‘I don’t know,’ said Dad. This is what hurt the most—that he didn’t know. He was supposed to know; he was the one who always had the answers.
Then the words became muffled, and I couldn’t understand anything else until my mum opened the door to find me standing there. I looked past her tear-stained face to my dad, who stood there in his pyjama bottoms, electric razor buzzing in his hand.
An uncomfortable silence weaved its way between us until he held my eyes with his. He smiled. It was the kind of smile that was steeped in the deepest kind of love a parent has for their child. He switched off the razor, walked towards me, and taking one of my hands in his, he gazed at me with an unbearable look of desperation and said, ‘We need you to fight, Mia.’ He pulled me close and held me so tightly I could hardly breathe. When his hand touched the patch of bald skin on the back of my head, he buried his face in my neck. ‘Just a few more rounds, pumpkin, and this will all be over.’
That morning, I agreed to attend my first meditation class with Sarah. The centre, located in the foothills of the Dandenong Ranges surrounded by mountain ash trees stretching up towards the sky, smelled of incense and was quiet except for the chanting that was coming from a nearby room. I looked at my dad as he raised his eyebrows, and I couldn’t help flashing him an amused smile. Sarah appeared and clapped her hands together.
‘Ready to turn your eye inward?’
I shrugged. ‘I guess so.’
‘Come, I want to show you something.’
She led me to a garden fringed with sprawling tree ferns, and motioned for me to sit on a wooden bench. I waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. I pulled my beanie over my ears and waited, my frustration escalating with each minute that passed. My thoughts twined themselves into a rope that knotted itself in my stomach, and when I could no longer feel my fingers and toes, I went to speak, except Sarah raised a finger to her mouth and the silence continued. I shifted my weight on the bench and sat on my hands in an effort to keep them still.
Eventually, Sarah stood up. ‘You can go home now, kiddo.’
I felt my face twisting into a frown. ‘But I thought …’
‘That’s the point.’ She flashed me a hint of a smile. ‘See you next week?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Three months later, I looked forward to my sessions with Sarah.
‘I need you to trust me, but more importantly, I need you to trust what you feel and what you see,’ said Sarah one afternoon in the meditation centre. She lit a stick of incense and tucked it in the wooden burner.
I sat on my zafu cushion and moved my body into the lotus position, resting my knees on the floor, straightening my back and inhaling deeply the way she’d taught me.
‘Breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth … Feel your body relaxing with every inhale. On the exhale, imagine your breath is releasing any worries or tension you might be feeling—let it all go with the breath.’
I let all the thoughts—large and small—of life and death and everything in between, drift by with the smallest flicker of attention. I liked how the whole meditation thing helped with that.
‘Now that you’re completely relaxed, I’d like you to imagine yourself sitting on a lush green carpet of grass. It’s a bright and sunny day and you can feel the warmth of the sun’s rays on your skin. When you’re ready, I want you to feel into your life as it is now. Take note of any words that come to you.’
Empty.
‘And any emotions that you’re feeling.’
Sad. Scared. Lost.
‘And any images that you might be seeing. Remember to allow yourself to see and feel without judgement. There is no right, and there is no wrong. There just is.’
Slowly, the image of two male hands appeared; their fingers pointing towards each other, not quite touching. I knew I’d seen this image somewhere before and that it was part of something bigger, but this perplexing thought drifted away when one of the hands reached out for mine. A feeling of complete safety and peace washed over me before the hand dissipated into nothing and then I was overcome with a strong desire to move towards it, long after it had gone.
‘Now I want you to look for a door. I want you to imagine that behind the door is the answer to your prayers or a solution to your problem or some guidance on what steps you need to take in your life in order to heal or find peace. Know that when you step through the door, you’re completely safe and protected.’
I stepped through the door and found myself in an airport. I looked down at my hands to find a boarding card with my name on it without a destination. When I looked up I suddenly found myself outside again, where I was now surrounded by hills dotted with olive trees and farmhouses that backed onto rows of vineyards. I turned around, trying to find some other clue as to where I was and then I saw it: a panoramic view of Florence, Italy.
