"I'm turning in a little early," Francesca had said.
Mama had just nodded and said she loved her.
Francesca only remembered tears and pain. Sloane was her once-in-a-lifetime love, and she had been there with Cecelia. If it weren't for those pigeons–if it weren't for those pigeons, what? Would she have let Cecelia's lips touch hers? Would she have kissed her back? Yes.
Betrayer.
Francesca cried for Sloane, not for herself. She didn't remember opening Sloane's perfume, though. But she must have. She didn't remember opening a book. But she must have. So, she stood to see what her grief-drunken-self had left for her hungover-self.
Before she looked at the book, she capped the perfume. Having wasted enough already, she couldn't bear to lose more. She clung to it like a child to a stuffed animal as she looked at the book. It was an obscure book she'd forgotten she'd brought from Sloane's side table. On the open page, words and phrases were circled. "Be back, wait, love."
Sloane's perfume bottle slipped from Francesca's hands. To catch it, she hit her knee on a small knot in the wood and slid a little on the uneven floor. Her knee throbbed. Looking down, she saw reddened skin. Francesca stared at the forming bruise and lost time. She put the perfume back in her suitcase and rubbed burning eyes that had nothing to do with her knee.
The only sound Francesca heard throughout the house was Mama's slight snore. Whatever time it was, the sun's glow barely peeked over the horizon. Taking advantage of the alone time, Francesca took the book with her out into the tiny garden. She read aloud from the page with the circled words.
"Sloane, if you're there… God, I haven't done this in ages." Francesca continued to read. She didn't understand it. She hardened her resolve. "Sloane, if you're there, give me a sign. I need you. I'm so sorry."
Tears made her reading sporadic and pointless after that.
Mama came out during the third chapter. "Oh, Essie!"
"It was only a dream," Francesca cried softly, wet cheeks trembling as she said it.
"Let's get you inside."
As she shakily stood and hobbled in to eat the inevitable breakfast Mama would fix for her, Francesca made a decision she knew would be unpopular. She waited until after they'd finished a nice meal, until after they'd gotten ready for the day, until after Mama had asked what she wanted to do for the day.
Francesca stared at a blue tile below her swollen knee. "I'm going to go home."
Mama blinked. "Are you serious?" She must have believed her at least a little because she didn't laugh or ignore her.
"Yes." More serious than she had been about anything except for loving Sloane.
"Essie, no! Not now; now you need to be with Mama," she said without her usual vigor. She knew it wasn't a battle worth fighting. Still, it seemed she couldn't help but go through the motions.
Unable to deal, Mama cleaned. She grabbed their plates and shuffled over to the trash can to scrape off crumbs. The scrape of the fork on porcelain filled the large kitchen and made Francesca's eardrums wince. Mama took the plates to the sink and scoured them as though they were casserole dishes with cheese caked on, while there had only been a tiny smear or two of jam from their overstuffed biscuits. Drying the plates took nearly as long as the washing.
Francesca wouldn't wait for Mama to wipe down the counters with three kinds of cleaners, then sweep and mop the floor. She was just going home.
"Mama…"
Making the dishes an art form, Mama made an exceptional amount of noise as she put the two plates and butterknife away. Francesca could have filmed it, put a horror soundtrack behind it, and what a short it would be. The tension would have had an audience on the edge of their seat.
"Mama, look, I need to go through my apartment. If I decide to move here–" Mama stopped soaping the island. "I'll need my things. It's been a wonderful vacation, but real life is telling me I need to get my shit together. I need to make decisions that are a little less bohemian."
Sloane would have been fine living out of a pretty much useless suitcase. And if it weren't for the lack of Sloane, the lack of pictures of Sloane, and Cecelia, Francesca may be preparing for another adventure filled day.
"It's because of Rome isn't it?"
Francesca's eyes sprouted a leak as she inspected a soap glob in the sink.
"You should be with someone, not alone; Susan wouldn't want that."
"Stop! Stop pretending what you want is what Sloane would want. She would want me to figure my shit out my own way; she would want me to be happy. And you know what? She'd want to be here."
As if she'd said nothing, Mama continued, "Let Mama help. You could live here, or I could help you find a place. Just don't go back."
"Mama, stop." Francesca saw the letter in time to move. "No, not this time."
Her mother stopped moving for a second and nodded. "Fine. But you come back. This is your home now."
16
Francesca
Wrinkled grey sheets awaited Francesca's exhausted body. Stained and reeking of grief, she slept in her reading chair.
Though she’d sweated all night, she couldn't take off the Sloane-scented blanket she'd wrapped around herself. By the morning, airport-smell clung to it.
She woke to the morning light streaming in through their curtains as it had in her dream. All she could think to do was curl her knees to her chest while heaves cracked her ribs.
Francesca lost that first day just as she’d lost the first month. With spiraling maudlin thoughts it was as though the last two weeks hadn't happened. She slid back into the routine of falling apart every moment she spent in the apartment. Unlike before, she had no reason to leave. With no job, no friends, no family, she just stayed in a state of apart. She deserved it, though, didn't she?
