"Okay, thank you," she said, hoping she looked less dazed than she felt.
"Sorry about the mess," he continued after an uncomfortable silence. Despite their completely regular clothing, something about the two felt out of place in San Francisco, as if they were passing through on their way to some ghost mining town in Oregon.
"Good luck, and travel safe," the kid with an unexpectedly baritone voice crooned. Only having grunted until then, Francesca had begun to wonder if he was mute.
Francesca shook his hand firmly. His weak handshake strengthened to match, and he stood a little straighter. "Thanks," she said. "Stay good."
They left her with only a suitcase filled with who-knows-which clothes, an odd assortment of toiletries, and a sleeping bag to say goodbye to Sloane's home.
She slept beside the flammable synthetic feather-stuffed cocoon on the hardwood floor. Being uncomfortable seemed fitting. It would be her last opportunity to fall apart in their home. She spent the night regretting her decision and telling Sloane she was sorry until her mouth could no longer formulate words.
When she woke, she found her crusted cheek stuck on the toilet seat, her knees felt bruised from being at an odd angle all night, and her right hand had fallen into the–thankfully–clean water. Sometime between then and the morning, she'd seen her way to the bathroom. She had little memory of anything but the sorries she'd said into the dark. Seeing vomit stuck to her cheek had her thinking about her short-lived party days. She had the same sickly pallor with matted hair and bloodshot eyes. Tacky times at tacky high.
"Italy is for the best," she assured the mirror as she scrubbed her toilet-waterlogged hands with a hotel bar of soap from her 'overnight bag'. Once her hands were ruby red, she took a long shower.
Her flight was at 4:45 pm, and it was only noon. She had time to waste and no loose ends to tie up, no goodbyes to say. Other than a doctor or two, the only person Francesca kept in contact with was the landlord. He told her to leave the keys under the mat and to have a great life. Though he cared enough to send a card around Christmas time, it wasn't enough for a hug as she moved away for good. Francesca grasped at the image of his face. Blonde hair and a medium build came to her. A blurry face and a muddled voice followed. Well, it seemed she wouldn't miss him much either.
Francesca's empty stomach growled: a task to complete. She headed to a sandwich shop she and Sloane used to frequent. When she entered through the smudgy glass doors that swung closed too quickly, it felt so familiar. The same young woman with dreads had waited tables there for the past three years. When Francesca and Sloane came in, she'd acknowledge them by name and food order. They'd breeze over their weeks in two sentences or less, and she'd move on to the next table of regulars: superficial, but comforting.
"Hi Francesca," she said. Her honey perfume filled Francesca's nostrils. "Long time. How are you?" Her light brown brows pulled together tightly.
"Good, thanks."
"No, seriously."
"I can't, April. I'm moving away today and talking–" Francesca's voice broke.
Ripped nails grasped the table as she leaned forward. "Moving? Where?"
"Italy. Well, at least for the moment."
"I hope it's better for you. I hope you get some peace there. You deserve it."
She leaned in for the first contact they'd ever made. Francesca almost heaved on her shoulders but stopped herself with a cough.
After untangling her arm from the strips of frayed fabric that made up the world's most complicated shirt, Francesca forced a smile.
"You'll be missed," she said as she left a check on a booth with a loud blonde woman, three matching children, and a stoic dark-haired man with a splotchy red face.
When the Reuben sandwich arrived–cold with a side of soggy–Francesca ate slowly.
The food didn't taste as good as it used to. Each bite brought with it another thin film of grease until Francesca's mouth stopped recognizing anything but oil and a vague hint of perfume she couldn't shake. All that before she made it to the over-fried frozen potatoes.
Hoping it would de-grease her mouth, she went for a fry. As if a lightning fast wind blew through, her water tipped into the red basket soaking the checkered paper and already soggy steak fries. If she had looked away for a second, she would have guessed someone had knocked it over. But, she hadn't.