‘When you’re ready, I’d like you to turn back and lock the door behind you,’ instructed Sarah.
I turned around for one last glimpse of something that felt so distant yet so real and so comforting.
‘So, how was it, Mia? What guidance did you receive?’
‘It was … amazing,’ I said, stretching my legs. ‘This might sound crazy, but I think I want to go to Italy.’
‘Italy?’ She smiled in surprise.
‘Well, Florence, to be exact. After they give me the all clear. If they give me the all clear.’
I’d never wanted the all clear as much as I wanted it right then. By the time I’d battled it out for round four, I had tried to paint again. But no matter how hard I’d tried to dip into the right colours, my brush wanted to do other things. The only images that reflected back at me were formless dark shapes and shadows that were painted by a completely different version of myself—one I was scared could no longer recognise the pre-cancer version of Mia. One day after painting a completely horrifying swath of greys, I slammed my brushes down and pushed my easel over with such force that I stumbled and tripped and couldn’t find the energy to get up again. As I lay there with my cheek to the floorboards, I remember thinking that this was it; there was nothing left of me if I couldn’t paint again.
My mum rushed in and dropped to her knees beside me. ‘Did you fall? Tell me where it hurts.’
‘Nowhere,’ I said. The truth was that it hurt everywhere. She helped me sit up. My hands slid through the mess of wet paint as I scrambled for my brushes and held them tightly to my chest as though I was trying to channel one small glimpse of what life used to feel like.
My mum looked at me with scared, sad eyes and told me that she’d take care of the mess.
I brought my knees up to my chest, buried my head in my hands and yelled, ‘I don’t want you to take care of it, Mum! I don’t want you to have to fix this! I have to fix this.’ I just didn’t know how to fix any of it. My mum winced at my words. ‘Mum … I’m sorry.’
‘Here,’ she said, handing me a brush.
She took a cloth and started wiping the paint from my forearm before moving to each finger. I watched her wipe away every trace of paint, giving this task the kind of attention she might have given a younger version of myself when I came to her with a grazed knee or a superficial burn. I wasn’t a mother, but in that moment she showed me what it meant to be a mother, and I became aware of how brilliantly she succeeded at being the best kind. When her fingers wrapped themselves around my wrist and put cloth to skin, I felt better, if only for a fleeting second. Here was my mum, conscripted to a life full of uncertainty, where she had no choice except to play the alternating roles of mother, wife, therapist, nurse, chauffeur and constant punching bag, all the while trying to maintain some shred of hope that I’d live to see my next birthday.
‘You do make it better,’ I whispered.
She folded the cloth and started hiccupping in silence, her chest rising and falling in an attempt to fight back the tears. She looked up at the ceiling as if she was drawing strength from above and then she brought her fingers to her lips, as if she w
as thinking about what to say to me.
‘You don’t need to say anything. I just wanted you to know,’ I said.
Two days later, Doctor Henderson called. A week after that, I booked my plane ticket. Nine months after that, I arrived in Florence.
FOUR
Stella potters around the garden while I fight the urge to nap and instead get ready for my first outing to Impruneta at a leisurely pace. After pinning back a handful of hair so it’s out of my face, I put some makeup on for the first time in months, letting the artificial colour dusted onto my cheeks bring me partly back to life.
I grab my large-brimmed hat and make my way down the villa’s pebbled driveway. Stopping halfway down the steep hill, I sit on the wall, admiring the country view, while my fingers rest on the warm stone. Here I am, upholding my end of the bargain in honouring my intuition, unable to fully explain what I expect from this adventure, but ready for whatever life might bring here. Awkwardly trusting, as I allow whatever glimmer of hope I have left to reignite my passion for life. My thoughts drift to what they usually do, worrisome ones about my life expectancy.
