One Italian Summer(16)

I feel a smile spread over my face, too, mirroring her own. It’s so simple and wonderful and obvious. A room of her own. I rented this little pensione up the street from Hotel Poseidon. We slept until noon and drank rosé on the water.

I’ve found my mother in her summer of freedom. I’ve found her in the time before me or my father. I’ve found her in the summer of Chez Black, days on the beach and long nights spent talking under the stars. Here she is. Here she actually is. Young and unencumbered and so very much alive.

I got her back, I think. Come to me.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” I say. And then, empowered by her, here, in front of me now, I plow forward: “I’m sorry, you’re right, it must be the heat. I just got in and I’m not used to it. Probably dehydrated from the trip yesterday, too.”

“You just arrived!” she says. “How wonderful. From where? There aren’t many Americans now, seeing as it’s still early in the season. I’ve been here for a few weeks, and I feel like I already live here. It’s a small town.”

She talks with her hands, just like always. Animated and energetic.

“It’s perfect,” I say, watching her.

She’s beautiful, I realize suddenly. Not that I didn’t always know my mother was pretty; I did. She had impeccable style, and her hair was always in place, and her features were sharp and striking. But here, now, she glows. Her face is radiant, not a stitch of makeup, the light shining through her sun-kissed skin. Her legs are strong and lean, wearing just the slightest dusting of a bronzed tan.

“California,” I tell her. “Los Angeles.”

Her eyes get wide. “Me too!” She throws her hands up and then lets them settle on top of her head. “What are the odds?”

Zero. One hundred percent.

“I’ve been in LA about five years now, and I love it. I came from Boston, can you believe it? It’s freezing there just about all the time. Who are you here with?” She glances up the stairs and squints, as if she can intuit the answer.

“I’m alone,” I tell her.

She smiles wide. “Me too.”

Joseph looks back and forth between us. “Okay, miss?”

“I think so,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

“I should get going,” my mother says. She flips her watch over.

I grope forward. She cannot leave. I cannot let her leave.

“No!” I say. “You can’t go.”

She looks curiously at me, and I recover.

“I mean, we should have lunch.”

Her face relaxes. “I’m going to Da Adolfo today. You can join if you’d like. The boat leaves at one or one-thirty.”

“Sorry, one or one-thirty?”

Carol laughs. “It’s Italy,” she says. “Sometimes it’s one, sometimes it’s one-thirty, sometimes it’s not at all.” She holds her hands out like a Roman scale. “You just show up and hope for the best!”

She gives Joseph a little bow. “Thank you, truly.” To me: “I’ll meet you at the dock at one, then, yes?”

I nod. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

And then she leans in close to me. I breathe in the heady smell of her. My mother. She kisses me, once on each cheek. “Ciao, Katy.”

It’s when she pulls back that I realize I’m still clutching her arm.

She places her hand over mine. “You’ll be fine,” she says. “Just water and a little prosecco, maybe. Have a coffee and lie down. All the beverages!” Another rule of Carol’s: you can never drink enough water.

She turns, waves, and walks through the doors, disappearing down the steps and into the street below.

When she’s gone, so is Joseph, and Marco comes strolling inside. I rush up to him.

“Marco,” I say. “Did you just see a woman leaving here? She had lemons on her dress. Her hair was brown and long and straight. She’s beautiful. Please tell me you just saw her.”

Marco lifts his hands. “Half the women in Positano have lemons on their dresses,” he says. “And they are all beautiful.” He winks at me.

“What time does the boat for Da Adolfo leave?” I ask him.

Just then the young woman appears behind the desk.

“This is Nika,” Marco says. “She is family. She works here with me. Nika, say hello to Ms. Silver.”

“We met earlier,” I say. “Briefly, at the desk.”

“Of course,” Marco says. “That is right. Nika, she is everywhere.”

“Hi,” I say.

Nika blushes. “Hello,” she says. “Buongiorno.”

“Ms. Silver would like to go to Da Adolfo today.”

“Oh,” I say. “No, I don’t need a reservation. Just wondering what time the boat leaves.”

“One,” Nika says.

“Or one-thirty.” Marco holds his hands up and gently shakes his head back and forth, like, Italy.





Chapter Eight


I get to the dock at 12:45. I do not want to risk anything. I most definitely do not want to risk missing her. I’m now wearing a fringe-trimmed caftan cover-up over a bathing suit. My mother and I bought it on a trip to the Westfield Century City Mall. It was supposed to be for a weekend Eric and I were taking to Palm Springs for the wedding of his colleague. We ended up getting the flu and skipping the trip, and I’ve never worn it before. Today I paired it with waterproof sandals and my trusty, wide-brimmed sun hat.