Italian for Beginners Page 24

  My mother had still left us without a word and without an explanation. No matter the reason, that fact would always haunt me, and it would always hurt. I didn’t think I could ever fully forgive her for that.

  But for the first time in my life, I understood that it didn’t have to do with us. Not entirely. She hadn’t left because she didn’t love us. It was because she was fighting demons she couldn’t understand, and because she didn’t want to drag us down with her.

  It meant it wasn’t my fault.

  On a logical level, especially now as an adult, I realized that when a couple splits from each other, it generally was between the two of them, not because of anything that had happened with their children. I knew I shouldn’t be carrying the blame around on my shoulders.

  But when you’re eleven and your mother walks away, it’s impossible not to blame yourself. So even though my father would tuck me in at night and tell me that our mother loved us and would be back soon and that her leaving had nothing to do with us, I never quite believed him. Maybe if I’d cleaned my room better, picked on my sister less frequently, stopped arguing about staying up past my bedtime, she would have stayed. Maybe if I’d been better organized, had been able to take care of myself, had helped out more around the house, she wouldn’t have felt so much pressure.

  And so I became the person I thought she wanted me to be. I stopped fighting with Becky; I did my best to take care of Dad; I vacuumed, I did dishes, I cleaned up after all three of us, I learned to cook dinner, and I did everything I was told. I never went through a rebellious phase as a teenager, because what if rebelling made my father want to leave us, too? I never took chances, because what if they didn’t turn out right and something bad happened to me? Who would take care of Becky?

  I had become the woman I was today because I thought my mother had left us because we weren’t worth the hassle, because we weren’t worth loving. I had become who I was because I thought that if I could just make myself better, I’d be easier to love, and she’d come back.

  But it hadn’t had anything to do with me. She hadn’t fled our family in favor of a mysterious stranger. She hadn’t left us to love another set of kids. She had left because she didn’t know how to take care of herself, and she didn’t know how to ask for help.

  Her solution had been to run away from what was inside of herself, from what was right in front of her. And hadn’t I spent my entire adult life doing nearly the same thing?

  * * *

  Karina listened that afternoon, openmouthed, as I poured out the story of meeting my aunt Gina that morning.

  “I’m so proud of you for doing all this,” she said softly. “So where are your grandparents? Did you meet them, too?”

  I looked down. “Gina said that my grandmother died five years ago, and my grandfather died last year,” I said. “She runs the store alone now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Karina said.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. I felt tears in my eyes. “I actually think it’s okay. It means they’re probably with my mom, right?”

  Karina nodded quickly, and I looked up in time to see tears glistening in her eyes, too. She blinked them quickly away. “So what are you going to do now?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know that there’s anything to do. I have a lot to think about, you know? I just can’t stop feeling guilty about how horrible I was to my mother when she was going through all that.” I paused and swallowed a lump in my throat. “When she came back, she spent every day telling me she loved me. And I spent every day telling her how much I hated her guts. She died thinking I hated her.”

  Karina was silent for a long time. I was sure she was judging me, and she had every right to. I’d been a horrible daughter. A horrible person.

  “Say something,” I said, finally, into the silence. “If you think I’m the worst person in the world, just tell me.”

  “No,” Karina said firmly. She took a deep breath. “I need you to listen to me. Look at me.” She paused and waited until I looked reluctantly into her eyes. “Listen to me closely, Cat. She knew.”

  “What?”

  “She knew,” she repeated firmly.

  “Knew what?”

  “Knew how much you loved her,” Karina said. “Knew that as much as you wanted to, you could never hate her.”

  I shook my head. “How would you know that?”

  Karina waited to respond until I was looking into her eyes again. “Because I’m a mother,” she said. “And a mother always knows. A mother can read her child’s eyes like a book. A mother can see into her child’s heart. A mother always knows.”

  “But she was gone for five years.” I shook my head. “I’d changed. She couldn’t still know me.”

  “A mother knows,” Karina repeated. “No matter how you thought you felt, and regardless of the words you said, I know she could read it in your eyes.”

  I started to protest. But there was something about the expression on Karina’s face that stopped me. She meant it with every ounce of her being.

  “You have nothing to regret,” she added after a moment. “Cat, you were just a child. A hurt, sad child. None of this was your fault.”

  I stared into my mug for a long time, as if the answers to my own darkness lay in the coffee’s murky depths.

  Karina was silent for a while. Then, gently, she said, “Cat, I need to talk to you about Michael Evangelisti.”

  I jerked my head up and stared at her. “Michael?” I asked. I laughed harshly. “What is there to say? He’s a married guy who doesn’t care that he has a wife and child.”

  “Cat,” Karina said slowly. “He’s not married.”

  “What?” I said. I shook my head. “No, you’re wrong. His mother-in-law called the restaurant the night I went out with him. She lives with them, for God’s sake. And you even said yourself that you knew his wife!”

  “Exactly,” Karina said. “I knew her. I didn’t say I know her.”

  My insides went cold. “What?”

