“See?Thatsounds reasonable. Grace Hiri,” I said, trying it on for size. “I could be okay with that.”
She sighed. “Oh, my little one.” She shook her head. “Hirimeansgracein Albanian.”
“So, if my name was Grace Hiri, it would actually translate toGrace Grace?”
My mother nodded. “This is why we named you Grace. After my family name.”
I shoved my face back into the pillow and let out a scream.
She gently rubbed my back and put a third Oreo cookie in my hand. “It’s okay. It is just a name.”
“I can never look at Colin Yarmouth again,” I wailed.
“Who?” Mom asked.
“Colin Yarmouth. He’s the boy who called me…Elvis.” I popped a whole cookie into my mouth and chewed voraciously.
“He doesn’t have such a great name.Yarmouth.I don’t like it.”
“It’s better than Landing.”
“Relax, Gracie. Let me go get you more cookies. You rest.”
Mom opened the door to my bedroom and went down the hall to the kitchen. I sat quietly on my bed, breathing deeply and savoring the chocolate mixed with the partially hydrogenated goodness in the center. I wasn’t crying, but I could stillhearcrying, which made me think I was going crazy, until I realized the tears I was listening to were not actually mine.
“Nonna? Are you okay?” my mother asked. “Why are you holding your rosary beads?”
“I pray for this house, that my Joseph does not strike lightning upon us all,” my grandmother said, each word laden in an Italian accent as thick as cannoli cream.
“Why would you think such a thing?”
“You talk about his name as if it was some curse.Landing, this beautiful name, it meansthe end of a voyage. It wasLandinin French from my Joseph’s father, and they changed it toLandingwhen he came to the United States. And you mock.”
“No, no, Nonna. Don’t misunderstand. Gracie had a bad day in school because someone made fun of her name.”
“I never blame Gracie. She is still a baby. But you—you should teach her some respect.”
“I apologize, Nonna. I have only respect for—”
“You live in my Joseph’s house, God rest his soul. He bought this house for us in 1958, when little Joey was still a boy. This is aLandinghouse.”
I could hear my mother get the Oreos out of the pantry. The crinkle of the wrapping was unmistakable. “I’m sorry, Nonna,” she said.
“Have some respect,” she repeated quietly. “Our Father, who art in heaven,” she prayed.
This was how both my mother and I knew the conversation was over.
Mom brought the cookies to my room and placed them on my nightstand. Then, without a word, she went into her bedroom and stayed there until my father got home from work. I never mentioned Colin Yarmouth or complained about my name in that house ever again.
The lesson? Never, under any circumstances, should a woman have to cohabitate with her mother-in-law. Side lesson? Three Oreos is never enough.
I’m reminded of this story as I listen to the phone ring at my mom and dad’s house.
“Hello?” Dad answers.
“Hey, Dad. It’s me.”
“Oh, Gracie!” he says. “Emina!” he yells. “It’s Gracie!”
