Halfway to You(46)

Mom had spent so much of my childhood lamenting that I had held her back—that I was at fault for her shortcomings—and maybe that was true. Because as soon as I skipped town, Mom had cleaned up her life. And then cancer stole it away.

My eyes burned, and I finally released the phone into its cradle. My plan had been to hold my mother’s hand, to say all the things I wanted to say in person. Now, I never would.

The last time she’d asked for money was the fall after my book tour. Had she not attended my reading because she was sick? Had she asked for money to cover treatment? Why hadn’t she told me any of this? Had I known, I would have forgiven her for her absence rather than spitefully refusing her request. Had I known, I would’ve sent her every last dime.

My aunt didn’t invite me to the memorial.





ANN


Rome, Italy

November 1990

When I finally wrote Todd about my mother, nearly three months had passed since my last letter, and he’d sent two in the meantime.

Todd,

I’m sorry for not writing. My mother died at the end of August and I’ve had trouble focusing since then. It’s like I’m suspended in a cloud—numb and chilled—with guilt and sorrow storming inside me. I know you are familiar with grief, so I probably don’t need to explain any further.

I hope you are well.

—Ann

Rather than wallow in my grief, I filled my time translating neighborhood menus and helping restaurateurs and waiters improve their English. Through these meetups, I strengthened my fluency in Italian and deepened my roots in Rome. I filled every minute I could with company. The less time I spent alone with my thoughts, the better.

Trastevere was getting trendier by the day—boutiques and eateries of all sorts had opened to accept the influx of tourists exploring beyond the Colosseum and Pantheon. Food tours frequently brought big groups into restaurants, and Carmella’s was a regular host. The place was often booked up on the weekends, but Carmella kept a small table for me on Friday nights, where she spoiled me with off-menu items and kitchen experiments.

I’d recently started dating one of my tutoring clients, a Roman named Luca. He was five years my junior, sweet and a little timid but very sexy. We sipped cappuccinos and shared cigarettes, and he proudly showed me more of his city. It was still very new. We hadn’t slept together yet, but we’d kissed and touched, and for once I liked taking things slow.

Mid-November came, bringing with it a stretch of clear-skied, chilly weather. Leaves were tossed by the crisp wind, corralled into the nooks of narrow cobblestone streets, collecting in rafts on the river. My grief was beginning to scab over; I wasn’t so raw or weepy anymore.

It was a particularly cold Friday evening when I found myself tucked into my usual seat at Carmella’s. She never gave me a menu, so I was people watching out the fog-frosted window, delighting in the sweetness of first dates, of newly grasped hands and awkward, too-big gestures. Luca and I didn’t hold hands like a couple I spotted outside; we didn’t try each other’s food like the pair sitting in an opposite corner of Carmella’s. I liked his sharp haircut and quick Italian words; I liked when we didn’t speak at all. But did he make me feel cherished and understood, as I saw hinted in the actions of other couples? As I so craved in a romantic relationship?

I sipped my sparkling water, wondering if something was missing.

“Hello, my friend!” Carmella had come to my corner, her white chef’s outfit tarnished by the tiniest splatters of orange. Her melted-chocolate eyes held mine, full of warmth and welcome. “How are you?”

“Sto bene,” I said, “e tu?” My Italian was slow, but quite good, and I liked conversing with my friend in her native tongue.

She switched to Italian. “I’m well. Wine?”

“Of course, thank you.”

“I recommend the Pèppoli tonight. It’s a Chianti Classico that will go well with this new dish I’m trying.”

“Sounds fabulous.”

She disappeared into the kitchen. A waiter (and occasional bar-hopping buddy) named Paolo delivered the bottle and poured me a generous glass. Shortly thereafter, he brought a plate of crostini neri.

I sipped the wine—mild, but pleasant—and nibbled on the appetizer, back to people watching.

Halfway through my crostini, there was a bit of a ruckus at the door. An American man with a suitcase couldn’t be seated because the restaurant was full. I couldn’t see his face past the heads of diners between myself and the door, but I heard the man clarify that he did not want a table. He needed directions. The host didn’t speak English well enough to help piece together the misunderstanding. I considered standing up to help, but then another waiter approached the front, crowding the situation.

I continued eating and sipping and listening to the commotion.

“Dove . . . dove si trova . . .” Even in broken Italian, the fumbling American voice sounded . . . familiar?

I stood halfway out of my seat to catch a glimpse, unbelieving. My heart thundered, and an adrenaline-like bolt of astonishment and elation struck me. It crackled through my veins and lit up my insides.

“Todd!” I squealed, catching his attention—along with that of the waiters and irritated diners in the immediate vicinity.

“Copper.” He sounded breathless and relieved.