Eternity Skye

by Liz Newman

  A hiss escaped from Tabitha’s lips. She brought her cell phone out of her purse. “I haven’t checked my messages since I left New York.”

  “Are you worried he called and you don’t know what to say?”

  “No. I forgot the charger. I’ll pick one up in Florence.”

  The streets of Florence were alive with peddlers shouting their wares. An outdoor market with stacks of cashmere and wool ponchos and scarves, and tiny statues of Venus, the Uffizi, and the Vatican sprawled out, with catcallers on the Piazza dei Ciompi. Suspicious-looking teenagers hovered about, ready to dip a hand into the pockets of unsuspecting tourists. Skye and Tabitha kept their handbags tucked securely under their arms as they made their way to the Uffizi museum. They waited in line with college students weighed down by backpacks and entwined honeymooning couples, paying their admission and walking through the narrow courtyard between the Uffizi’s two wings, gazing in awe at the Palazzo Vecchio and the luminescent, enormous clock tower at its end.

  The visitors at the crowded Uffizi murmured in wonderment at the displays. Occasionally, the laugh of a child rang out in the echoing halls. Tabitha pointed at a painting of Carveggio’s Medusa.

  “Ah, there she is. My inner demon. I finally get a look at her.”

  They walked on. Skye stopped in front of Titian’s Venus of Urbino.

  “I’ll be like that someday. Lounging naked on a chaise lounge while my servants search for the right clothes to dress me in. I’ll be old and wrinkled by then, but I’ll get there. Every woman’s dream.”

  The women stared up at Michelangelo’s David, letting their eyes rest on his muscular calves, curving, angular thighs, and ever-upward, stopping short at some of the more interesting parts.

  “What a work of art,” Skye breathed.

  “I have more than adequate at home. Jonas doesn’t just look like a god from the collared shirt up.”

  “I’d let him tap away on that Blackberry all day. I’d tell him to concentrate on what’s above his head and I’ll take care of everything else. I’d chain him up to the bed on the weekends,” Skye said with gusto. “I’d never leave. I’d never let him leave. I’d teleconference every damn report, from my bedroom, with only a suit jacket on.”

  “He left me. Why do men leave anyway? If it gets that bad, just file for divorce.”

  “Did you go back to the house after the party?”

  “I went to our apartment in Manhattan to pick up some clothes.” She folded her arms across her chest as they walked along. “Then straight to the airport. I know he was having an affair with Tazim. I’ll bet I’ll go home to an empty house. Or he’ll be pouring coffee for her while she breakfasts in my robe.”

  Skye thought hard about what to say. “My father always used to say, ‘it’s better to run away and live to fight another day.’ Then he left my mother and moved to Europe and the next time we shared the same room, he was ashes in an urn.”

  “That’s very helpful, Skye. Thank you. Is that your explanation for moving out on me? Leaving me when I needed you most?” Tabitha removed a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes. “I guess I choose the same types of people who abandon me.”

  “Let’s not stray from the present. Teleworld is a very demanding company. I didn’t have a lot of free time to hang out. You were wrapped up in…whatever you were going through at the time, and I was busy with work.”

  Tabitha’s head bobbed from side to side like a cork in the ocean. “So busy you couldn’t call me? Couldn’t send me an email?” Irritation bristled the words in her throat. “Too busy with your ever-elusive love life, I suppose. What I went through was your lack of understanding of what friendship really is.”

  “Friendship is about mutual support; not about skipping over tracks with you when you decide to play chicken with a freight train.”

  “You used me to make life bearable for you while you slaved away at Teleworld. I was a clown for you, someone there to entertain you, to feel sorry for. The poor little Jersey girl. Look at you now. How does the parasite paparazzi you are company to compare to my social circle?” Tabitha retorted.

  Skye bristled with anger. “I’m not the socialite type. Never have been. I prefer men who are committed to their work, not artists or pseudo-celebrity types. The company I keep is boring for you. You need your circle of snooty friends who never stop acting, even when the camera is off. You need them, so you can bemoan your life and find whatever excuse you need to drown them out. You’ve painted a very nice picture for yourself, Tabitha. A picture that makes every self-destructive thing you do justifiable. Maybe Jonas and I are the only ones who see through it. You ran from him once he saw your true colors. Will you run from me now?”