It should be easy to focus on the ninety per cent survival rate for stage two Hodgkin’s disease, but it’s not. The ten per cent haunts me like a dark grey cloud looming above my head, ready to burst open, showering my body with acid rain at any given moment. Let’s face it, the statistics haven’t really been on my side, given I’m the one in 479 who developed lymphoma in the first place.
I start to focus on my breath, just like Sarah taught me. Breathe in, hold the breath … and release, and eventually the thoughts evaporate. Approaching the town centre in my Zen-like state, all I can hear is the buzz of the odd scooter and the curious little three-wheel trucks called api that rattle by every so often.
A warm northerly breeze brushes my skin, dislodging wisps of hair that dance around my face as I drink in the seconds of what is right now. I hear Sarah’s words echoing in my head: ‘Mia, just focus on the present, because this is what really matters.’ My heart expands and an immense sensation of gratitude washes over me. Right now, I am not just a girl who has overcome her battle with cancer. I am not a girl who doesn’t know who she is anymore. I am not a girl whose nightmares wake her at night with the terrifying feeling that she might not live to see her next birthday. In this moment, I am just me. I find myself singing out loud until a group of boys startle me, calling out, ‘Ciao, bella!’ from a sky-blue Fiat Cinquecento.
As I approach the piazza, the smooth asphalted road turns into cobblestoned one-way streets. It’s just before four o’clock, and the sleepy town is waking up for the afternoon as the shop merchants of Piazza Buondelmonti hoist up the metal roller doors to their shopfronts, ready for the second half of the day’s trading. People venture into the main square after their siestas, having pulled down their shutters at midday for the riposo.
A row of vintage cruiser bikes are lined up beside the large basilica. It’s Tuesday, and people of all ages are filtering out from the afternoon mass, congregating in small groups. The passionate rise and fall of the Italian language carries through the air. Between the men smoking cigars and the young children kicking a soccer ball in the middle of the piazza, I’m unsure of which group to watch first. I’m intrigued by them all: their mannerisms, their appearances, their accents.
The priest trails behind the last group of churchgoers and begins his own animated chat with a few of them under one of the five large arches. The Basilica of Santa Maria, according to my Fodor’s, dates all the way back to 1060 and was restored after a bombing destroyed its baroque ceiling during the Second World War. I’m at my most comfortable amongst artwork, and, used to the silence of my own company, I easily spend an hour here, taking in the basilica’s rich history and beauty. A fleeting thought about the future passes in my mind as I wonder whether studying at the Academy of Art in Florence might one day be a possibility for me. Thinking too far into the future sends an uncomfortable feeling into the pit of my stomach. Trying my best to ignore it, I make my way to the church exit. A strong feeling wills me to turn back.
‘If you’re unsure of any emotion or feeling, just sit with it until the answers come to you,’ Sarah would say.
I take a seat in the back pew and sit in silence, the uncomfortable feeling growing stronger with each passing second. It doesn’t dissipate until I acknowledge what it is that I’m feeling. I think about the battle I was forced to fight and like a pipe that’s bursting with anger, something in me unlocks. I want my life to feel the way it used to feel: full of possibility, untarnished by fear. I feel an intense need to get back to that, except I don’t know how. Tears start pouring out of me as if the heavens have burst, staining my face and tickling my neck as they slide past my collarbone onto my cotton shirt. By some unknown force, I’m brought to my knees. I drop my head into my hands, my spirit grieving for what should have been one of the best years of my life. I sob and sob and sob for what was ripped away from me, and as I break down in the privacy of this holy space, I look at Jesus, hanging off the crucifix, palms bleeding, head drooping, and beg for myself back.
‘Show me the way,’ I whisper.
I wipe my face against the clammy skin of my arm and take a few minutes to compose myself, when the priest who has been watching me, dressed in his cream-and-gold-embellished robe, cautiously shuffles towards me as if he’s approaching a wild animal.
‘Are you okay, signorina?’ he asks, his eyes trying to meet mine.
