"A long time. Since my name was Erzsébet."
Speechless, Sloane nodded. What could she say next? 'Oh, cool?'
Molly fell quiet again; only broken breaths cut through The Gray. Sloane couldn't tell whose they were. Did Molly still cry after all these years? Would Sloane, if she stayed?
"Papa thought I was part of his fever," she answered an unasked question. "It calmed him to see me, helped ease him to his next place. I thought it would send me to another place too, but I stayed on."
Sloane's imagination exploded with Francesca withered, with a reunion as she lays dying. Her tears were the loudest then, of that, Sloane had no doubt.
The Gray moved with Molly, as her darkness skipped towards Sloane. Her shape became more solid and ghostly rather than the haze of a smoky bar. Sloane finally got a feel for Molly's age, and it was sobering. No older than thirteen, she still had baby cheeks. An ill-fitting corset peasant dress with a full skirt hung off of her undeveloped body. Sloane wished she made herself visible, as she wanted to see more details. As if she were drowning, Sloane clung to the mystery of Molly, her appearance, age, accent, story.
"Shall we leave this place of grief?" Molly asked.
"What?" Sloane had only just stopped crying. "What are you talking about?"
"Let us leave this place. No good comes of you wallowing by your love, who may or may not have betrayed you." Sloane winced. But Molly pressed on. "We will start small, of course. Let us go to the garden. There are some lovely flowers in bloom, and you could pick one."
Molly was insane.
"How is that small?" Sloane changed her mind: she wanted to be alone forever. Maybe she enjoyed wallowing; she wanted to be with Francesca no matter what happened. If her pain made a hole in The Gray, she had to be able to touch her again, eventually.
Francesca's sounds became soft, sweet. They reminded Sloane of the few mornings when she'd wake up earlier than Francesca and watch her sleep. She'd twitch from vivid dreams, but her breath would remain steady and quiet. Often, Francesca had polka dot silver dollar sized drool stains on both sides of her pillow and woke with slime on her face.
Francesca sat up and stretched. "Okay! I'm up. A quick shower and I'm ready."
She stuffed a Zeppole in her face and took a long swig of wine as she padded towards the shower.
Sloane watched Francesca move. A mess of curls was knotted on the right side of her head. She grabbed a brush, dress, and pair of underwear. They were her period panties, which pleased Sloane.
Molly reached out and spun the paper-thin lampshade on the floor lamp that stood behind the bathroom door. But as Francesca had already flicked on the vanity lights and turned on her electric toothbrush, she missed the display.
"It is small because you have already traveled a long way. Picking a flower should be a simple task compared to that," Molly said. Her vague, unknown accent had faded behind the smile in her voice.
Sloane's eyes flicked from Francesca to the wobbling lampshade. Her heart caught in her throat. To keep her burning eyes from spilling desires, she asked Molly where she was from. It was abrupt enough Molly seemed nearly taken off guard. "Your speech patterns and accent don't match up."
"I watch television. I enjoy modern shows now and again."
Sloane almost laughed. It hadn't occurred to Sloane that she could watch along with Francesca. Though Francesca hadn't watched anything on their old laptop-turned-tv since the accident, so it wouldn't have mattered.
"Now, shall we? You are getting no closer to Francesca just sitting here."
"Fine. But I don't know how I got here, so it's not as if I can just do that again." Sloane felt hopeless; she should give in to her non-existence. The pain that hovered right below the skin only needed a light scratch, and the bleeding may never stop.
"I can't," Sloane shouted through Francesca's bedroom door.
Molly waited on the other side. As if a stern parent somewhat holding her anger back, she said, "Try harder. Think of your Francesca." She probably had her small hand on her curveless hip.
Sloane focused and remembered it as though it were only moments before, and she hated Molly for having her tap into it. But it was her choice which memory she picked, wasn't it? Molly had only told her to immerse herself, and Sloane chose the worst moment of her life. A trivial fight that had escalated to words she couldn't take back: "Leave then! Go be with that girl!"
