One Italian Summer(65)

“Hi,” I say. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know, getting by.” I hear a clattering of something—plates?

“It’s late. Are you in the kitchen?”

“Indeed I am.”

“Dad,” I say slowly. “Are you cooking?”

“There’s this corn salad she used to make that I miss,” he says. “How hard could it be?”

I look out over the late morning. Everything bathed in a bright yellow light. Blue. Green. Brilliant.

“Dad,” I say. “Why did no one ever tell me that mom left? When I was a baby, why did no one ever say she came here?”

There is silence on the other end of the phone, and then I hear him inhale. “Who told you that?”

“Someone here at the hotel,” I say. “They remembered her.”

I hear my father clear his throat, then: “She loved you so much. Immediately. I’d never seen a bond like the two of you shared. But we… It happened fast, Katy. And I think she got lost in the shuffle. It was all too much for her, and she needed some time.”

“What did you say when she wanted to leave?”

My father pauses. “I told her to go,” he says.

The wind picks up. From somewhere in the marina, I hear music begin to play. I think about my mother here, mere hours ago. I think about the sacrifice of my father. I think about Eric in the shower.

“How did you know she’d come back?”

“I didn’t,” he says. “That’s how I knew I really loved her. I knew already, but that changed our marriage for me. Ultimately I think it let her come home.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because she knew it, too. She felt that freedom. It felt like love. The best thing I ever did was letting your mother go. No one is perfect, Katy. Perfect doesn’t exist. What we had was pretty fucking good, though.”

I’ve never heard my dad swear. Never, not once. And for some reason, this makes me laugh. I feel the bubbling in my belly, and then my shoulders are shaking, right on the balcony.

“Eric is here,” I tell my dad, gulping in breath.

“I know,” he says. I hear the lightness in his tone, too. “He called me. I told him to go.” He pauses. “Did I do the wrong thing?”

I hear Eric, out of the shower. I see him in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist. “No,” I say. “You didn’t.”

“Katy,” he tells me. “History is an asset, not a detriment. It’s nice to be with someone who knows you, who knows your history. It will get even more important the longer you live. Learning how to find your way back can be harder than starting over. But, damn, if you can, it’s worth it.”

Eric begins walking toward me. I see him backlit by the sun.

“I’m sorry,” my father continues.

“For what?”

“That you never got to take this trip together. I think the reason she wanted to go back there with you is she wanted to tell you herself. I think she wanted to show you this place that was so transformative for her.” He pauses. When he returns, his voice wobbles. “I’m sorry you never got to experience that together.”

I think about Carol at the docks, Carol at lunch, Carol at La Tagliata in the hills, Carol in the kitchen at the apartment with the bright blue door.

“I get it, though,” I say. “I got it here.”

We hang up as Eric reaches me. “My dad,” I say. I hold the phone up like evidence.

Eric takes it out of my hand. He sets it down on the outdoor table. He’s still wearing only the towel. His body looks good—different, somehow, fuller. Or maybe it’s just been this long since I’ve really looked at him.

He puts both his hands on my arms and runs them down so his fingers interlace with mine. I feel heat spark through me, like an engine starting, sputtering to life.

He moves his hands to my lower back. The familiarity of him—of his smell, his warmth, his touch—makes me want to fold into him.

“Katy,” he says. “I—”

“Eric, listen.”

“Tell me. If it’s too soon, if you don’t want to—I understand. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, whenever you are. Italy or home or—”

“I love you,” I say, and I watch Eric’s face dissolve into a smile so wide it changes his entire profile. I realize I haven’t seen him smile like that in a long time—too long. “It’s been a really hard year, but it’s true, I love you. And I want to make the choice to be with you.”

“You do?”

I nod. “Yes,” I answer. “You know me.”

And then we’re kissing. His towel falls. I feel the cool shower droplets on my skin. They evaporate in a moment. We kiss each other inside, and once we are, I lift my dress up and over my head.

Any remaining clothing, off. There is an urgency to this I don’t remember ever experiencing with Eric before. But of course I’m wrong about that, too. There were hungry nights—afternoons spent in a dorm-room bed. Crashing into apartments after dinner, subway makeouts. They were lost to the soft beating of time, too, but now here they are, with us. Everything that was old, born new again.

I sit back on the bed. We lock eyes. I feel this pull, this electricity between us. The air is charged. I feel my body. This return to myself. The same one that was barren and starved with her passing, now brought back to life. Adam, the stairs, the food and wine. It has all made the blood pump faster and my skin feel softer, weightier. The blessing of this life, this one, brilliant, beautiful life. All the loss and anguish. All the joy that makes it possible. The tender connections, the fragility, the impossible odds of being here, now, together. The choice of continuing to make it so.