My Heart Lies in Pisciotta

by Cate Nielson Raye

  “Then tell him it’s not a phase. Explain how long you have felt this way, how his opinion has shaped your life in a negative way. He needs to know or he’ll never understand.” I knew he was talking about Martin and the other men in his circle who had tried to use me, and the nights I’d cried myself to sleep after my father destroyed my studio. I didn’t think I could ever tell my father those things, but maybe Sam was right and I needed to get the message across. It would either destroy my relationship with him forever, or it would be the snippet into my life he needed to let me go. “Maybe,” I said with a small smile and rested my head on Sam’s shoulder. We sat staring out over the water until the sun began to sink under the horizon.

  * * *

  After a few hours with Sam he dropped me off at Nonna’s on the scooter and kissed me goodbye. Neither of us stayed the night in the family homes out of respect for our grandmothers. Nonna was always disapproving of me when I would return from a night with Sam at the studio - she knew we weren’t painting all night. But I always told her when I would be home and that’s all that really mattered to her. I strolled into the living area and found Nonna reading in her lounge chair.

  Dinner was already prepared so we sat together and enjoyed a beautiful carbonara and a cheesecake for dessert. With a casual air, Nonna began the conversation. “I spoke to your father today.” I dropped my fork and stared at her in anticipation. She shook her head sadly and my heart sank. “He is not happy with me. I told him if he wouldn’t support you then I would.” I put my head in my hands and sighed sadly. “I’m sorry, Nonna. I didn’t want you two to fight.” Nonna stood quickly and hugged my head to her chest. “Some things are worth fighting for.” She smiled widely down at me and I hugged her tightly, determined I would make her proud.

  After dinner I took my laptop out onto my balcony and opened my email. The estate agents had confirmed my apartment viewings but there was nothing else new in my inbox. I found the last email my father had sent me. It had arrived a few days before at the height of my financial worries. Don’t throw away your future, Anabella, come home. I wanted to yell at him through the internet that my future was only just beginning, that I was more than just his project. I was about to slam my screen shut but Sam’s words echoed through my mind “You need to tell him otherwise he’ll never understand.”

  I leaned back in my chair and sighed. I had always resented my father for his repression of me, and I blamed him for all the times I felt used and worthless. But I had never in my twenty-three years told my father how I felt until the day I handed him that acceptance letter. I only told him the good things about my classes and my grades, not that I often felt a crippling pressure to perform. I let him believe I wasn’t interested in dating, not that his co-workers had made me mistrust men forever. I was afraid I would somehow be blamed for their behaviour. Maybe if I had spoken out things would have been different. Paul probably wouldn’t be a partner right now that’s for sure. My father was possessive, controlling, and manipulative, but I hadn’t been strong enough to fight against him earlier.

  I began to type. Once I had started I could not bring myself to stop. It was like the first time I spilled my story to Sam by the waterfront, only this time it was anger that formed my words. I wrote every detail about my father’s control over the years, the sordid behaviour of his co-workers, the nights I cried myself to sleep, and how free I finally felt without all of that. I knew it would hurt him to read. I knew exactly what to say to make him as uncomfortable as possible. But sometimes we need to hurt in order to learn, and my father had a lot to learn about his little girl. I didn’t read over what I had written, but I sat in thought for a long time afterward. I closed my screen without clicking “Send”. A sob escaped my chest and the tears began to fall. I sat out on the balcony well into the night, watching the ocean and letting the breeze wash over me.

  I never sent the email in the coming weeks, but I stored it in my drafts file to read back on from time to time and regain strength. I also didn’t tell Sam or Nonna what I had written. It was for me, not them. I had a little over a week left with both of them and my heart ached at the prospect of travelling back to England and leaving them behind. I wanted to keep all the drama out of our final days together, especially now that I had been happily planning my future in York.

  Sam didn’t know about my fine art course. The few times I had mentioned university he had mocked the institutionalisation of an artist’s talent. He insisted artists were artists wherever they were and would learn much more being out in the world amongst other artists than in a classroom, something that surprised me considering he wanted to teach. He was under the impression that on my return to England I was going to move out of my parents house, get a job and do a few art classes on the side. He believed artists that learn in a classroom became unimaginative and cold. I repeatedly pointed out to him that our little studio was essentially his classroom and that if universities had teachers like him they might produce extremely talented artists. He laughed, kissed me on the cheek sweetly, and told me that I already had the talent of a true artist so it didn’t count. I disagreed.

