I Never Stopped

by Elizabeth Mitchell

  "If you insist," Francesca said. Despite her irritation, she grinned. Baked goods had that effect on her.

  The sun streaked through the open door of the bakery. A shelving unit against the wall displayed various loaves of bread. Lia beamed when they came in, ready to serve her customers. Hints of lines creased around her eyes when she recognized Mama.

  "Maria!" Lia came around the cement-topped counter with wide open arms. Her mint green strapless dress draped the floor. "It's been too long. And is this who I think it is? Maria, she looks just like you."

  Though Lia's jet-black frizz was pinned back, it still managed to end up in Francesca's mouth as she strangled her with a hug. Francesca must have tensed, because Lia pulled back, her dark olive skin tinted pink. Francesca ignored Lia's embarrassment and thought about her own paleness again. It made her feel like a fraud of an Italian, especially with freckles that would have been more at home on Sloane's fair skin.

  "Yes, it has been far too long. We mustn't let it go so long! An hour away is no excuse. And yes, yes, it is," Mama said with pride. Francesca wasn't much to be proud of at the moment: sad, alone, abandoned, angry, and–verging on–starving. "This is Francesca."

  "I'm Lia. It's so very nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you. All good!" she added quickly.

  Isn't that what you were supposed to say, a platitude? It wasn't as if she could tell Francesca Mama had bitched about her. And what should Francesca tell Lia when she'd heard nothing about her?

  She chose: "It's nice to meet you too. I had to sneak in before lunch; it was impossible not to." She hoped her expensive teeth and compliment would make up for the lack of returned knowledge.

  Lia laughed surprisingly heartily for such a slight woman. "The bread. That's its main purpose, really. I do sell it, mind you, but far less often. My regulars buy it, sure. Usually, though, people stop in because of its mouthwatering smell, and end up buying the sweets."

  Francesca hated being a cliche; that hadn't stopped her before. "I suppose we're going to follow the trend. I was hoping to grab a few Zeppoles. Mama says you make them, and in San Francisco, they only have decent ones. Please tell me you have some left?"

  "I do, indeed." Lia produced a baker's dozen of Zeppoles before Francesca could decide how many she wanted–nine or ten. "Powdered sugar, I assume?"

  "You assumed right." Francesca hoped Mama didn't mind paying. She hadn't remembered to exchange any of her money. Damn.

  Lia more than 'dusted' the baked goodies with the cocaine sweetener. Francesca's mouth watered, lunch forgotten. "Those look like perfection."

  "They are," Lia said. "I mean, they're my grandmother's recipe, so they are heaven. I'm not bragging about myself."

  "It would be okay if you were." Mama laughed. "They are the best Zeppoles in Italy." She took out her money without glancing at Francesca.

  Okay, she didn't mind. That meant they could discuss it, and so many other things, over lunch.

  6

  Sloane

  A force pulled on her insides, tugging Sloane towards the center of the earth. Fear of the unknown struck as The Gray gripped her like an angry neighbor from her childhood. Her breath became as uneven as the ground under her. Familiar wooden slats were replaced with cobblestones. As The Gray released its hold on Sloane and ebbed back to its smoky fog, she took in her surroundings. She was in Tuscany.

  Before Sloane had a moment to appreciate the sights or marvel at the fact she'd made it somehow, she heard her favorite sound.

  Francesca and Mama Nuccio sat a wrought iron table laughing. She wore the sundress she'd worn during their first garden party. A friend threw a party every June where partygoers were "encouraged" to bring a homemade drink, recipe included. They'd vote on the best tasting one, best name, and most creative. Francesca preferred showing up late, so their drink would be the last the already tipsy crowd tasted–or remembered; Sloane always complained.

  "What?" she'd said the first year. "You tell me about a party, and I make a plan to have us win… and you don't like it?"

  "I just don't want to miss out on the tastiest drinks."

  Some party-goers would bring a small pitcher that would be gone before half of the guests arrived, and Sloane hated missing fun boozy concoctions; it was the only reason she'd wanted to be so social.

  Francesca had laughed. "This is the tastiest drink. Now, keep stirring, while I go change."

