quiet details that often go unnoticed.