  “Her name was Linda,” Karina said slowly. “An American. She was quiet, but she seemed very kind.” She paused. “They had a daughter together. Annie. She’s about Nico’s age.” She hesitated again and looked at me. “Linda died four years ago. In a car accident.”

  “What?”

  Karina nodded. “Annie was in the car with her. She barely had a scratch. But Linda was killed. Michael was devastated. He came back here, to Roma, to his family, for a year. In fact, Nico and Annie used to play together when they were little. But he wanted to raise Annie in New York, where he had built his life, so he moved back and he opened a restaurant there. Linda’s mother moved in with him to help care for Annie, because he was working such long hours to get the restaurant off the ground and he didn’t want his daughter to be raised by a nanny.”

  I felt like someone had just punched me in the gut.

  “He’s not married?” I whispered.

  Karina shook her head. “No. He explained the misunderstanding he had with you. He feels terrible. I told him I didn’t even know he had started dating. He said he hadn’t; you were the first person he’s asked out since Linda. He said he didn’t know he was ready until he saw you sitting on a barrel of olive oil in his kitchen.”

  “He said that?” I asked.

  Karina nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I think he really likes you.”

  “Oh, God,” I said. I put my head in my hands. “What have I done?”

  “It was a misunderstanding,” Karina soothed. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  I looked up. “Where is he now?”

  She hesitated. “He left for New York,” she said. “He tried to come after you last night. But you didn’t come home.”

  Guilt poured through me like the flood of a burst dam. “No,” I said.

  Karina nodded. “He left you a note,” she said.

  “He did?”

  She nodded again and fished in her apron pocket. A moment later, she
drew out a folded piece of paper. “Here,” she said. “I have to get back to work anyhow. I’ll come by after my shift. But read this. And think about it. Okay?”

  I was in a daze as my hands closed around the piece of paper.

  I sat down in my apartment a few minutes later, still holding the note in my hand. I was dying to know what it said, but there was a part of me that wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to.

  After all, it was scary to let someone in. It had almost been easier when I could write Michael off as a lying, cheating scumbag. That I could handle. That I was used to. But meeting someone who took my breath away for the right reasons was a different story altogether.

  And there were so many reasons not to give him a chance. If I was the first person he’d been out with since his wife, chances were he was an emotional wreck, and I’d be his dating guinea pig, right? And then there was the fact that he had a child. If, by some chance, it worked out between Michael and me, was I really ready to be a stepmother to a little girl? I had always worried I’d be a terrible parent, that I would fail the children I was supposed to love, just like my mother had. I knew I was getting much too far ahead of myself—I’d been out with Michael only once, and here I was superimposing myself onto his family blueprint—but it was something I knew I had to consider. Another person’s life hung in the balance here. What kind of mother—or stepmother— was I capable of being?

  And then there was Marco. Sweet Marco, who had seen my sadness and fear and had done more to open my eyes and open my heart than anyone had done in years. And that was the bottom line. He was a good man. And I wasn’t a woman who walked away. I never walked away. I wasn’t my mother.

  I slowly unfolded the letter and began to read.

  Dear Cat,

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about my wife and my daughter. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to explain it to you that night at the restaurant. And I’m sorry if I hurt you or made you feel like I had betrayed you at all. I’m assuming Karina has explained it to you by now. It’s still really hard for me, the whole situation, and I’m not sure what to do. I haven’t dated since Linda died. I haven’t wanted to. My life is my daughter and my restaurant. I didn’t think I had room for anything else.

  And then I met you, and you were the first person who made me want to take a chance. I know it sounds crazy, and of course I barely know you, but I felt something that day at your sister’s wedding. And of course I’ve screwed it all up, now, and I don’t know if I’ve scared you away for good. If I have, I don’t blame you. It’s my fault. But if you can find it in your heart to give me another chance, I’d like that very much. I’m not sure I’m ready. But I’d like to try.

  Maybe there was a reason that I ran into you in Rome. I knew you’d said you were coming here. And I knew I’d told you that my family owned a place near the Pantheon. So I was hoping that maybe I’d see you somewhere around. I didn’t realize you had moved in with Karina. I wish I’d known. Maybe we would have had a chance to talk. Instead, I spent a few days wandering the streets around here, looking for your face in the crowd. I had given up. And then I saw you across the bar. I couldn’t believe it. But maybe that was the way it was meant to be.

  I’m sorry I had to leave without saying good-bye. I know you’re in Rome for a little while longer. But please, take some time to think about this. There’s no rush. And you know where to find me when you’re back in New York… if you want to find me. It’s up to you.

  Ciao,

  Michael

  I read and reread the note several times. Then I folded it carefully, put it into the side pocket of my handbag, and sat back down on my bed to think.

  Karina came up to my apartment just past nine. She’d put Nico to bed, and her mother was downstairs watching TV. “I thought you might want to talk,” she said. “Want to go get a bite to eat?”

