The Dating Bender

by Christina Julian

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I composed myself enough to walk away from the fountain and made it to a rickety old bench under a gnarly olive tree. My hands trembled but I steadied them so I could fetch my cell phone, which I’d stowed in my bra for safe keeping. Lonely Planet said to keep electronics out of the sight of pickpockets while traveling. Thankfully I listened, so my phone did not share the same soggy fate as my purse when it went airborne into the fountain.

  I took three deep breaths, just like the priest had ordered, and in between sniffles, dialed. Thank God I had opted for the international calling plan.

  “Oh, Christ, just bloody pick up. Oh, sorry about that, Dad. I didn’t notice you’d answered.”

  “Of course you didn’t, because even after that failed attempt at a career in the tech industry, you still can’t manage to operate a cell phone correctly. No wonder you lost that job.”

  He hadn’t changed.

  “I didn’t lose it, Dad. The company never went public, and as a result, I was downsized. It’s not the same. I got stock options as part of the deal.”

  “Whatever. What do you want, Samantha? In case you’ve forgotten, we weeded you out of the family,” he said.

  “Well, I just thought I would say hi. You know, see how you guys were doing since it’s been a while.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Nothing really, I just…well, is Mom there? I sort of wanted to talk to her.”

  “Oh, Christ, what have you done? Did you go and get yourself knocked up? Susan, get on the phone. Your daughter is on the line. We’re on speaker. Spit it out. Anyway, where are you? This connection is lousy.”

  I heard the sound of my mother picking up the phone.

  “What do you want, dear?” she asked.

  “Just to clarify, I am not knocked up, so you can rest another night,” I said. When no one spoke, I continued. “I just, well the craziest thing just happened. I was at church going to confession—did you hear that, Mom? The Vatican really is as beautiful as you said. And you will never guess who I ran into!”

  “Would you just get to the point, dear?” my mother said.

  “Sheldon. Can you believe that?” I said, trying to inspire interest.

  “What did you just say?” my father asked.

  Finally, I had someone’s attention.

  “Sheldon, my husband—well, ex-husband. After all this time, isn’t that wild?”

  “Where did you say you were? It sure as hell sounded like you said the Vatican,” Dad said.

  “That’s in Rome, dear,” my mother added.

  “Yes, I know that. I’m not a moron, Susan. That’s reserved for your daughter.”

  “That’s where I am; I’m in Rome,” I assured them. “I went to confession, Mom. I thought you’d want to know. And that’s where I ran into Sheldon—well, not in the confessional, but here in Rome. He wants to have lunch with me. I don’t know if I should go, you know, dredging up all those old memories…and, well, I’m not sure if spending time with him is the healthiest thing for me at this point in my life.”

  “What exactly are you doing with your life, dear?” my mother said, ignoring my subtle plea for help. “First, you want this man, who, in case you’ve forgotten, we didn’t recommend you marrying in the first place. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, you divorce him. Did you get an annulment when you were at church at least?”

  “Shut up, Susan, that’s beside the point.”

  Apparently, my father managed to find a way to get sauced over the course of this five-minute conversation.

  “I thought we made ourselves clear,” my father said, commanding the airwaves. “We are no longer interested in having you in this family. I’m not sure what you expected to gain by calling us, but the deal stands. We’re done with you and the lunacy of your love life.”

  Click.

  Dick.

  My mind raced between thoughts of my parents, the consummate assholes, and at Sheldon for stepping into my life all over again. In Europe, for God’s sake—how was that even possible? I scooped up my soggy purse from the bench and sprinted down the rocky road.

  ***

  No one was more surprised than me when I found myself back on the steps of the Vatican. I chalked it up to a bizarre calling of sorts, to make up for lost church time perhaps. I entered the building and swam through the crowds until I got to the front of the church. I maneuvered into a pew.

  Man, it was bloody hot. Get with the times, people. This was the age of climate control. Christ could handle it back in the day because he was outfitted in scraps of cloth, but now we lived by higher standards.