"Sloane?" she whispered as she whipped her head around. It had to be her; Francesca was tired of pretending she wasn't there with her often. Before she'd even thought to dry the table, Francesca dialed Mama.
"Did you buy the villa already?"
"We're still tidying things up."
"But did you pay for anything yet?"
Mama's worry was a thread sewn through her words. "Essie, what is this about?"
"I need you to stop. I want to look when I'm there. I need to feel the place."
Mama took a deep breath. "We've gone through this already. Your stuff is being delivered there. It may take a few days to get adjusted, but once we unpack and organize, you'll feel more at home. You're just getting nervous."
"No, Mama. I need to pick the place myself. I know it sounds crazy, but I think–" There was a pregnant pause. "I think it's what Sloane would want."
A second longer silence followed. Francesca itched to speak, just to break the tension, but she'd said all she needed.
"Essie, I understand. If it's your heart–if this is about Susan–we will pick a place out when you arrive. You aren't moving to get away from her after all, and I know how soon it is. I'll call them in the morning. I love you, Essie. Make it here safely."
"I love you too, Mama."
Francesca hung up breathing easier than she had in weeks.
24
Sloane
Sloane squirmed.
"Be still," Molly said. "Else they may feel you."
A scratchy voice overhead muffled Molly's next sentence. "The seatbelt sign is on."
"It's so weird. The guy's dreaming about his boss. It's a bit lewd. Yeah, we'll go with lewd. And not in a way you'd expect." Sloane realized as a child she probably had no idea what to expect.
"You will learn to block it out, I promise. It just takes time, just as it will take time to control their voice and move in their skin. I cannot remember how long it took me. Years, maybe a century?"
Sloane decided not to unpack that.
Francesca sat near the middle of the large plane. Sloane was one row behind and to the right of her inside of a slim man wearing a grey fitted business suit and a bright purple pocket square. He felt rich, self-important. Sloane just saw him as a body to meld with who had too many dreams and poor taste in music.
She popped out of him and tore his earbuds out of his goofily large ears, before sliding back in with ease. Though only her fourth attempt, she'd already begun handling body-melding well.
Mind free of one nuisance, Sloane strained to hear Francesca. But she seemed to be in her 'ignore people and listen to the extensive music library stored on her laptop' mood.
Aside from in-flight movies and one man in the back with horrible sleep apnea, the plane was relatively quiet. No one chatted with their partners or busied themselves in their seatmates lives; they all kept to themselves. It gave Sloane time to think, which she didn't want. Molly had suggested they "fly with Francesca" to hear her conversations. To Sloane, it was a way to see how she was doing. Would she want to do that anymore after Francesca settled in Italy?
The "deathiversary," as Molly called it, had come and gone. Sloane had spent the first few days curled around Francesca's grief-stricken figure. She'd matched her tear for tear while slipping into utter loneliness again as if they'd hit rewind to Francesca's homecoming from the hospital. She'd been unable to move, unable to function. Sloane had laid beside her, a knot of pain settling deep.
A year later and Sloane still couldn't escape The Gray. Every step forward felt like a waste, though. Able to do what she could not, Francesca leapt ahead as she got out of bed and
shook grief off like a bad cold.
Sloane had watched Francesca move, both trapped in themselves. Motionless in the corner, she'd stayed glued to the only place in the room where she could see the entire apartment. Molly had come back to check on her. In silence, she had roamed through and into the movers as they packed Sloane into pieces of cardboard and tape.
The emptier the room had become, the emptier Sloane felt. Francesca would live in a home Sloane hadn't. The Gray had been thick in her lungs.
A shaky voice grounded her back onto the plane she'd body-melded on. The elderly woman who sat beside Francesca said, "Beautiful sky outside, isn't it?" to no one in particular. Her voice lit up in surprise when waterworks followed the benign comment. "What's wrong dear?"
Sloane left the wealthy man's body and entered the finally sleeping man on the other side of Francesca. Only using sleeping people meant less stretching and no bathroom breaks. Dreams could be a problem, such as the horsey rides and mud pies the wealthy man had in mind, but she was working on blocking those out.