  I nodded, and together we walked out of the apartment. Ten minutes later, we had settled into two seats on the patio of a little café just around the corner, in the opposite direction from the Pantheon.

  “They have wonderful pizza here,” Karina said. “The best pizza in the city, I think. Would you like to share one?”

  I nodded, and when the waiter came over, Karina took care of ordering. The waiter returned a moment later with a bottle of chianti and two glasses of water. He poured us each some wine, and after he left, Karina raised her glass in a toast. “To mothers,” she said.

  I smiled. “To mothers.”

  We each took a sip of our wine. I was trying to think of how to ask a question that had been weighing on my mind. “Karina?” I finally said.

  “Yes?”

  “How did you know you were ready to be a mother?”

  She laughed. “I didn’t. At all! It was the last thing I would have planned for myself. But it happened when it was supposed to. And the moment I saw Nico’s face for the first time, I knew everything was going to be all right.”

  “But you always knew you’d be a good mother, right?” I asked. “I mean, your mom seems perfect.”

  Karina smiled. “I thought I’d be a horrible mother,” she said. “I loved to smoke. I loved to drink. I have a terrible temper, as I’m sure you’ve realized. I am selfish, and I didn’t think I could love a child the way I was supposed to. I thought I’d want to spend my money on clothes and shoes and going out with my friends.

  “But then everything changed,” she said softly. “And for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”

  I thought about this for a moment. I nodded.

  “Is this about Michael?” she asked softly. “And Annie?”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “I don’t know how to feel about that. I’m scared of dating someone with a child. I’m terrified, actually. Not because I don’t want a child. But because I’m not sure I’m a good enough person to be part of a child’s life.”

  Karina laughed. “Cat, that’s the craziest thing you’ve ever said. You’re one of the best people I know.”

  I swallowed hard. “But what about Marco? I started something with him, too. Don’t I owe it to him to see that through?”

  Karina shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to that,” she said. “I think you have to look inside yourself and see what feels right.” She was silent for a moment and then added, “I have realized that when you do your best to do the right thing, life has a way of working out. So if being with Marco feels right, then do it. But if it doesn’t, well, you’re doing him good by walking away before he gets too involved.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. It still felt like walking away from a good person, something I had vowed I would never do. But maybe the world wasn’t as black-and-white as I’d thought it was. Maybe I was ignoring a whole spectrum of colors. Funny how I could see all those complexities so sharply through the lens of my camera, but without it to hide behind, I reverted to the safe simplicity of wrong or right, without considering all the shades in between. It had always seemed like the perfect way to view the world, because it left little room for error. But now, I was realizing that perhaps the viewpoint itself had been one big error all along.

  Our meal arrived, and Karina changed the subject by telling funny stories about things Nico had done. She was right; the pizza was delicious. The crust was thin, flat, and perfectly crispy at the edges, and the sauce atop it was rich and flavorful. The pizza was topped with a thin layer of perfectly melted mozzarella, followed by thinly sliced tomatoes and whole basil leaves that I was sure had just been plucked. On top of that lay several thick slices of soft, tender buffalo mozzarella. The combination of flavors and the freshness of it all made my taste buds sing.

  This was Italy; it was all atop this pizza, in a medley of freshness and flavors that I’d never seen duplicated across the Atlantic. I wondered for a moment why it was so hard to do something so simple. Couldn’t a New York chef duplicate this exact meal in a stateside kitchen? But the fact that it couldn’t happen, tha
t it didn’t happen, was just another piece of evidence that my two worlds, New York and Rome, could never be reconciled with each other, could never be one.

  When we were done, we ordered two espressos and split a tiramisu.

  “I was thinking about what you said,” I began as we leaned back in our seats to watch the people walking by on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. It had been a slow but steady parade all night of young families going home, hopeful couples heading out, and friends making their way down the street arm in arm. It was life.

  “What did I say?” Karina asked. She laughed and added, “I say lots of things.”

  I smiled. “What you said about how I’ve always lived life on the safe side.”

  She blushed a little. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my business.”

  “No,” I said. “It was. And I’m glad you said it.”

  She looked at me, waiting.

  I took a deep breath and continued. “I’ve always loved photographs,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. She smiled, and I had the sense she knew exactly what I was about to say. Perhaps she’d even known it before I had.

  “I think I’d like to try to sell some of them,” I concluded.

  “Well, that is good news,” she said. She paused. I could tell she was trying to hide a smile.

  “It is?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Since I have already contacted a photo gallery in New York about your photos.”

  “What?” My eyes bulged out of my head.

  Karina nodded calmly. “Yes. They are too beautiful to be kept to yourself, Cat. And I knew you would realize that someday, too.”

  I wasn’t understanding. “Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean, you contacted a gallery?”

  “I used the Internet to find a photo gallery in New York that specializes in Italian photographers,” she said with a nonchalant shrug, like it was no big deal. “The owner is American but spent many years living in Roma, and when I called, I just explained that I was an agent and that I had discovered a new talent in Roma and would like to send along a few photographs for her consideration.”