Mama called. Francesca must have answered because she didn't call again for a few days. They could have talked about pink elephants or blowing up a hospital–she'd dreamt about both within the past week–Francesca couldn't recall.
17
One Year
Francesca stopped breathing.
Sloane had been snatched from her exactly one year ago. Francesca had tried not to keep track; she thought it morbid and unhealthy.
Her heart seized at the moment the accident happened as if her body was having a memory. Francesca lay on the floor curled up imagining a dead Sloane wrapped around her as the sights and sounds rushed back, real and tangible. She held her breath waiting for the ambulance.
18
Francesca
She was nothing.
19
Francesca
Her lips cracked, and the sink seemed impossibly far away.
20
Francesca
She crawled across the boxy room and used the refrigerator handle to tug herself vertical.
21
Francesca
She ate an expired breakfast bar and halfway changed the sheets.
Shortly after, another wave of grief hit. Bits of granola and cranberries burned her throat as they came up as solid as when she'd eaten them.
22
Sloane
Sloane shouldn't have followed Francesca. Hot tears dripped down her nose as she prayed The Gray would swallow her whole–unfair she could still cry in The Gray. Molly had let her go alone.
Sloane had intended for her sobs to echo through the space surrounding Francesca in hopes Francesca would feel Sloane's presence. She didn't, though; she held it in. Sloane had to let Francesca go.
If anyone had asked her when she was alive, she would have said if either of them died the other would follow with a broken heart. But Francesca hadn't; she'd picked herself up and been able to breathe again.
Was Sloane trying to take that away from her? She'd thought she'd be bringing them back together, bringing Francesca peace. At the moment, she didn't know what to think.
Sloane pictured her arms around Francesca. Fear kept her planted in the corner, a voyeur in her own home, wondering if her whole
endeavor was selfish. Francesca had had fleeting moments of happiness in Italy. Would she be taking those away? Though it shredded Sloane to see Francesca laugh, it also warmed her. She wasn't laughing now; she couldn't.
Sloane should tell Molly she was done; she had to let Francesca heal.
"Are you ready to leave this place?" Molly asked, appearing from The Gray on the sixth day. "You have watched long enough."
"Am I being selfish?"
"Perhaps," Molly replied without missing a beat as if she were omniscient. She scrunched her small face and put her hand on her plainly dressed hip. "But would Francesca not be selfish as well?"
23
Francesca
On the seventh day home, Francesca crawled out of the hole she'd fallen in. The second tasteless breakfast bar staying down had to be a sign. Of what, she wasn't sure.
She started small: a too-hot shower that washed away her still free-flowing tears. The bathroom light wasn't her friend, but the mirror she tried to ignore revealed a face so puffy her freckles were ink blots. Francesca hadn’t been surprised; her face felt so tight, she wondered how her skin hadn’t split open. Exposed muscles would have been deserved. She'd lived; Sloane hadn’t.
After, Francesca laid on the bed, wet and wrapped in one of Sloane's t-shirts. She called Mama to tell her that she hadn't died. The deja vu of it hit her hard, but she shook it off.
"Hi," she croaked through a raw and bloodied throat.
"Essie! It's so good to hear your voice. I've already found you a few houses to look at. Just check your email when you can. If you like one, I'll tell them to put it on hold. Everyone knows me, of course, and knows you may be moving here. They all love the idea. So all you have to do is say yes, and one thing's off the list. As for packing and moving, I can hire someone; I'll pay for it too. You'll pick what to keep or not to. If you don't want to do that now, they can pack it all, and you can do that later."
Leave it to her mother to take care of it all for her. Almost three weeks ago, Mama had been the same windstorm. Part of Francesca wanted to hang up; the other wanted to thank her.
"I just called to let you know I wasn't dead, but I'll check my email and call you back tomorrow."
It had been ages since she'd been on a computer. With no friends to keep in touch with and no Sloane to photograph, what would have been the point? Her life in San Francisco had become rib-shattering grief, therapy attempts, and notes to herself about eating.
Francesca's bruised knee throbbed as she walked to the small rolling wooden desk shoved half in their never-closed closet. The drawer squealed as Francesca rolled it out, and her heart sped up. A photograph of Sloane laughing was on top of a stack of envelopes under the laptop. Squeezing her eyes closed, she grabbed the old laptop covered in stickers.
She slammed the drawer shut on the memory behind it and tried to steady her breathing and ignore the desire to cry. Opening her dusty laptop made her feel like an alien. As it was nearly midnight, the screen light tired her already sore eyes. Wearily, she began to go through her emails.
The monotony of it reminded her of Sloane making fun of her for being glued to her computer. Junk mail filled her inbox; she spent over two hours weeding through it all. Finally, by 3 am, she stared at the listings Mama had sent with a cocktail of dread and anticipation.