Watching Francesca's shoulders slump had crushed Sloane. They'd agreed not to talk about the girl again; they'd promised. The whole subject had still been so raw. She remembered thinking, "This is it; we're over. I've lost her for good. I've messed up a lot–we both have–but this is the last straw. How can I apologize for that?"
Closing her eyes, Sloane stepped towards the wooden door and felt no resistance. When she unscrunched her face, Molly stood in front of her. More opaque than she'd been thus far, her crooked teeth beamed at Sloane.
Still thinking about nearly ruining their relationship, about making love to Francesca, Sloane ripped through The Gray faster than she believed she could. Her body felt raw, bloody, by the time she reached the glass sliding doors. They were still wide open; Mama Nuccio ever the trusting woman.
"After you," Molly said.
Sloane stepped over the threshold of the back doors. If The Gray was absent, floral perfume and the moist scent of the earth would fill her senses; still, she took a deep, fruitless breath.
The watercolor-painted backyard with dirty brush splashes, the purples and blues, pinks and oranges wasn't as vivid as it should have been. Still, the lush garden had small patches of green that prevailed through The Gray, as if too defiant to be dulled.
A beautiful statue of a nude faerie lounged in the center. Sloane leaned down to see the carved butterflies on the faerie's shoulders and ivy draped around her breasts. As if the stone girl had been there forever, lichen had already begun to climb up chubby legs, reaching for her right hand which hung lazily by her side.
Mama Nuccio had always had a green thumb. When she visited Francesca, she'd bring their sad, brown houseplants to life. They'd bloom as if by magic, reaching towards the sky and bursting with flowers and bright leaves. The moment she left, they would die–from rebellion or Sloane and Francesca's black thumbs, they never could tell. Either way, unless Mama came to visit, they avoided plants that hadn't been cut and prepped by a store.
Sloane's mood shifted.
Years back, Francesca found a small, out of the way garden. French pink snapdragons grew in hidden corners, while poppies large enough to put Dorothy to sleep and bushes filled the open spaces. A spongy moss-covered angel statue was tucked under a weathered stone bench half-sunken in the dirt. Smashed together, they stayed there until sunset.
They were only able to visit it a few times before the city paved over it, which meant they'd guessed right: the owner had passed away, leaving the well-loved garden behind. When they'd driven by and saw the parking lot, Sloane realized they hadn't taken pictures of anything but the angel–she'd never been so sentimental.
Molly cleared her throat at Sloane's slip into the past. "Perhaps you would like to try and pick one? The pink one, maybe?"
"I'd rather see Francesca." Her hands slid behind her back as if she stood in a house of glass, and she shuffled her feet.
Without letting Molly get another word in, Sloane began to focus. If memories were her new form of strength, she had six years worth to choose from.
Apartment shopping had been easy, despite living in San Francisco. Sloane had closed her eyes in each space, and she'd known if she'd feel safe or not. A small square of a room fit her best.
Francesca had moved Sloane's things in after her own. She knew Sloane had abandonment issues so deep no therapy session seemed to help. The fear that she'd get settled just in time for Francesca to announce she'd had enough of her loomed around her like the shroud of The Gray.
When Sloane had still been Susan, her mother had decided age fifteen was old enough to tak
e care of herself. The school hadn't known, and Sloane hadn't been about to tell them. She'd finished her last two years of school at her family home, until the rent checks her mother had been sending had stopped coming. Her next few years were spent bouncing from friend's couches to tear-downs insufficient to keep her safe. Never once had Sloane cried to anyone about her problems–not because she'd been strong, but because no one would have cared.
After high school, she'd gotten a job and stayed at a friend's house until she could make rent money. She'd already begun the painstaking process of meeting new people and reinventing herself as Sloane No-Last-Name. So by the time she'd become happily independent by choice, she had become who she wanted to be. Even so, she'd shielded herself from closeness.
When she'd let Francesca in, she still had a weak fence around her. But the day her last box of clothes sat in the middle of the half-finished apartment–three years after the fumbling grocery store conversation–any barriers had crumbled, and she'd become completely Francesca's. Moreover, Sloane had finally told Francesca the pathetic story of her real name.