Though she'd have to watch out of the corner of her eye, Sloane was front row to Francesca's conversation.
She knew listening was wrong, but she didn’t care.
Wrinkled hands reached for Francesca's smooth tan ones.
"It's just that…" Pain caressed Francesca's strong, yet delicate features. She was a beautiful crier. "Sloane…" Francesca stared straight ahead after a deep breath. The Gray spun. Did Francesca feel her? "She died," Francesca continued and turned a little to face the woman. "It's been one year and nine days." The plastic cup she'd been holding crinkled.
'Oh, my love. Don't keep track of the days,' Sloane wanted to say.
"I just packed up everything from our house to move to one my mother is buying me in Italy." She chuckled a little. "I'm still reeling that she's buying me a house. That's how much she wanted me there. In truth, there is nothing left for me in San Francisco–that's where we lived, San Francisco. We hated it almost as much as we loved it, but nowhere else felt like home."
"Would you like to tell me about her?" The woman's kind lined face held sincerity. She had to be someone's grandmother. If not, she ought to be.
Francesca nodded. "If you truly don't mind. I don't want to interrupt what you were doing."
She clicked the grey tray back up into its rightful position and smiled encouragingly. "I think my crossword puzzles will keep. So, how long were you together?"
She turned a little. "Six beautiful years. It was our anniversary when… That fucking truck driver." She spat. "He was drunk. It's the oldest story in the book. One swerve, and everything's changed forever. The thing was, I wasn't going very fast, but the tree didn't move, did it? She flew through the window like a rag doll. My perfect Sloane, buckled in, flew from the shattered windshield and onto a branch. After… she wasn't her." Even describing one of the most painful events of her life, Francesca still had a way with words.
Sloane supposed she should have guessed that it had been a branch that gutted her. To her, it was as if she were watching a film through a blurry lens. She couldn't stop shivering. Francesca was dealing with more than she knew. So why did she almost kiss Cecelia?
"She was a fiery red-head, shorter than me, which I love. She had so many tattoos I liked to recount them when she slept, tracing each one so I wouldn't forget a single one. She had one for every place she'd ever called home–not just cities either. She'd been homeless for a while because of a horrible mother, so she got a large wooden spool on her back, which represented the time she'd stayed in a construction site. One was a small wolf from her time in the woods. She'd seen a wolf there and thought, 'I could stay here with the wolves, and no one would miss me.' Hearing that one broke my heart. There are many more small images, and they all fit in a fish tank. That was for when she'd snuck into a dentist's office to steal toothpaste and floss. She had a pill bottle with states for pills. Each one was home in its own right, too. She doesn't–didn't–tell them as sad stories. Just stories. And she had so many! By the time she met me, she'd been so many people. I've had just the one life, while she… she had twelve?"
Thirteen, when you include the most important one.
"Sloane was magic in a woman. I am lucky to have had her for as long as I did. But it's not fair that I'm here, and she's not. She should be the one here, not me. Once… oh, I'm going on. I'm sorry." Lifting herself up, she adjusted herself in the understuffed blue seat.
The woman shook her head; soft lilac waves moved ever-so-slightly. "No, dear. I'm enjoying hearing about her. Besides, you must keep those lost alive through stories. So, you were saying?"
Francesca's face brightened.
Sloane felt a tugging sensation in her chest, an invisible hand grabbing at her. Before she had a chance to push away from it, the sleeping man she'd inhabited expelled her.
"What the–" Sloane began.
"Once, we went to the beach in March. The water was frigid, but she desperately wanted to recreate the scene from The Notebook. She's not one for romance films, mind you. That one got to her, though. But it got my friend's stoic dad too."
Molly slipped out of her body and waved her arms at a flustered Sloane. "Calm down. You aren't ready to keep one for a long time yet. It's something you have to work on."
"–good cry after we watched it."
"Is Gregory your husband?" Francesca pointed to her large diamond and the two diamond crusted bands flanking it.