  Tabitha whirled to face her. “You’ve hated me ever since you met Jonas. You’re jealous because I’m living with the love of my life, and you’re married to a broadcast news channel and viewers who won’t even remember who you are in twenty years.”

  “Happy?” Skye said. “You’ve pissed all over every chance at happiness that you ever had.”

  “You bled on my wedding dress. In public.”

  “I…I have a medical condition.” Skye shook her head furiously. “If your marriage is so happy, why are you here?”

  “When I heard you were in Rome alone, I pitied you. Who in the world vacations alone?” Tabitha turned and walked away quickly. Skye caught up to her, keeping in stride.

  “You’re running away. Finding some distraction, some substance, some way to keep you from facing your real problem, and that is you. Yourself. You don’t want to admit you never tried hard enough, so anything given to you isn’t worth anything. Even love. I hope to God Jonas does not leave you after this, because if he does you’re in for one hell of a reality check!”

  “How dare you!” Tabitha shrieked. A teacher leading a group of children on a field trip hurried her group past the two women. “When has anyone ever needed you the way Jonas needs me? Your string of transient lovers, even your career success equals nothing compared to what I have. I’m loved by someone real, not a multitude of nameless, faceless people who watch you on television. I’ll bet you curl your head up to a TV every night, your only comfort being that your show is broadcast all over America. So my poisons are booze and pills. Yours is work. Maybe healthier than my choice, but I can leave my poisons behind and still have someone to hold onto in this world who cares whether I live or die. I envy you, and ask myself why can’t I achieve fame and success, why can’t I be seen by the world like Skye Evans? Truly, what do you have that’s so much greater?”

  Skye’s face hovered inches from Tabitha’s face, but her throat constricted. She could think of nothing else to say, but the truth, as much as she despised the sound of the words. Skye’s voice lowered almost to a whisper. She spoke with her eyes downcast. “I want what you have. Freedom. Beauty. Choices. You want what I have too. A name. A career of your own. Why do we hate each other for it?”

  “What!” The blaze in Tabitha’s eyes cooled down just a bit. Her lips, ready to shoot more venom, stopped short.

  Skye and Tabitha stared at each other in silence, the sound of strangers’ footsteps echoing in the cool, wide hallways of the museum. The raging tide of anger receded as Skye took a long, deep breath. “When I noticed the glow on your face when you were with him, and the way he looked at you at the ceremony, I hated seeing it. Not because I don’t want you to be happy. Well, in all honesty, maybe a part of me didn’t, because I didn’t act like you in college. I wanted to, but I was raised to think women who act like that always come to a bad end. I’m not being trite. I know you must work out the addictions. I have no doubt that he will stay by your side, every step of the way. How you have inspired and commanded such love and loyalty may always be a mystery to me.

  “I hated that look of love, because I’ve never envisioned myself being an outsider looking in on anything. I’ve positioned myself in every way for people to look at me. I tried to avoid situations when I wasn’t
expecting people to look at me, or when the attention wasn’t on me. Even at your wedding, I knew you invited me to be your Maid of Honor because I am a public figure. I have dreams of marriage, too. The longer time goes on, the more I realize I might be incapable of love.” Her eyes stung with the bitter tears of loneliness. “Everyone sees the Skye they want to see. The anchor. The good listener. The angry mercenary. No one ever really looks, do they? Isn’t that why we choose work, booze, pills? We are women. Rarely do we find someone who bothers to look past the outside.”

  “Skye, a woman like you has plenty of time to fall in love.” Tabitha threw her arms around Skye. “Maybe it’s better you find him when you’re an old wrinkled crone. Then you’ll know for sure it’s real.”

  Skye laughed through her tears. Tabitha unhooked her handbag from her shoulder and perched on a wooden bench, removing tissue from her purse as Skye sat beside her; she dabbed Skye’s eyes, and then her own.