  A Japanese couple hovered overhead in the pew behind me, talking in a foreign tongue, pointing and gesturing—just two of many gawking tourists—all likely making fun of me.

  “Shhhhh, I’m trying to concentrate,” I whispered, looking back at them briefly.

  They ignored me and continued to babble while pointing and clicking their stupid oversized camera in my direction, like reporters eager to pounce on a story. They looked equally fascinated and horrified, as if they’d just caught a nun in the midst of a sexual act. Maybe they had.

  “Beat it! Where I come from, it’s rude to stare at people and ruder still to click pictures at someone who is obviously upset. Plus, no snapshots in church for Christ’s sake!” And then, as if by magic, Vatican Man appeared wearing nothing more than a Jesus-style loin cloth. Guess he couldn’t take the heat either. I tried to ignore him.

  My trip was not going at all like I had hoped. A failed confession, kicked out of the Vatican, falling at the foot of a famous fountain, running into my ex-husband at said fountain with my underwear fanning the crowd, being taunted and followed by a lunatic, and then being kicked out of my family—again. Not what one would call a stellar start to a new life.

  Foreign tongues continued to bark all around me. Were services starting? Or maybe I just hoped they would so I could get the hell out of the church. My head felt like it could erupt at any moment, so I knelt down, bowed my head, and began the deep-breathing exercises I learned from Yoga magazine. Yes, I guess the priest and Sheldon had been right—it did always come back to simply breathing. Kneeling proved painful due to the scrapes from my tumble at the fountain. Apparently, the Vatican was too holier-than-thou to opt for padded kneelers.

  I tried to escape the crowds in the back by moving up to the row closest to the altar. Not many souls would be brave enough to sit here. Being right next to all the godliness haunted me. Tourists lurked in hidden corners, I could feel them.

  Focus, Samantha, breathe, breathe, breathe.

  Wow! That did help—thanks, Yoga magazine. I continued heaving big, long, deep breaths, visualizing breathing away my problems: my parents, Sheldon, mean nuns, crazy old men, tourists, and even Justin and his oddball proposal.

  The next thing I knew, my head snapped forward, jolting me awake. Yikes, had I actually fallen asleep? That deep breathing was powerful stuff. I dipped into my bag to grab a Kleenex to wipe the drool off my forearm. It had all but disintegrated yet it was still functional. I rooted around for my shawl. The Catholics didn’t want anyone entering a church in Rome without covering their shoulders. I had been busted on that earlier. I continued to rummage through my soggy bag, but no luck. What the hell?

  Holy shit! No shawl. Or wallet. I was certain I’d grabbed everything when I scooped my purse out of Trevi Fountain. Could someone have snatched it while I sleep-prayed? That would surely be a sin. Frantic, I dumped out the entire contents of my purse onto the pew in front of me, some stuff still wet from earlier. Nope, no wallet. I gathered everything back into my bag, made a sign of the cross, and excused myself out of the row.

  “Hail Mary,” I said.

  I pushed past the crowds tripping again, though this time I refrained from flashing my underwear at people, and ran out of the church, stopping only when I reached the front steps. Masses of people were scattered all over God’s front yard.

>   In the distance, I saw a nun scamper toward the exit of Vatican City. She threw a sharp sneer at me and picked up speed as she parted the crowd. From the steps, I watched as she tossed off her habit headpiece and pushed people out of her way, gaining even more speed. With each step, she looked less like a nun and more like a person who had just scored a life savings…wait, she had—mine. Why hadn’t I converted my cash into traveler’s checks like Travel + Leisure magazine recommended? I watched the gypsy-posing-as-a-nun flee the blessed city.

  Had these thieves no shame? Not one bloody magazine article bothered to warn tourists about falling asleep inside the church. The world assumed that the Vatican would be sacred ground, free of pillage and robbery, but apparently not.

  And then as if God transported someone to answer me, Vatican Man reappeared. He just shook his head, not even bothering to make the sign of the cross anymore. I guess I was no longer worthy of even a senile old man’s attention.