  * * *

  My last week in Pisciotta had finally arrived. As my final day grew closer my mood darkened, as did everyone else’s, including the lady who ran the fruit stand at the market and the old man I bought art supplies from. I had gathered quite a few new friends throughout my summer here and now it felt like I was about to leave my home, not return to it. Sam never spoke of our impending separation. When I’d try to raise the issue he would say, “Don’t worry about it,” with a boyish shrug of nonchalance, “we’ll be back on the same soil before you know it.” Although he never offered up any information as to how or when that was going to happen.

  I grew increasingly worried about leaving Nonna on her own. I knew full well she was strong enough to look after herself but it had become painfully clear that she was approaching her eighties and no longer had any family in Italy to support her should she need it. I enlisted Sam’s uncle to keep an eye on her after I had gone, and he was more than happy to welcome her into his own family.

  I stayed with Sam as much as I could in my last few days, but I was conscious of not neglecting Nonna so we often spent lunch or dinner at her apartment. The day before my last in Italy Nonna announced that Sam’s family and herself were putting on a festa for me. I knew Italians hated saying goodbye, and enjoyed dragging the process out as much as possible, so I wasn’t completely surprised. The fact they cared warmed me but I couldn’t help but be slightly disappointed. I knew the event would be lively and fun and I would be surrounded by all my favourite people, but a part of me wanted to spend my last night alone with Sam saying our temporary goodbyes.

  I also knew that after food and a few drinks Nonna would drag me back to the apartment for an early night in preparation for my 9 AM flight the next morning. Sam could not come with me to the airport the next day. He was urgently needed on his uncle’s fishing boat and in his uncle’s words, “Fish wait for no man”. I did not want our goodbyes to be made in the few seconds before our grandparents pulled us in opposite directions. I helped Nonna prepare for the party anyway, even though she said that as the guest of honour I should not be doing anything.

  I went to the markets to get the ingredients for all of the food she was cooking. While there I said my goodbyes to my friends on the stalls, many of them kissed my cheeks and pushed small souvenirs into my reluctant arms. I knew I would have to return to Pisciotta soon simply to attend all the family dinners I was invited to. I delivered a small canvas to the old man with the art stall. It was a small painting I had done during my weeks in the hut, a painting of the long street of market stalls surrounded by the ancient buildings. He embraced me heartily and proudly displayed the painting on his table top.

  I walked sadly back up the hill toward the apartment, stopping at the top of the street and staring longingly down into the town. It broke my heart to leave that place. I took my time, climbin
g slowly home, desperately trying to absorb some of my last few moments of Italy. The smell of the ocean in the air and the dry burn of the beating sun on the back of my neck. I strolled through the tiny cobbled streets and greeted the locals, sitting outside their doors, relaxing and watching the world pass by.

  As I reached Nonna’s street and approached the back gate I noticed a familiar yellow Vespa parked against the wall. Sam was leaning casually on the edge of the seat, arms crossed, head back and basking in the sunshine. I paused and silently watched him, he was so serene, so handsome. But a slight crease in his forehead hinted at the calm before the storm, he was worried about something. I shuffled my feet and his eyes snapped open, burning with some retreating thought. He shook his head and smiled sweetly at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I moved to him, leaned into his chest, and kissed the crook of his neck. He hummed appreciation and kissed my forehead. “Nothing, just lost in my thoughts. Let’s go inside, I’m here to help with the party preparations.” I looked at the dusty ground and prodded the gravel with the toe of my sandal, I did not want to prepare for a goodbye party. “Hey?” He placed a finger under my chin and raised my eyes to meet his. “Don’t be sad. Not yet.” He kissed me gently and took my hand as we ascended the stairs into the apartment. Nonna was happy and waiting for us.

  Chapter 8

  On the morning of my last day in Italy I was awoken by my grandmother opening and closing my closet and my drawers. She was bustling around on a mission, gathering my things and piling the larger items near the end of my bed. I threw an arm over my eyes to block the sudden burst of light that filled the room as she threw open my shutters. A refreshing breeze drifted over to my bed and tempted me to open one eye to look at the clear blue skies out of the window. “Anabella! You must pack! You will be too busy preparing for the party to do it later.”

  She pulled off my sheets in one swift move and balled them up under her arm. “Up!” She cried and pulled the pillow from beneath my head before leaving the room. I stared at the cases lying open at the foot of my bed, empty and foreboding. I threw my legs over the side of the mattress and sat sipping the coffee Nonna had left on the nightstand. Today was the day, I thought. It had arrived faster than I had anticipated. I didn’t know how I was going to say goodbye to everybody without my heart breaking.

  To take my mind off my melancholy I began emptying the cupboards and drawers of all my clothes and trinkets. I had amassed so many extra items in my time in Pisciotta, all of them sentimental, that I had needed to buy another suitcase for my journey home. I had left all my paintings at the studio except for one. The first painting I had created after bearing my soul to Sam, the girl running into the light. It was bound and wrapped securely ready for the flight back to the UK. I couldn’t leave it behind. I had paid extra for the large item to come on the plane with me and intended to hang it in whichever tiny flat I managed to procure in York.