"You mean this will happen every time?" Sloane asked, still trying to listen to the conversation beside her.
The woman's voice held a tinge of sadness. "–haven't been able to visit him in two months–troubles with my visa. Now, I can go be closer to him."
"Only for a little while. Each time gets easier. You can try again," Molly said.
"–two live?"
Sloane stopped and turned towards the women. She'd lost track of the conversation.
Deep set blue eyes seemed to darken, as she said, "His ashes are in a small Catholic church outside of Florence. I'm moving as close as I can." Before Francesca could reply, the woman said, "So you two were at the beach with cold water."
Never one to push, she marched forward. Her voice held less joy as she finished the story. "We both got bathing suits like Allie–"
"Maybe I'll wait. Just hover over here by Francesca." Sloane regretted not doing so the entire time.
"–the size of baseballs. We ran through the water screaming, 'If you're a bird, I'm a bird.' She'd been so happy; I almost forgot how miserable I was. She told me once that every time she went somewhere, she wanted to make a memory. She never just wanted to watch a movie or walk through a craft fair; she wanted to have breakfast at midnight after the movie to talk about it with a jukebox playing in the background and pancakes in her face. We'd buy something useless at the craft fair so we had to find a way to use it or a place to put it. Then, we'd have made a memory. I'm sure it's because of her childhood."
Got it in one.
Francesca's freckles had the uneven coloring they did when she held back tears. "I'm just glad she wanted to make all of those memories with me. It made every occasion with her special."
It really did.
Covering the woman's hand with hers, she asked, "Would you like to tell me about Gregory?"
"After I take a nap, dear. I'm getting a little tired." She slipped her hand from underneath Francesca's and patted it again. "I'm glad you told me about Sloane. Maybe you could tell me more later."
"That sounds fine. By the way, I never got your name."
"Just call me Rosa." From under her seat, she pulled a plaid blanket.
"I'm Francesca. It's nice to meet you, Rosa. Oh, before you head off to a nap, I just thought I'd tell you that I'm not moving far from Florence. If you're ever interested, we could meet for lunch and talk about anything or nothing. I only know a few people in Italy as it is."
"That sounds lovely, dear. Simply–"
Molly's voice jackhammer
ed over the sweet moment. "Can we take our leave now? At least you know she still loves you."
25
Francesca
Francesca smiled a little as she drove towards Mama's villa. For one beautiful moment, a fleeting image of Sloane's red hair in a massive frizzy bun and her only-for-my-love smile had Francesca buzzing. She must be overly excited. Finally, they'd moved to Italy. Their stuff would arrive in a few days, and they'd have picked out a place by then. It took a few blinks–almost a blissful three-seconds–before the realization that had her clenching her chest every morning hit her.
The sky dimmed, and her thoughts turned to Sloane's inside out body and leaf covered hair. Sloane was dead, and she was moving to Italy alone. Francesca blamed the breeze for her momentary, wistful forgetfulness. Turning on the air conditioning gave her some control.
The next leg of the drive was sluggish. Even the car seemed to creep a bit, use more gas, whine at her as she encouraged it with foul language to help her make it to a bed quicker.
When the silhouette of Mama's villa came into view, Francesca's eyes burned. The word 'mistake' stuck in her brain like a dart on a board. Her drive up the hill happened in an instance, and then she was parking in the driveway. What kind of driving was that called? The scary kind? She had barely hugged Mama before strolling into the kitchen for a large glass of wine. Mama let Francesca take the reins of the afternoon.
Francesca seized that opportunity to drink three more glasses of some weak flowery white and conk out on top of freshly laundered sheets with her shoes still on.
Deja vu.
Francesca awoke to the smell of cinnamon rolls, surrounded by fluffy white cotton. With sore eyes and a swollen face, she felt as though she were standing still. Any progress made had backslid when she'd gone home to San Francisco.
She admonished herself immediately. Grief was a process. Her progress in that process was going in the wrong direction. She'd take life slower this time.
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