  “What are you looking at? Go back to your own country,” I shouted to a pack of sneaker-clad tourists who were being led into the church by an underage Italian tour guide.

  “Watch your bags, people. Nothing is safe in this town!”

  A nun, hopefully a real one, appeared before me as if to deliver me from evil. Instead, she shooed me off the steps.

  “What? I’m not looking glamorous enough for you? I’m sorry. I was just robbed,” I yelled.

  Just like the nuns of my youth, she showed me no mercy. She pointed at a bible and shooed me away from the entrance. I was not worthy of redemption.

  “What, is looking unkempt a mortal sin too? What ails you people? Eve ate the bloody apple already, so clearly we are not meant to be perfect!”

  She pushed me aside.

  “Whatever.”

  I clutched my empty purse and tried to get away from the church as fast as I could. Due to the crowds that grew thicker with each step, it took me far too long. When I finally reached the edge of Vatican City, I looked back at the grand dame of a church and shouted, “Screw you, Jesus Christ!” and flipped nobody in particular the bird.

  How much more could one person take? Let alone on what was supposed to be a leisurely romp through Rome? The last few years of my life replayed in my mind like a horror movie.

  As if on cue, Vatican Man reappeared. What was this guy’s problem?

  “Go find some other soul to save, mister, mine is unsalvageable,” I said. Then I flipped him the bird too.

  I pulled out my phone, the only thing that the thief did not steal since it was still stuck to my tit, and dialed as fast as my flipping middle finger could fly.

  “Hello?” my dad said.

  “Hello, Father, I would like to have a word with you, I hope I’m not interrupting your cocktail hour. Ha, who am I kidding? Every hour is happy hour with you people,” I said as I giggled wickedly.

  “What could you possibly have to say to me other than an apology, which could take a while. Susan, get me a beer,” Dad commanded, ever the gentleman. “Your ex-daughter has graced us with another phone call. Two times in one day, not sure what in the hell we did wrong to deserve this.”

  I took three breaths, made an abrupt sign of the cross to Vatican Man, and began.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, my damning parents from hell, I do have something to say. I am no longer equipped to deal with you people. During every major milestone in my life, you have done nothing but denigrate and disown me. This is not good Catholic behavior. Don’t you remember the commandments? Love thy neighbor like thyself? Only I’m not your neighbor; I am your god damned motherfucking daughter, for Christ’s sake! Well, try this on for size, geezers. I’m firing you from the family. So take that and stuff it up your tightly wound, bad-practicing Catholic asses! And, by the way, you drink too much, use incorrect English, and are incapable of making eye contact. Didn’t the Bible ever teach you people anything?”

  Free at last.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The triumph of firing my family fizzled when I realized I had no idea where I was. I’d paced around for a few hours trying to get as far away as possible from the Vatican. Never again would I buy a cheap travel phone. This one didn’t even have a maps app.

  I needed to get inside before sundown, since Lonely Planet warned against blondish women traveling alone in Italy. The last thing I needed was to get mugged. But instead of feeling scared, I felt empowered—weightless in a way, having released myself from the talons of my parents’ lifelong grip.

  If I had known that issuing my family a pink slip would have felt this liberating, I would have done it years ago. Now I could be whoever I wanted to be—Catholic, heathen, or maybe just happy for a change. We all made mistakes, granted some of us much bigger ones than others, but I’d done the best I could.

  A few minutes later, I stumbled upon a café, the Italians’ rendition of an Irish pub, but more brightly lit. This place felt extra welcoming because it was airy and free of beer stank. Instead, coffee, liqueurs, and sweet-scented pastries wafted out the windows.

  I entered, made my way up to the bar, and sat atop a lonesome stool, prepared to enjoy the serenity of this quaint little spot.

  “Bella, welcome, you’re not from a here, are you?” a portly balding barista greeted me.

  “No, no I’m not, and if you don’t mind, I don’t feel much like being entertained with anecdotal stories about Rome. Can you just pour me three shots of grappa and leave me alone please? Wait. Make that three shots of espresso instead. Grazie.”