The first one had no real view and needed too much work for Francesca's emotional state. She pictured herself ripping out cabinets, outside weeding on knee pads, scrubbing the tile grout and became overwhelmed. Besides, the price tag almost made her lips twitch. Francesca would have been okay in a carbon copy of her current shoebox. Perhaps she would prefer it.
But nothing like that was a choice. Five emails later, she found a home reminiscent of Mama's villa–view and all, but it came with a twenty-acre vineyard. What Francesca would do with that was beyond her, but she could figure that out later. Maybe she'd open up a winery. With that ludicrous thought in mind, Francesca blearily dialed her mother's number.
"I knew you'd love their place!" Mama squealed. "They said they are willing to do some customizations before you move in too! I'll send you a list. We can go over all of that tomorrow. I know it's very late. You call me tomorrow–whenever is fine. I don't mind waking up early for this! I'm so very excited for you. Susan wou–"
"Mama," Francesca cut her short. She grabbed her laptop and headed back towards the beckoning bed. "So, how much does this place cost?"
"It's reasonable. Don't you worry. Narcissa and I talked about it and came to a good price."
"And that is?"
Francesca flipped on a small shadeless lamp beside her bed. Just a wooden base and bulb, it filled the room with light. That should keep her awake long enough to read about the customizations. She wanted it done with. In some ways, she could be described as excited, in most, resigned to a life away from Sloane's memories.
"Don't you worry your beautiful head about that. I've already got the money. I'm buying it. You keep saving your savings."
Too stunned and choked up to argue, Francesca simply said, "I love you."
"I love you too, Essie. I'll email you the list now, and talk to you tomorrow. I'll get lists of movers and wire you the money in a few hours. By the time you wake up, everything will be done. And don't worry about the dual-citizenship situation; you already have it. Don't know if I ever told you that or if you even thought that far ahead." Mama paused. "You can apply for an ancestral passport once you're all settled for added proof, though."
Francesca nodded, so moved by Mama's generosity. Though she couldn't see it, Francesca hoped she felt it.
"Talk to you soon, Essie. I'm beyond thrilled."
"You're the best mom," Francesca said to no one, as Mama had hung up to go finish organizing her daughter's new life.
As she rubbed her watering eyes, Francesca imagined Sloane's weight next to her so solidly she would have sworn there'd been an indention. The feeling had her closing her laptop and switching off the light. She'd deal with it in the morning after all.
"Goodnight," Francesca said despite herself.
The bed sheets shifted, and she let her quiet sobs carry her into darkness.
"Easy, easy!" she said for the hundredth time, as her hands flew out in front of her again. Francesca had had a chance to pack up most of the small duds in the days after she chose the villa, but the medium and big things were beyond her time and energy.
During the fastest moving process ever, Francesca lived with a massive lump of guilt in her chest. With each rip of tape and squeak of a marker on the packed boxes, Francesca worried more and more, but less and less.
The teenage mover who'd come with his dad was a bit clumsy. As he grabbed pictures off the wall and breakable lamps with the care of a toddler, Francesca had to remind him they weren't plastic do-dads; they were irreplaceable memories. In a way, she thought to thank him. Her anxiety over her worldly possessions getting broken had her swallowing her tears during the day. The one thing she'd trade it all in for had been taken from her. Francesca wished keeping all of Sloane's worldly possessions could fill the emptiness.
When she stumbled on a half-filled-in sudoku, she knew it would stay unfinished on the bookshelf sandwiched in between priceless antique books and paranormal romance novels. The only things she threw away were the foul-smelling food in the refrigerator, freezer meals covered in icicles, and an expired bag of chips she found under the bed.
As the movers bagged jackets Sloane had collected from every city she'd visited as if they were trash, she stared at her feet to keep from screaming. Tears dripped onto the old towels lying on the floor to keep the men's boots from scuffing the wood.
The book-lined walls were the most painful. Sloane's carefully chosen books had been tucked in nooks and crannies, on bookshelves, and stacked on the floor as if a library had gone out of business, and the librarian who'd taken the books home had suddenly become homeless. The environment had been Sloane's sanctuary. It pained Francesca to see them tos
sed in a box like old toys. She told the movers to pack each shelf together, but they'd only half-listened.
As she'd expected that, Francesca had photographed the apartment. She'd be able to recreate it in her new house no matter how they were boxed and shipped. In a new environment, their library wouldn't make her cry; she'd only feel joy that Sloane would be with her always. Right?
When the sky could be no darker, the movers stood awkwardly on the smallest piece of concrete anyone could still call a front stoop. A place their size shouldn't have taken so long, they probably figured. However, Francesca knew they were being paid well. Mama always saw to that, having been a working mother for so long.
The eldest mover, practically holding a newsboy cap to his chest in all of his earnestness, stared at her with a sad smile. "That's it, ma'am. We'll lock these up tight, so in the morning the truck can come hitch it on. It'll fly out within a day or two. That's up to the pod company."
Francesca hadn't made the arrangements; she wasn't even sure what pod company they were using. Her brain felt like the violently smashed egg in the 90s drug commercial, so she didn't ask.
She pulled her hair into a puffed-up bun.
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