  “Fifteen years ago,” Skye said, “I thought love was butterflies. That’s attraction. Ten years ago, it was an anatomically correct Prince Charming with an expensive watch and a thick portfolio. Five years ago, it was an amusement. Now, it’s some imaginary male who’s lived out all his dreams, except the dream of true love, and wants to set his feet on solid ground. Like me. How many men like that do you know?”

  “None of your stature. Usually by the time they reach their thirties, if they aren’t married, they’re gay or a bunch of grizzled playboys. You really think I run away from my problems? Actually, don’t answer that.”

  “I won’t answer if you really think no one will remember me as a journalist.”

  “Even if they don’t, I will. I’ve never seen this with quite so much clarity, but despite my own failures, I’m happy for your success. Perhaps I feel this way now because we’re together, and finally truthful with one another. For better or for worse.” Tabitha stared glumly at the work by Fra Fillipo Lippi. Madonna con Due Angeli. “I always wonder how I was born to such a simple life and yet I’m so complicated. So tragic.” She stared at the serene face of the Madonna, the delicate folds of blue cloak framing her face. “Why can’t I be like her? Content. The homemaker. Soccer mom.”

  “Each piece of Italian art tells a story,” Skye said. “And the story is different for everyone. Sal said that.”

  “You should sleep with him. I’m serious,” Tabitha said at Skye’s incredulous look. “Now that you’ve got a new show, when are you ever going to see him again? Have some fun in life.”

  “Sure. Take a few pills, drink a little booze, enjoy yourself.”

  “Work yourself to death. Perché non? Thanks to you, and I’m being sincere, I can think of quite a few reasons not to.” Tabitha unwrapped a stick of gum and stuffed it into her mouth. “I’m going to find a cell phone charger in town. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.” She headed toward the exit.

  Skye made her way down the wide, echoing halls, back to Carveggio’s painting of Medusa. “Tabitha’s not the only one you inhabit,” she whispered to the ghastly face surrounded by snakes with fangs ready to strike. “So how can you and I learn to get along?”

  A thousand bells tolled the evening hour of six o’clock as Skye and Tabitha boarded the train back to Rome. They leaned their heads on each other as an artist sitting across from them glanced their way now and then and swept his brushes and pencils on his sketchbook. The sun descended loftily under the tiled roofs of quaint little houses with beige stucco walls.

  Later that night, Tabitha crept into Skye’s bedroom, with her blankets wrapped tightly around her. Sweat drenched her face, and her body shuddered. Skye rose and led Tabitha over to her own bed, steadying her as much as she could. Tabitha unwrapped her arms out of the sheets, handing Skye the remaining boxes of Sonnori pills. Her fingers felt ice cold to the touch, her hands gnarled and witchy. Her body shuddered once again, causing the bed to shake.

  “The heat flashes through my chest. Then my arms and legs get cold,” Tabitha mumbled.

  “Shall I call a doctor?” Skye asked.

  “This is the last of the…” she shuddered again, her teeth chattering. “The withdrawal. It has to be.”

  Skye lay down on the bed next to her until Tabitha’s sweat seeped through the sheets. She got up and lay on a chaise lounge, watching Tabitha’s body turn and shudder. Tabitha’s half-closed eyes moved rapidly beneath her lids. Her hands curled and opened, and every few minutes, she called out for Jonas.

  ***

  Skye awoke before the familiar crow of the rooster. The bed was empty, with the sheets tousled and damp. Sleeping on the short length of the chaise lounge required Skye to dangle her legs over the edge as she slept, and she felt the uneven curvature of her spine as she stood. Skye washed her face, smoothing her cleansing lotion upward and rinsing. She blotted her cheeks and forehead with a towel and slathered on her daily moisturizing creams. Dressing quickly in a light pull over sweater and jeans, she went in search of Tabitha.

  The kitchen was quiet and empty, the stove cold. The morning light shone through the windows as Skye walked up and down the halls, calling Tabitha’s name softly. No answer. Tabitha’s clothes still hung in the lower guest bedroom closet. A dozen pairs of designer shoes were strewn all over the floor.