  She'd come out in the white sundress, her hair down and wild, wearing the key necklace Sloane had given her ages before. "Ready! Let's go win us a contest!"

  Seeing her in that dress again, laughing with Mama Nuccio, was like shattering glass. There were seven bags by their feet, and mounds of pasta and a carafe of white wine on the table. Mama Nuccio sparkled with energy.

  Though the sun shone, a small cloud still lived around Sloane; raindrops fell on her head.

  Hovering by Francesca's shoulder, Sloane shifted a napkin–no, that was the wind. Damn. Using all of the energy she had, she tried to tug on a shopping bag's thin rope handle. It wouldn't budge. Her wet cheeks almost became background noise as her lack of success made her angry, more determined. Somehow, she'd made it to Francesca, to Tuscany. She'd have to figure out what she'd done to make that happen, so she could learn to move things–a small feat, comparatively.

  7

  Francesca

  She had to admit it; she was having fun. Becoming used to eye-rolling half of the times her mother called–far too often, Francesca had forgotten how much she missed her.

  "See, Essie? I knew you'd have fun in Italy."

  The eye roll threatened to make an appearance. "I never said I wouldn't," Francesca replied. She just knew it wouldn't make Sloane's memory disappear, so she still wouldn't be okay.

  Through half-chewed pasta, her mother said some joke to herself. Aloud, she said, "Ah! Here he is." She swallowed a bite so large, Francesca could see it move in her throat as if a mouse were being consumed by a snake.

  "Mama Nuccio!" the tall Italian man cried joyously from inside the restaurant.

  Hearing Sloane's name for her mother snatched Francesca's breath. Though it was a man's voice, she swiveled. Not Sloane, of course.

  "Mama Nuccio," he began once again when he was closer. "How are you this fine afternoon? And who is this bellissimo woman? Mama Nuccio…" He raised his thick eyebrows and smirked, a dimple formed high on the right side of his cheek. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his white apron. "Is this your sister?"

  Without blinking, the letter appeared and her mother swatted him with it.

  "Oh, Tony! I thought you were at your other restaurant on Saturdays. What a delight!" She laughed, and the letter disappeared into her purse. It always seemed like magic. "This is my daughter from San Francisco! She finally came to visit a frail old woman."

  Tony shook all over. "Mama Nuccio, you are a lot of things, but old and frail are none of them." Long eyelashes crushed together with an over exaggerated wink.

  Francesca felt like a child, as they talked about her as though she were elsewhere. But it gave her time to calm her rapid heartbeat. He spoke to Mama as Sloane had. Though her mother loved Sloane, she had given her a hard time as she had with every other person Francesca dated.

  She'd always told Mama Sloane was different, but it wasn't until after the accident that she seemed to believe her.

  Six years, and it appeared as though she'd still expected them to break up at any moment. As if you just "broke up" with someone after years of a committed relationship. Things wouldn't have been so cavalier. Francesca couldn't even think about a life without Sloane before she was gone. Just the thought made her eyes hot.

  Mama coughed. "Francesca?"

  Shoot. They had said something to her while she'd gotten lost in memories.

  "Sorry, just taking in the sun. It's been too long," she said, sighing for emphasis. They both smiled; she must have pulled it off. "Nice to meet you, Tony."

  "You too, Francesca. I've heard man
y stories about you." His chestnut eyes took her in. "I assume they're all true, no?"

  Shiny black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail. A slight beard grew over his full lips. He kept trying to move it as if it itched, but his smile never faltered.

  "Probably. Did Mama tell you about my first spaghetti experience? She loves that one. And how I used to collect weeds instead of flowers? What about the time Sloane and I–?" Francesca broke away. Tears itched, but she recovered. "All stories I'm sure you've heard or will soon enough."

  When he smiled at her, she returned a pleasant one, hoping it looked real.

  "Go, go, Tony. Customers are starving, and you're to blame!"

  The letter stuck out of Mama's purse. "Yes, Mama Nuccio!" He held his hands up. "Let's all have dinner soon. Mama will be so pleased you're here," he said as he turned towards Francesca.

  With that, he left them alone. The mood had shifted; his presence had upset the tenuous, but happy balance.

