The Girl in the Glass

by Susan Meissner

  But I didn’t see him in baggage claim.

  People run late, I told myself. It’s Italy. Give him a minute.

  I retrieved my suitcase and searched the sea of faces for my father. All around me reunions and meet-ups were taking place with hugs and handshakes, double kisses on cheeks, and happy, loud greetings. A few people stared at me, wondering perhaps who I was looking for. One gentleman, older than me, with his shirt half-tucked into frayed pants and carrying a single duffel bag, asked me something in rapid Italian. He smiled at me, and then his gaze traveled down my body.

  “No Italiano,” I said as I moved away from him.

  I checked my phone. I walked up and down the baggage claim area. I checked my phone again. Outside, the day was giving over to night. Inside, my excitement was giving over to panic.

  I was alone in Florence.

  And my dad wasn’t coming for me.

  My favorite of Master da Vinci’s paintings is The Annunciation. It has always been my favorite. There is such calm beauty in the brush strokes; you could hardly know that the angel bending to the Virgin Mother is giving her news that will change her life. The Virgin’s face is so serene. Surely she knew the hard road that she was to walk as one betrothed yet pregnant. Surely she knew she could be stoned for being with child and not yet married.

  Her life would forever be tied to scandal.

  The looks she had to endure. The sneers. The unkind words. The whispers of some and the derisive comments of others.

  Surely she knew what lay before her.

  It was a kindness that the Virgin was sent an angel to prepare her for what was to come.

  Sometimes I wonder what I would have done if I had known beforehand what would befall me. But then I remember that the Virgin simply did as she was asked. Knowing what was to come, she was equipped for the assignment she was given. It did not afford her a choice of changing it.

  14

  I remember getting separated from my parents just once when I was little. I was six and we were at an outdoor shopping mall in LA. There were little kiosks in between the stores, and at one of them, a woman was selling silk butterflies the size of dinner plates. They sparkled as if they were made of pixie dust, and the breeze caught their gauzy wings, coaxing them into gentle movement on the pitched sides of her sandwich-board displays.

  I stopped to look at them, transfixed by their elegance and enormity. My parents, deep into a conversation that had them both ticked at each other and which neither could remember later, didn’t realize I was no longer at their side. They kept walking into a press of other shoppers, declaring their differences, while I stood as one enchanted, unaware that minutes later I would be alone.

  When a child realizes she is lost, the first emotion that rises is panic that this is the beginning of a nightmarish life forevermore without parents. I remember the swell of fear rising up from my stomach, the speed with which tears formed at my eyes, and the quirky assessment that the beautiful butterflies were malevolent creatures who’d connived with evil forces to steal my parents from me. My mother had told me if I ever got lost and I couldn’t find a policeman, to look for a mother with little kids. She told me I could probably trust a mother with little kids to help me, but I probably couldn’t trust anyone else.

  Even though panic tore through me, this is exactly what I did. I ran to a woman pushing a stroller with a squealing toddler inside it and wailed to her that my parents had disappeared. My mother had been right about mothers with little kids. That mother knew just what to do. We waited, she and I, at the place where I’d last seen my mom and dad. At the butterflies kiosk. “They will come for you,” this mother said. And sure enough, my parents returned to me, as terrified as I was, within five minutes.

  As I stood there in baggage claim, I felt my gaze being tugged to mothers with little kids. I watched as mothers grabbed for hands, shushed the tired and too-traveled, cuddled infants, and toted off toddlers who babbled and pointed. I wanted to hail one of those mothers and be rescued the way I had been when I was six.

  I’d given no thought to what I would do if my dad wasn’t there to meet me. It hadn’t occurred to me that he wouldn’t be there. How long could I wait for him? Half an hour? An hour? It would be dark in an hour.

  What if he wasn’t here in Florence at all?

  In my mind I could hear Devon asking me, “Are you sure he’s already there?” and me answering, “He’s there.”

  I had been so sure my dad would want to be here with me I hadn’t considered that he never said he would be.