  The sound of a water main turning on outside the villa made a rushing noise echo through the pipes. Skye opened the French doors and found Sal in the garden, pointing a hose at a row of flower bushes and misting each petal. He looked up in surprise as she called his name.

  He gave her a look of affection but he responded with congenial pleasantry. “Buon giorno, Skye. May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Tabitha.”

  “I will search with you.”

  They reentered the villa as they walked through the parlor, living room, family rooms, entertainment room, private theater and a host of various rooms.

  A four-poster bed with a gold frame crowned the master bedroom. “Is that solid gold?” Skye asked.

  “The Signora Luciana insists on only the finest.”

  Skye examined the columns on the bed, marveling at their perfection. “Looks brand new,” she remarked.

  “It was delivered only a month ago.”

  “The fixtures in the villa, the tiles, even a great deal of the landscaping, looks new. Was the villa remodeled recently?”

  “A great deal of land surrounding the villa was sold off. Most of the land was unused and overgrown with weeds. What remained was refashioned at the Signora Luciana’s request. The villa once spread over a grand expanse of land, sweeping forth from the borders of Rome almost to the banks of the Tiber. So much land was unnecessary for its owner.”

  They tiptoed into the Signora Luciana’s sitting room. Long, beaded curtains hung from the picture windows, and bade them to be silent in their space. The room boasted a separate entertainment room, complete with a flat screen television and plush seating. The décor, cream and bright fuchsia tones, struck the observer as very nouveau riche.

  “Tabitha is not here. Come, let us go now,” Sal said.

  On the fireplace mantel sat pictures of the Signora Luciana with her face set in an expression of intense smugness, her mane of blonde hair cascading over one shoulder; cradling a fluffy Pomeranian terrier; relaxing on an upholstered lounge chair against a background of fleur-de-lis wallpaper by a fireplace; and reclining on a cushioned lounge chair next to a sparkling pool, the ocean and towering mountains of a tropical isle looming in the distance.

  “She certainly does love herself. The Signora.” Skye said. “You would think she would smile in all those beautiful places.”

  “She spends a great deal of time alone,” Sal replied. He shut her bedroom door as they exited into the hall.

  “I know a few others within these walls who are just like that, by choice or by chance.” She hooked her arm through Sal’s as they combed the second floor for Tabitha. “Why is she a Signora and not a Signorina?”

  “She married a Sic
ilian. A black Italian. He left her for another woman and she came back home, pregnant. She carried the child, happy to be free from under the shadow of any man after her father died. There are rumors that she watched her father die. None of those are true. She loved him dearly, as he was the only parent who truly cared for her, despite her odd behavior.”

  “Didn’t her mother care about her?”

  Sal patted Skye’s hand. “Every family has their secrets. The Signora Cecilia Luciana is a woman to be pitied, for she was burdened by the sins of her parents, even before she was born. That’s all anyone need know. After her son was born, he lived only eight months. The loss of the child broke her. He was all that was left for her that had any goodness. Anything pure. She calls herself Signora in memory of her son, so that no one will remember him as a bastard. It is likely only she will remember him, as he passed so young. She will always consider herself his mother, and she explained to me that a proper mother should have first been a wife. She fell into a deep sorrow after his death. Buying things and traveling makes her happy again.”

  “You speak as if you’re a good study of human nature,” Skye said. “I’ve always thought gardeners, or any manual laborers, were bound to the mundane in life. Now I know better.”

  “Watering flowers gives you a lot of time to think.” They exchanged a smile. “I hear someone calling from outside.”

  Skye’s ears perked up as she strained to hear the voice. It sounded like Tabitha, wailing. She broke away from Sal and threw open the double doors. A blood curdling scream sounded over the grassy knoll leading down to the brook. The grass wilted under Skye’s feet as she ran, flying over the Jerusalem stone tile by the fountain, her eyes moving peripherally to catch any sight of Tabitha.

  Tabitha ran up the hill, her hair fanning in red flames behind her. She clutched her sandals in her hand. “There’s a dead man in the garden!”