"Congratulations seem to be in order." Molly made a noise of approval and nodded.
A tear as thin as her eyebrows were blonde slid down Sloane's nose; she'd managed to leave the house.
Francesca and Mama Nuccio were meandering down a beautiful lane with gelato. Francesca had ordered bacio, no doubt, and Mama had vanilla or vanilla–an adventurous woman with dessert, that one.
Aside from Francesca, Sloane missed food the most–more than the scent of a garden or a clear view of the sunset. In Italy, there seemed to be no escape from mouthwatering dishes.
She refrained from stomping her feet as she wouldn't get the craved satisfying sound.
A yellow-brown stucco covered nearly all of the buildings surrounding them. Picture boxes hung from most windows; multi-colored flowers struggled to break through the fog of The Gray. Every movie about Italy had to have been filmed on that street–though her location remained to be seen. Swept up in the sights and sounds, Sloane became a newborn thrust into a cold, harsh world, snatched from where she wanted to be.
Sloane attempted a smile. "So, do you go all over?"
Though Molly looked too young to have memories strong enough, she had no issues navigating The Gray.
"Why have you brought us here?"
No questions then; that was fine with Sloane. She shuffled behind a laughing Francesca. Missing the sound of her footsteps on the slate ground, she sighed. "I wanted to be near her. I always do, though."
"Why not interact with her? Try her hair or the straps of her bag." Molly shielded half of her mouth as though she were telling a secret.
Desire saddened Sloane. So many failed attempts discouraged more.
Mama Nuccio and Francesca stopped at an imported Venetian mask kiosk. Sloane sidled between them. Inches away from her love, a dark cloud with the smallest ray of sun hung above her.
Francesca's freshly shampooed hair smelled like nothing. Lazy curls were beginning to frizz in the unfamiliar heat; Sloane reached to smooth them–even though Francesca would inevitably whine about her doing so. Sloane's attempts made no impact. She watched the small muscles of Francesca's back as she picked up a white porcelain mask. Hand-painted swirls were mixed in with music notes and dotted with pearlescent beads. For maximum tourist appeal, they'd added glitter. Long curled ribbons hung from the bottom.
"How much?" Francesca asked, and Sloane almost melted.
They'd had that exact moment so many times. Francesca would look at a beautiful trinket during their vacation and ask, “How much?”. It never mattered. Sloane may try to haggle, depending on their location, but Francesca never left without her souvenir.
A confused accent broke the spell. "What is wrong?"
"I was just–" Sloane didn't know how to describe getting lost to a young girl. "I was just admiring her."
Molly's nose wrinkled as though she'd smelled something sour. "All right."
Piano ready fingers reached into an unfamiliar purse to pull out an elephant patterned turquoise wallet Sloane bought her in New York. Francesca made a sharp inhale as she held it.
Mama Nuccio popped her wrist with the letter. "I gave you money for when you are alone, Essie, not with me. I pay when we are together."
Sloane remembered that letter and the stories of Francesca trying to sneak a peek at it. Mama Nuccio had told Sloane what the letter said six months before the accident. They were in her lavish San Francisco hotel room where Francesca snored lightly on the queen bed next to Mama's.
"I can drink this much wine and more usually. I don't understand!" Mama had had one too many martinis. "Sloane," she'd said. "I've held a secret for a long time. But I'm going to tell you. I just need you to promise you'll let me tell Francesca when I'm ready."
Sloane had kept that promise. Watching Francesca's chocolate eyes cut towards the letter made Sloane think Mama Nuccio hadn't been ready yet.
"Well?" Molly complained again. Sloane was grateful she couldn't hear her heeled boots tapping.
As if photos, Sloane began flipping through memories. Before Sloane could find one, before she could try touching her hair again, Francesca turned around. She stood less than a shared breath away, but The Gray kept them separate. In life, Francesca would have said, 'Your lips can't be that close to me and not kiss me; that's not fair, is it?'