  And now I was alone in Florence with a suitcase, a credit card, my sock-drawer money and two hundred dollars in borrowed cash. I couldn’t waste time considering how immensely disappointed I was in my dad; I had to figure out what to do. I yanked my phone out of my purse and keyed in Lorenzo’s number, thanking God I had it. I texted that I was stranded at the airport. My dad wasn’t there to meet me. And I needed help. I waited twenty minutes for him to text me back, knowing that every minute he didn’t, the sun was sinking lower into the western sky.

  I was going to have to find a place to stay on my own, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I reached into my carry-on for my laptop, hoping I could find an airport café with Wi-Fi to browse for hotels near the city center and wracking my brain to remember what street Lorenzo and Renata lived on, so that I could find a place close to them. As I reached, my fingers felt the pages of Sofia’s printed pages.

  Sofia.

  She lived in a flat in the same building as Lorenzo.

  And she had printed her address in the header of every page of her chapters. I pulled out one of her pages and made a beeline for a kiosk to change my dollars into euros. Ten minutes later I was outside on the curb in the last remnants of the day, getting into a taxi, alone. I could hear Devon’s request echoing in my ears that I should not do this very thing. But what else could I do? I showed the driver the address, and he nodded, zooming off with such speed that my head rocked into the back of the seat as he pulled away.

  Despite the headache from lack of sleep and utter disillusionment with all things related to my father, my eyes drank in the scenery outside the taxi window as the driver zipped along at a dizzying speed, tailgating buses, tiny smart cars, and even Vespas and pedestrians. The crush of movement all around us was almost suffocating, even though the taxi windows were closed. I felt small and expendable as he dove in and out of lanes of traffic. I wasn’t a true part of the daily count of people and cars and scooters and bicycles, just an unnumbered spectator. But as the buildings and storefronts that dripped modernity began to give way to old stone and tile, and as the streets grew narrower, I began to sense an underlying calm. Not in the press of people outside the windows, but in the steady ancientness of the buildings we passed. The people in the other cars and on bikes and even walking—to what seemed their certain peril—seemed unaware of where they were, and I was superaware of where I was.

  The trepidation inside me was real, but below the worry was a calming layer, like the voice of my grandmother, or the voice of the long-ago mother with the stroller, or the voice of Devon driving me to LAX in traffic, assuring me that everything was going to be okay.

  Honey-stone walls, ancient and beautiful, rose up on either side of me as the driver turned onto a narrow street, passed a quiet piazza, and sped to a stop in front of a leather boutique. The driver pointed with his thumb to a door next to the store and rattled off something in Italian. Dark was gathering, and the street was lit only by the headlights of other cars and the interior security lights of the now-closed store.

  The driver turned to me, and repeated whatever it was he’d said, and pointed to the door. Then he said what surely was Italian for, “You might want to get out. This is it.”

  He hopped out to get my bag and a better tip. I paid him twenty euro, and in seconds he was gone and I was standing at the door that led to Sofia’s and Lorenzo and Renata’s apartments. I knew before trying that the entry door would be lock
ed. But I tried it anyway. Then I saw a series of six call buttons and two names I instantly recognized. I pressed the button for DiSantis and waited. Nothing. I pressed it again and again. Then I pressed Borelli.

  “Please be home,” I whispered.

  But there was no answer.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Lorenzo: “Outside your apartment. It’s dark out here. Where are you?”

  I waited. He didn’t text me back.

  Night was shrinking my field of vision, and I didn’t know what I was going to do. I had to find a hotel. But how would I find it? I needed Wi-Fi or a policeman or an angel from God. I leaned against the old stone around the heavy wooden door and willed myself to remain calm.

  “Help,” I whispered to the cool rock, exhausted from sleep deprivation and sensory overload. I wasn’t sure if I could summon the energy to find another taxi and communicate my need to find an available hotel room that I could afford. Several people brushed past me, nearly knocking over my suitcase, on their way home to their supper and cozy beds.