I nod because the words are too hard to find, especially if I have to find them in Italian. He passes me a tissue, which I graciously accept. I clean myself up, blow my nose and see that he’s still waiting for an answer. My mouth opens and closes, only no sounds come out. He rests the weight of his small, bony hand on my shoulder.
‘I’m Father Damiano,’ he says.
I place my palms together and nod, the only way I can express my thanks right now. And then I turn my back on the father and rush out the doors, hoping my prayer will be answered.
Sarah always said there’d come a time where I’d admit my feelings to myself even if I wasn’t yet ready to talk with her or anyone else about them. ‘When that happens, honey, you’ll know you’re on the road to healing what’s causing you all that pain in your heart.’
I find a fountain in the square and splash the cool water on my face, washing away the residual streaks of tears and any last traces of makeup. I don’t feel like going home yet, so I figure it might be a good time to grab a coffee. The seats outside the bar are mainly occupied by men wearing flat caps, blissfully people watching or playing a heated game of cards. They don’t look like regular playing cards, and I recognise one of the games they’re playing. Scopa. My Nonno Aldo taught me to play scopa with his deck of Sicilian playing cards when I was eight years old. He let me win every time because I’d throw the most livid tantrums whenever I lost.
I take a deep breath and ask the barman for a cappuccino in my rusty Italian.
‘Cappuccino is for breakfast!’ he teases. ‘You stranieri, you drink caffe latte in the afternoon. This is like eating Coco Pops for dinner!’ he says, chuckling.
Point taken. Short macchiatos from now on.
The barman is probably in his mid-forties and reminds me of an animated Roberto Benigni from Life is Beautiful.
‘Ah, si. Could you change that to a macchiato per favore?’ I ask, trying to act as local as possible.
‘Come ti chiami, bella?’
‘My name’s Mia.’
‘Silvio,’ he says, breaking into a friendly smile as he points to his badge. ‘Nice to meet you, Mia. Let me guess, I bet you’re from America.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Chicago!’
I shake my head.
He purses his lips, pretending to think. ‘Los Angeles!’
Again, I shake my head. I’m smiling now.
‘New York!’ His eyes are alight with humour.
A barman steps out from the kitchen and twirls Silvio around.
‘Matteo, this is Mia—she’s from …’ Silvio eyes me off and winks. Matteo has white hair and looks as though he should be at home and in retirement, even though he has the moves of a twenty-five-year-old.
‘Melbourne,’ I reply, finishing Silvio’s sentence.
‘Australia? Now that’s a long way from here.’ Silvio rubs his chin.
‘Piacere. Are you enjoying your holiday?’ asks Matteo.
‘I only just got here, but so far so good,’ I reply.
‘We know the ones like you, signorina Mia. Just wait until you fall in love,’ teases Silvio, as if he’s seen my life played out before him.
I smile politely and tell him I’m not looking for love right now.
‘Ah, but you haven’t gotten to know the irresistible Luca yet,’ he says, winking at Matteo.
Their small-town behaviour is amusing, yet I nonetheless feel my embarrassment escalating as my cheeks flush until they’re prickling hot. Surely they can’t be talking about the same Luca. My irrational heart sinks at the thought of him being the local heartbreaker. It would be just my luck to fall for the wrong guy and go home just as damaged as I’ve arrived. Without letting the conversation get any more uncomfortable, I go to sit down before remembering Stella’s words cautioning me about not sitting at a table unless you are ordering a meal. She’s right; everyone around me is drinking their espressos at the bar, standing up.
‘Actually, I’ll also have a … piadina,’ I say, pointing to the nearest thing I can find in the window. It looks like my early dinner is going to be a flat-bread sandwich with cheese, prosciutto and rocket salad. I hate the bitterness of rocket salad.
‘Toasted?’ asks Silvio.
‘Si, grazie.’
I wait for my piadina at a small uneven table overlooking the buzzing piazza and its honey-coloured buildings. I make the connection between macellaio and butcher, erboristeria and herbalist store, salumeria and delicatessen. Pulling out my pink-and-grey moleskine, I scribble down these new words.
The Florentine Bridge Page 3