My Sicilian grandmother believes in destiny. She also believes she will be dead within the year.

She demonstrates this at my weekly summoning to her house.

“I think I am leaving this world today,” Nonna says dramatically into the phone. “I cannot feel my hands.”

“I’m pulling into your drive now. What’s wrong with your hands?” I hit the brake and park beside her Lincoln Town car.

The red velvet curtains in her front window pull to the side and she waves at me. “Oh, you’re here. In that case, I’m fine.”

Exactly as I thought. Checking myself in the mirror, I grimace. Nonna hates my scruffy face, but I didn’t have time to shave this morning. She’ll have to deal with it.

Since I’m accustomed to her grandma-who-cried-wolf act, I temper her demand with some suspicion. I always show up.

“What took you so long? What if I fall and can’t get up?” she says as I follow her into the kitchen, her tracksuit pants making a wisp-wisp-wisp sound as she walks.

She’s a hip grandma with her baseball cap and designer gym clothes. She’s also very active. Her schedule includes visits three times a week to the gym where I work in my day job.

“Did you want me to speed?” I sit at her kitchen table and open the newspaper. She may be hip, but she won’t accept the electronic age as her news source.

She makes a displeased tutting noise with her tongue and then says a few words in Sicilian. Even though she raised me, I still can’t translate her muttering. All I catch is “meschino,” meaning poor thing, I think. As a third generation Sicilian, I really know very little about Sicily and its language.

I tilt my head at her. “Nonna, I’m here now.”

“When are you bringing a girl with you?” She pushes a plate of bread fritters at me.

“I don’t know, Nonna. You know I don’t eat bread. Too many bad carbs.” I lick my lips and inhale the yeasty aroma. My mouth waters, knowing I cannot resist my favorite. I surrender and pull a crusty end from the nearest fritter.

“I know, but life must be enjoyed,” she says and watches me with delight. “How old are you?”

She knows I’ve just had my twenty-fourth birthday. This is her way of beginning the conversation about my failing to fulfill her wishes. I’ve been through this same dialogue every week of the past year. “Too old to be asked this question.”

“Your father was twenty-five. He already had a child. What do you think about that?” She pushes the entire platter of bread fritters closer to me.

“I think he and Mom didn’t use protection.” I blink at her innocently, but she catches my meaning and pulls the platter back to her.

“You don’t deserve these. Life will end before you know it. I could pass next week. I am eighty-nine.”

I reach across to take more fritter, and she smacks my hand in a surprisingly sharp blow.

“Ouch,” I grab the rest of the fritter.

“Do you know how old my mother was when she passed?”

“Eighty-nine.” I hate this part of the conversation. I love my grandmother, but this is ridiculous. Are all old people this obsessive?

I grab a linen napkin—the only kind she keeps on the table—and wipe the corners of my mouth. Even though my grandmother has lived here longer than she lived in Sicily, she still holds tightly to her superstitions. She believes the women in her family die before they reach ninety. Her friend Esme feeds her fear with a weekly tarot card reading.

Her eyes are kind now. “And her mother was eighty-nine when she passed. You must keep your eyes open for your wife this year.”

“I keep them wide-open,” I say and roll my eyes so she’ll quit watering that seed in my brain. “Nonna,” I scold. “It’s not easy to meet somebody that I’m interested in marrying.”

She points to a spot in front of her on the table as if she’s seeing the cards again. “She could pass by you on the street and you’ll miss her if you aren’t watching.” Her gaze flicks up to meet mine. “You are too picky.”

I stand and push away from the table before she can continue. “Nonna, it’s always nice to see you.” Leaning in to kiss her wrinkled cheek, I whisper, “I can’t find a woman as wonderful as you. Besides, I’m only on number four of my list of goals. I’ll start my own health club; then I’ll find a woman I want to marry. Be patient.”

She grabs my face with both hands so I’m forced to make eye contact. “I want to meet this woman before I die. I want you to know the pleasures of a good woman.”

I pull out of her hands and grin mischievously as I stand straight. “You’re too late Nonna. I’ve known plenty of pleasures already.”

She grabs my discarded napkin and throws it at me. “You are a wicked boy. Find a bride. Take me and your bride to Sicily so I can visit once more before I die. I will buy you the health club. I have plenty of money.”

Hurrying from the room, I glance over my shoulder and see her quick on my heels. “Bye, Nonna. See you in a week.”

“Aiden, you’re straining my heart. Maybe I’ll be here. Maybe I won’t.”