  "I'll make dinner plans for tomorrow, yes?" she asked, already pulling out a scuffed flip phone.

  "You still use that thing?"

  "It still works." She shrugged. A finger flew up in Francesca's face as Mama put on her phone voice. "Alma, it's Maria Nuccio."

  Adding her last name made Francesca smile. The chorus to Sound of Music's “Maria” began playing in her head.

  "Tony already called? So fast, that one. Yes, I was thinking tomorrow night, too." Mama bounced a little in her chair. "Mhmm. See you."

  Mama pulled a notebook from her purse of wonders and began to write a list on it. "Well? It should just be a small gathering, around ten or so p–"

  Francesca cut her off with an indignant, "What?"

  Mama trudged on. "–At Alma's villa. What do you want to make?"

  "Ten people, Mama? No, I won't do it. I can't."

  It was too much, too fast. Francesca hadn't been to any gathering without Sloane in years. Though Francesca had always been the more social of the two, Sloane had her moments. The party they went to the last time Francesca wore her current outfit–something she hadn't realized until that moment–popped into her head. Her hands shook.

  "What do you want to make?"

  "Are you listening to me?" Francesca leaned forward.

  Her eyes narrowed. "Essie, I hear you, but no I won't listen. What do you want to make?" Mama prodded.

  A losing battle, Francesca hung her head. "Whatever you think is best. I may not come. We'll see."

  "Sure, sure, we'll let lunch sit and pick something after we walk."

  Francesca kept the 'whatever' that sat on the tip of her tongue to herself, as Mama flagged down Tony to tell him the good news. Lunch was on him, he said, adding that it was a "beautiful day for beautiful women".

  They finished their wine before they wandered back into the square. Francesca hoped Mama wouldn't suggest going back to buy clothes at Marta's.

  Even though she'd just finished eating, each bakery and restaurant they passed made her hungry. As they wandered into a more populated area, Francesca's shoes weren't as loud. That did wonders for her mood. Tourists stuck out, all sun-burned with fanny packs. Natives roamed, weaving through the pale visitors like a stream of olive oil. She couldn't wait until she fit that category.

  At the moment, she was an "in-between": more like good vegetable oil, a decent replacement if you were out of olive oil and didn't feel up to going to the store.

  Children played ball in the small streets as if they were stuck in another time.

  Francesca remembered the last time she'd seen anything like that. She and Sloane had been on a road trip to some small town with the 'World's Largest Table,' 'Largest Frying Pan,' or some other small 'Large' claim to fame. The kids had been on monkey bars, screaming about being "it." Dreamily, Sloane had sighed.

  "Maybe one of those could be in our future? What do you think, love?"

  Even if stars hadn't been twinkling in Sloane's jeweled eyes, Francesca still would have said yes. They hadn't had any plans beyond Sloane's question and Francesca's one-word answer. The life-changing subject had been brought up only one week before their anniversary–one week before the accident that took Sloane from Francesca, without getting the wedding Sloane wanted or the baby for which she yearned. A pang hit Francesca in two places at once.

  Mama interrupted at the exact right moment. "Penny for your thoughts?"

  "Sloane. I was thinking about Sloane and how we'd just started thinking about having a baby."

  If she had been a few inches shorter, Francesca might not have noticed her mother's dead stop. "A what?"

  "I know you weren't sure about Sloane–"

  "No, Essie! I was! That's why I pushed her so hard. That's why I wanted you with me, because she was your everything love." She took a deep inhale. "And I know what it's like to lose that."

  But Mama had hated her bio-dad by the end. Hadn't she?

  Mama took Francesca's hand and tugged her towards a structure she recognized–if not from her childhood, from films. The Fonte Gaia was more breathtaking than she remembered. Or maybe, as an adult, she appreciated its unique shape, expertly sculpted tableaus, and the smell of copper wishes more.

  "Do you have any change?" Quiet tears streamed down Francesca's burning face, the sun drying them before they fell. Her breath hitched a little, and she clenched her fists. "Sloane always tossed a penny in to make a wish. I need all the wishes I can get right now."