Francesca's brow wrinkled, the way it did when her premature arthritic knee sensed rain. Her mouth pursed as she swiveled, and her face slid right through Sloane's. Though Sloane stepped back clutching her chest, Francesca just shook her body and wiggled her arms.
"Mama?"
Sloane stood caught in the cross-hairs, and Mama Nuccio made a noise of questioning.
Closing her eyes, Francesca puffed up. "Thank you for the mask."
11
Francesca
Francesca continued, ”–Because it was her turn! We all died laughing. I said, 'Sloane, that doesn't matter. You can't just–'"
"Not that I don't find the tale of Sloane's gameplay fascinating, but that's the third story you've told about her without taking a breath. What's going on, Essie?" Mama asked with a serious tone.
Francesca almost snarked, 'What do you think?' Instead, she cut herself off; the unfinished story left her stuck.
"Essie, talk to me."
Francesca took a step forward to hide her watering eyes. Dead ruins like broken tombstones stuck out from dried grass. Sorrow tinged the air around them. Grand buildings had once lived there. But, as with everything good in life, they'd crumbled–their destruction quick.
Lights flashed, a horn, shattering–"Sloane loves ruins, loves anything old." Francesca tuned her anti-lullaby out and slipped into a world where Sloane was at home waiting for her. "I mean our apartment should tell you that. It smells like an antique store. I always wanted to tell her that my eyes watered when I dusted the bookshelves, but I couldn't have handled the look on her face. Besides, the amount of money we spent on old books, I tell you, Mama. If she'd even thought to get rid of them for me… God, I can't imagine. My wallet might weep." Francesca forced a chuckle.
Mama sighed in response. She sat on the ground, leaned against a gate to nothing, and patted the less rocky side of her.
Francesca slid down to the only mildly uncomfortable space. Sickness welled up in her gut, warning her that tears were on their way. She didn't know what to say. How could Francesca tell Mama she sensed Sloane while she picked out her mask, or that she felt guilty for looking at Cecelia? She had to deal silently and in her own way.
"I can't wait to go home and tell Sloane–" Her hand flew up to her mouth. She'd just been thinking about her life without Sloane; what the hell was that? "But she isn't… she won't be… she's… Mama, Sloane's dead." Francesca avoided the word, so her face ached as it burst through a clenched jaw.
"I know, Essie, I know. The hurt will lessen."
"When?" Francesca laid her head on Mama's bosom as hot
, angry-at-God tears slid from her resistant eyes.
Mama stroked her hair. "Only time can tell. But you will have these moments long past then too." She spoke with an experienced voice. "You've already begun to heal, I've seen it. The party showed me how far you've come. You have a long climb ahead of you yet, but you're doing so well, Es."
"Am I? I feel like eleven months have disappeared from my life, and I can barely remember them. I don't think I should want to, though. Which way helps the healing more?" Francesca asked. She peeled herself from her mother's tear-crusted shirt and heaved herself up by the wrought iron bars of the homeless gate.
Mama reached her hands up for a pull. The child-like act made Francesca smile. After the tug, she brushed the dust from the ground off of her light blue skirt and began walking away. "You coming?"
Despite her long legs, Francesca took four skips to catch up. "Where are we going in such a hurry?"
"To have lunch, of course. The gelato didn't stick like I'd hoped." Mama looked down at her shirt. "And to buy a new top; this one's sad."
They'd had lunch only three hours before the gelato. Whatever they ate would be more of a snack, if Francesca was hungry. She was not. Besides, her jeans were already fitting tightly, and she'd only been in Italy a few days.
A week ago, she would have denied the possibility of too much pasta or Zeppoles or gelato.
Maybe Sloane was right; she was wrong sometimes.
At least they drove.
Mama announced they should have lunch less than an hour after they'd eaten full meals. They'd walked and shopped, she'd reasoned. Another half hour of strolling and Francesca matched her mother's perfect Italian image.
"Okay, I could go for a snack."
"Finally; I'm starving!" Mama said. "Let's go find somewhere good."
She'd driven straight to a busy tourist-filled plaza about thirty minutes from her villa. So, when she asked, "How's here?" of course it was, "Great".
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