Halfway to You(33)

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I told you my job is on the line?”

“Why is that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They took a risk, giving me this assignment. They can’t pay me to be here if I don’t get any material.” Maggie leans forward. “We don’t have to record much—just something. Enough that—”

“I’ve made myself clear.”

“Please,” Maggie begs. “It doesn’t have to be much.”

Ann shakes her head, but Maggie spots a tiny crystal of fear forming in Ann’s honeyed eyes.

Maggie straightens. “Why am I here?”

“You tell me. I was clear about this arrangement.”

“But what’s the point in telling me any of this? Why me? Why now? Why should I stay?”

Ann dabs her mouth with a napkin, though she hasn’t eaten anything yet. “Don’t you want to stay?”

“I do,” Maggie admits. “It’s an honor. But I don’t want to lose my job. I can’t afford to.” She narrows her eyes. “There must be some reason why you’re compelled to do this.”

The corner of Ann’s mouth quivers, just a little, just enough.

Maggie hit a nerve. She should keep prodding but doesn’t want to push too hard, in case she’s pressing not just a nerve, but a wound. “Just say you’ll think about it, all right? We don’t have to record everything.”

Ann’s nod is almost imperceptible, a tiny relinquishment.

But Maggie needs a verbal confirmation. “You’ll think about it?”

“I’ll think about it,” Ann says finally.

It’s a win—albeit a small one. But now a new question lingers, a question that Ann is clearly concerned about answering: Why is Maggie here? Deep in her gut, she knows the answer is more complicated than simply Keith or the healing power of telling.

But for now, Maggie won’t push. Instead, she’ll savor the small win of Ann agreeing to think about it. Because that’s far greater than an outright no.

Maggie takes another bite of sandwich. It’s good. She’s hungry. “Should we continue?”

There’s a shoebox sitting at the end of the counter. With a roll of her shoulders, Ann seems to gain some composure and slides the box closer.





ANN


Rome, Italy

October 1984–March 1986

In a fit of dark emotions, do you ever ruin some small, sentimental thing, only to regret it later? Rather than mail my mother the photos from Mykonos and Santorini, I threw the whole camera away. I was bitter and hurt and angry over many things at once. I never imagined I’d someday want to remember Greece, but oh, Maggie, how my mother would have cherished my captures. What I wouldn’t give for those pictures now.

Shattered from the strike of Todd’s rejection and frustrated with myself for having a porcelain heart, I traveled. That’s the thing about travel—it makes your problems seem far away. I wanted to be a different person, a new person, a stranger. I slipped into anonymity hoping I could hide from my feelings—but they were my shadow.

I traveled through the Mediterranean for nine months before finally landing in Rome. I found an apartment in a charming neighborhood shrugged up against the Tiber River; the space was small but full of light, with a balcony and hardwood floors. I hadn’t planned to linger for long, but Rome bewitched me.

It was summertime when I arrived. I used to joke that the fresh tomatoes and basil won me over. I befriended a restaurateur named Carmella who took me to all the best markets, showed me all the finest vendors, and spoiled me with decadent dishes. She was dating a barista at the time, who made us cappuccinos, and how could I not fall in love with a city so full of flavor?

Rome is also where I began my writing career.

I bought a Brother portable electric typewriter and poked out hundreds of thousands of words—not just in Chasing Shadows but following Keith’s advice too. I wrote short stories and articles based on my travels and sold a good few to journals and magazines. I found a sense of purpose in my writing and began to build a name for myself. And all the while I worked on my novel.

Many consider Chasing Shadows to be semiautobiographical. I always found this speculation invasive and unrealistic: What art isn’t personal? The book’s plot was all fiction, but of course there was truth in its sentiment. It’s harrowing, sorrowful, angry—but it’s also brave, romantic, and big. This was the dichotomy of my emotional landscape after my mother insulted me and Todd rejected me. The book was a study in how to unravel love from disappointment.

Then, one day, Chasing Shadows was done. I typed out four hundred fresh pages and slid them into a box. Keith’s blue business card was faded around the edges, worn and creased from months spent traveling with me across Europe. I hoped the address was the same.

I mailed the book off and waited.

Fretted, and waited.

Then waited some more.

I worried he’d forgotten me, or hated me, or hated the book. I was miserable with anticipation when the box finally returned. It looked as if it’d been through hell. Two corners were dented, and it had all manner of brown scuffs and foreign-looking stamps.

Inside was even worse. My manuscript’s once-crisp pages were tattered and coffee stained, tattooed in red pen.