  Then I felt a hand on my elbow.

  “Posso aiutare?”

  I turned toward the voice, which was soft and melodic, and saw a woman my mother’s age grasping a closed pink polka-dot umbrella in her other hand. I knew before I even said the words that help had come.

  “Sofia Borelli?”

  The woman smiled wide. “Si.”

  I nearly fell into that smile. “I’m Meg Pomeroy.”

  Her smiled wavered and I felt a tremor of unease.

  Then she grasped me as if we were long lost classmates. “Marguerite!”

  Yes. I nodded.

  “You are here!” she exclaimed. “In Firenze! Lorenzo did not tell me you were coming!”

  Her voice was like my nonna’s. Chewy and sweet like taffy. I shook my head. “I don’t think he knows I’ve arrived yet. I’ve tried texting him. I don’t think he’s gotten my messages.”

  “I thought you were coming next month!”

  “There’s been a change in plans,” I said, as brightly as I could. As if I always drop everything and jump on a plane to Europe when the mood strikes.

  She noticed my suitcase, and then she looked past me. “And you are here with your papa, no?”

  A tiny sigh escaped me. “No. Actually I’m not.”

  This perplexed her, as an hour ago it had also baffled me. But for different reasons. “I thought he was going to meet me here in Florence,” I went on. “But I don’t think he’s meeting me here after all.” I did not intend to sound like a little lost child, but that’s what I sounded like.

  She frowned slightly. “You are alone?”

  Yes. Alone. “Looks that way.”

  Her frown deepened.

  “Ms. Borelli—” I began.

  “Sofia.”

  “Sofia, could I impose upon you to help me find a hotel? I … I guess I thought my dad would take care of those arrangements, and I don’t think he did.” I thought of the cash card I’d given to Devon. That piece of plastic was my dad’s arrangements.

  “No, no.” She shook her head gently, and I felt my heart sag. Weariness crept in like a purse snatcher, robbing me of the tiny bit of strength I had left.

  “You will stay with me.” She reached for the handle of my suitcase. “You will stay with me. Please.”

  Surprise mixed with equal parts relief and apprehension spread over me. I knew next to nothing about Sofia other than she claimed she was the last of the Medicis and that statues and paintings spoke to her in the voice of a young woman long dead. But I also knew Lorenzo liked her. Said she was one of the kindest people he knew. And where else was I going to find a place to stay? Still, it seemed too big an imposition. “Oh. I couldn’t. You weren’t expecting me.”

  Sofia pulled my suitcase closer to her. “I am expecting you now. Stay with me. I have a nice little guest room. And please. I know this does not mean you will publish my book, eh? Not to worry. You stay with me, I will show you Firenze. Florence. Yes?”

  “It’s too much to ask,” I said. “I’m not sure how long I will be staying.”

  “You are not asking. I am. And it does not matter how long you will be staying.” She reached into her pocket for a key ring and slid a key into the lock on the door. “I was just at church praying to God about wanting to be of use to Him today. And see? Here you are. I ask; He sends.”

  Church. I forgot it was Sunday.

  She pushed the door open. “Benvenuto!”

  Welcome.

  There are moments when I can imagine an angel was sent to me. In every painting and statue in Florence where angelic hosts are going about their sacred business, I picture one of them was the very one sent to me, when I was too little to properly stow away the memory, preparing me for what lay in store.

  I can imagine it.

  Florence is full of angels on canvas and in stone. I can imagine them bending toward me, telling me to be brave. I listen and listen and whisper to them that I shall try.

  15

  Sofia had mentioned in her manuscript that the flat she lived in had been in her family for more than a century, but I was rendered speechless nonetheless when she opened the door to her building and I stepped into antiquity. The wide marble steps to her second-floor flat, subdued with use and age, and the banister, thick as a gymnast’s balance beam, all bore marks and nicks from a hundred moving days. And I could smell the past on the coral plaster walls as I climbed the steps. It was the aroma not of age but of history.