  “Whatever the beautiful lady wishes,” he said as he bowed and withdrew.

  As I waited somewhat impatiently for my coffee shots, I took in my surroundings and realized I was the only American in the place. Not even a nun or Vatican Man to be found, thank God. I should have felt awkward and nervous, yet instead, I felt strong and safe. Perhaps it was the marble counter and mahogany tables that surrounded me—symbols of strength.

  I found it impossible not to obsess over what Sheldon was doing in Rome. What were the odds? I couldn’t imagine what we would have to talk about after all this time. Maybe I could regale him with my family firing. He would surely share in some of the delight of my bold move. My parents were never kind to poor Sheldon. The countless times they called him a gigolo-hussy never sat well with him. Or me.

  The barista finally returned with three dainty cups of espresso that he set down with a flourish in front of me. He started spewing something about the grind of the beans and flavor profile. I blocked out his babble and that of the people sitting next to me by tossing back the first shot of caffeine. It burnt the back of my throat as I swallowed, but damn, did it taste good on the way down. As thoughts about a potential lunch with Sheldon cluttered my mind, I sucked down the next shot with ease. Sheldon be gone, I thought.

  As I let the coffee flavor linger on my lips, I did a double take when an Italian stallion, whose build made me think of Justin, sauntered into the bar. He had icy blue eyes, olive skin, and sleek, dark hair. I had to admit, he looked striking. His biceps matched Justin’s in stature and girth.

  As he walked toward the bar, I felt him mentally undress me with each step. Every blink of his gigantic eyes reminded me of Justin and his proposal. The memory of Justin’s adorable eyes staring back at me from the street corner was a painful one. Remembering me charging down the street away from him the last time I saw him wasn’t any better. Running and ultimately fleeing the country had to be one of the worst ways to not answer someone’s proposal of marriage. A simple “no” might have sufficed.

  I stared for a minute longer at the beautiful Italian man and his perfectly sculpted chest that was exposed more than any American could ever pull off in a public place. He continued to walk toward me, forcing me to gulp down my final coffee shot. I gagged at the exact moment he took the seat next to me.

  Without words, he began to stroke my hair, and then he pulled a cocktail napkin from the bar, and ever so gently began to wipe away the espresso that had
spewed out of the corner of my mouth. He continued to move up to my eyes where he wiped away the train of tears that had begun to fall without my knowledge. He parted the hair out of my eyes, and spoke softly in Italian, none of which I understood.

  I gazed into his eyes, but all I could see looking back at me was Justin. The stallion gently kissed each of my eyelids, as if to grant them permission to stay closed. He moved away from my lids, down to the cheeks, eventually landing on my lips. The next thing I knew, we were in a tender and loving embrace coupled with soft kisses, and then an ever so slight slide of his tongue up to the roof of my mouth.

  Something jolted me out of this sensual experience—namely the fact that as much as I wanted him to be, this man was not Justin. He was just a random person who I allowed to try to mend my broken heart in what I imagined was the Italian way—drowning devastation in kisses. This was no longer an acceptable means of coping. As if another meaningless sexual tryst would help me forget what I had done, or melt away my fears of a normal life. You are right. You deserve better than this. Now is your chance to heal.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I appreciate your kindness, and while I certainly enjoyed your supple lips and looking at your shapely ass—I mean buttocks, sorry, I’m trying to stop cursing. Anyway, I can’t keep doing this. I left a man, a very good man, a very sweet man, in the middle of a Manhattan street with my engagement ring, because I didn’t feel ready to accept his love, so this just wouldn’t be right. Thank you, but no thank you.”

  Without thinking, I pulled out the scrap of paper where Sheldon had scribbled his phone number and dialed. He answered.

  “Hey, you, hope you had a nice conference,” I said. “I’ve had a chance to breathe, as you suggested, and I was thinking it would be nice to meet for lunch, if you’re still open to the idea.”

  “Yeah, it’s time, Sam. It really is. Let’s meet back at the fountain. Tomorrow at noon?”