  Mama pulled out a quarter and a penny from the zippered pouch of her wallet. "For a small and a big wish."

  Francesca's small wish was to make it through the dinner party–if she decided to go; her big wish was to make it through life without Sloane.

  Tossing each coin with her right hand over her left shoulder, just as she had been taught from a young age, she took a moment to appreciate the satisfying plop they made when they hit the bright blue water. As they sunk to the bottom with the thousands of other coins, she wondered if any of the wishes had come true.

  "Let's go home now, Mama."

  Before the sky had fully darkened, Francesca retired to her room.

  Mama had grabbed Francesca's hand on her way to the back of the house. "Tomorrow is another day, Essie. Another adventure awaits."

  Francesca had nodded and walked a little brisker. Relieved to hear the lock click, Francesca had slid down the door and let the evening come.

  Sloane kneeled in front of her, ring case open. "I can't imagine spending a day without you." In one sigh, she asked, "Will you marry me?"

  Francesca pulled Sloane up into her arms. As if she'd swallowed a large marble, her heartbeat throbbed in her throat. "Y–"

  A loud noise broke the dream and woke Francesca, robbing her of the moment she'd never have. "Fuck."

  Mama shouted to the morning, a tradition Francesca had forgotten. For once, she'd thank jet-lag; it had allowed her to sleep through Mama's noise the day before.

  "Essie? Is that you?" her mother yelled. "You come out now since you're up! The door's already open."

  Francesca's stomach rolled. She needed more time. Didn't Mama know Sloane's presence was missed the most in the mornings? If she didn't, Francesca couldn't explain it.

  Resigned, Francesca pulled a ruffled teal skirt and a fitted white shirt from a shiny black shopping bag and shakily shouted, "I'm going to shower."

  Hard droplets from the rain shower hid her morning tears, as she tried to calm herself. Just a dream–Sloane was gone, Francesca was alone, and that would be okay one day.

  Toweling herself off, she ignored her sore face. One day, that too would stop being raw.

  Pajamas called to her from her suitcase begging her to curl up and give in. But no, she'd come to Montepulciano for healing. Francesca laughed out loud and turned away from the mirror. Swollen freckled cheeks and red eyes would only reveal the motive Francesca hid from herself; she'd come to run away. Leaving her hair damp, she met her mother outside.

  "A vision!"

  Frances
ca smiled and tugged at a wildflower from the nearest bush. Sticking it in her hair, she spun around. "I am, aren't I?"

  She didn't actually know. She'd not gone back to the mirror.

  Sloane's sparkling eyes came to mind when the fragrance of the flower wafted to Francesca's nose. Sloane picked any remotely pretty flower, even weed-like ones from sidewalk cracks, to put behind Francesca's ear. Then, they'd tango over-dramatically and smooch loudly as if they were in a cartoon.

  "I see the sadness behind your sarcasm. Food will help, then wine."

  "It's too early for wine, Mama. I just woke up!"

  She hadn't even seen her mother's purse, but before she could blink that damned letter appeared again and smacked her arm. Mama put it in a new envelope, as she did after Francesca's arm and head had bent it to limpness.

  "It is never too early for wine, Essie. Now, do you want breakfast or lunch?"

  "At eight a.m.? Bacon and pancakes and more cinnamon rolls, oh my!"

  "Let's make it quick; some wineries open at nine am!"

  Neither Francesca nor her mother could walk in a straight line. They both swayed, and the world tilted with them. What a follow-up to breakfast, wine.

  "Thiss uns the bes–tuh," Francesca declared. In her head, she said it clearly.

  Mama laughed, "You slurring."

  "'N you're crystal clur," she replied, hearing her letters mash together as she paid close attention to each sound.

  The tour guide hadn't said anything, even as they'd gulped their fourth merlot at their third wine tour. Francesca wouldn't have cared. Slit eyes dared the slight woman in a pressed teal button-up and creased black skirt whenever she looked as though she might.

  'Yes, please try and tell Mama to be quiet.' Francesca would have loved to see all 5 foot 2 of her raise up against Miss Model in heels. By the end of it, Mama would have a refund, free wine, and a voucher for another visit, along with a personal apology from the vineyard's owner.