  She pointed to a door next to the landing on the second floor. “That’s where Lorenzo and Renata live. And there’s a retired teacher at the end there. Three more flats on the third floor.” We turned toward a matching door across from Lorenzo’s. “And here’s my flat.”

  Sofia unlocked the door and led me inside. The wooden floors creaked shyly under our feet, shushed by a thin carpet runner of Persian design. She moved ahead of me to turn on lights. The narrow entry led to an open room. The walls were covered in paintings, too many to be aesthetically pleasing, although the canvases were beautifully done. Trees, river landscapes, cobblestone piazzas, fruit on vines—and the same dark-haired woman over and over. Sofia’s mother, perhaps? The furniture was at least forty or fifty years old but in good repair, though a bit threadbare in places. The main room featured crowded bookshelves, a tiny television set, and windows that looked out onto the street. A small dining room lay just off the main room, and a kitchen was to our right. An arched hallway led to the bedrooms.

  “Let’s just put your suitcase in the guest room,” she said.

  I followed her, passing a room on the left filled with easels and canvases. A long table with art supplies strewn over it was the most prominent feature in the room. On the right, the bathroom was a throwback to the fifties—tiny black-and-white tiles; cream porcelain sink, commode and open tub; and minimal shelving. At the end of the hall, she pointed to a half-open door, where in the spill of streetlight invading from the window, I could see a four-poster bed and a kidney-shaped vanity with a burgundy skirt.

  “I am just in there,” she said. Then she turned to the room across from hers. “And here’s the guest room.”

  She smiled at me. “This was my room practically my whole life, until my papa became ill. And of course, when I was married, I didn’t live here.”

  We stepped inside and she flipped on a light switch. The room was no bigger than ten by ten, with a tall, twin-sized bed fluffed high with a feather mattress and pillows, matching dresser and nightstand, and a wardrobe with climbing roses painted on its sides and front. The paintings on the wall were of flowers and an outdoor flower market and a little girl gathering blooms in her arms.

  I suddenly felt like I was ten. I hadn’t slept in a twin bed since junior high, but at that moment it didn’t matter. I’d been feeling like I was a kid since the airport.

  “Will you be all right in here?” she said. “The bed is a single, but it’s very cozy. You will be surprised how muc
h. I sleep in here sometimes just to remind myself how cozy it is.”

  “I’m sure I will be fine,” I said. The bed looked delicious to one who’d only slept a few hours and had missed a night of sleep. I pointed to the paintings. “Your father painted those?”

  She smiled brightly. “Yes. The little girl is me!”

  “They are beautiful.”

  She pushed the suitcase to the corner. “And now we eat a little something, yes? Are you hungry? Did you have supper already?”

  I couldn’t answer her at first. I couldn’t recall what meal I’d had and when. There had been a sandwich in Paris, whenever that was. “I don’t think I’ve eaten since lunch,” I said.

  She clapped her hands together. “I am so pleased I get to make you your first meal in Firenze. Come! We have a glass of wine, and I make you supper!”

  She fairly skipped back to the kitchen, and I followed, bringing my purse with me so that I could keep my promise to my mother and Gabe to let them know when I had arrived. Sofia directed me to a tiny table covered in a lemon-patterned tablecloth. A closed laptop lay on it covered with a folded newspaper and a saucer with a curl of toasted bread on top of that. No wonder my presence on her doorstop surprised Sofia. Likely she hadn’t looked at her e-mail since the day before when she sent me the last two chapters.

  “Sorry about my plate.” She grabbed the saucer and took it to the sink.

  “Not at all.” I took a seat at the little table. “I’m just going to let my family know I made it here.”

  I quickly tapped a text message to my mother. I could just imagine what she would think when she read Dad wasn’t in Florence and I had to call upon a writer friend Lorenzo knew to house me. I left out the part that the same writer friend believes a dead Medici talks to her.

  Sofia brought two glasses to the table and poured dark red wine from an unmarked bottle. She saw me looking for a label as she poured.