  My bags were packed in no time at all. I threw on a shirt and denim shorts, the only outfit I had left other than the clothes I would wear to the airport. I left my favourite white sundress hanging from the curtain rail ready for tonight’s festa. I gave one last glance around the empty-looking room and left, walking out and down the hall to eat breakfast with Nonna. She was sitting in her usual chair at the dining table, reading a newspaper, and sipping an espresso. I felt as though this was the last time I would see her. I was suddenly overcome with an emotion so strong I gasped. She looked up from the paper and stared at me over her glasses. Reaching out a withered hand she tapped the table in front of her. “Come sit down, Ana, we need to talk.” I sat in the chair next to her instead of my usual seat opposite. She took my hand between hers and smiled at me, almost with pride.

  “We have had our fun these past few weeks, yes?” I nodded and looked down at our hands, running my finger over the crepe-like skin on the back of her wrist. “You make me so proud, Ana. I know you will do well at art school. You need not be afraid of returning home.” A single tear ran down my cheek and I swiped at it quickly. “I feel like this is my home.” She chuckled and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Of course it is, Tesoro, this is always your home. But you are to find a new and exciting life now, back in England. You know you can return here whenever you would like to. No questions asked.”

  I thanked her profusely. I thanked her for giving me the best summer of my life. I thanked her for her unending support, and most importantly for giving me the love I so desperately needed. Nonna hugged me tightly and kissed both of my cheeks, standing she turned her back and prepared a selection of pastries for breakfast, wiping her face discreetly on her sleeve. She placed the pastries on the table and handed one to me. Before taking a bite she placed one hand on my cheek and raised my head. “I shall miss you, sweet girl.” I smiled sadly and took a reluctant bite of the jam croissant.

  * * *

  Around 11 AM there was a knock at the open kitchen door and in walked Sam. He held a small book in his hand. It was leather-bound and tied closed with a string. I had seen him with it many times, often sitting in the corner of the studio scribbling away at its pages. I had asked him about it once. He had shrugged and told me it was a journal of sorts. He had never shown me the contents. Sam entered the kitchen area and allowed Nonna to kiss his cheeks. He took a pastry off the plate on the table and gestured to the roof. I stood and followed him upstairs to the terrazza, staring at the little book now tucked under his arm. We sat together on one of the sunbeds. He placed the little book between us and finished his pastry. I watched him patiently, taking in the realisation that I was so comfortable in our silence.

  He took my hands in his and kissed my knuckles, “I have something for you,” he said. I looked down at the little book and he picked it up and placed it in my lap. “This is everything to me. Everything I’ve thought and felt this summer. I want you to have it.” I smiled and began to pull at the strings to open it. His hands covered mine and stopped me. “Not yet.” I was confused, he smiled sweetly. “Don’t open it until you are back home. It will help you see that I’m definitely coming back for you. You have nothing to worry about.” I placed the book off to one side and kissed him deeply. “I need to know when you are coming back to England. I can’t just sit waiting and not knowing.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which I’d only seen him do when he was feeling stressed or upset. “I’m working on it. Don’t worry.” I stood exasperated and turned my back on him, staring out over the town and marina below.

  I felt him before he got to me, I always felt his energy before he touched me, and sure enough, his front was soon pressed against my back. His arms wrapped around either side of me, his hands gripped the railings in front. He breathed into my neck and kissed beneath my ear. I sighed, “What does that even mean? I’m working on it. What does that mean?” He held me a little tighter, pushing me against the railing, trapping me. “Trust me. Please?” He breathed the words into my ear and I shuddered. “I’m trying.” And for the first time I really was. I wanted to trust him more than anything else. In a way I already did, but the uncertainty was killing me. I tried to relax and not let my worries taint our last day together.

  “Shall we get out of here?” I turned my head to look at him. He was smiling his one-sided, boyish smile again. “What do you have in mind?” I asked, his grin was infectious. “Something fun. Come.” He pulled me off down the stairs and to the kitchen to say goodbye to Nonna. I promised I would be home to get ready before the party, kissed her, and left on Sam’s scooter. The weather was beautiful, a little humid but the wind whipping past us kept us cool as we sped down to the seafront. I knew immediately we were heading for the marina and realised we were most likely going out on the boat again. Sure enough he pulled me down the dock toward his uncle’s boat. His uncle was nowhere to be seen. He jumped on deck and lifted over the side by my waist. I settled into a low chair and watched him work, preparing ropes and starting the engine, he manoeuvred the boat out of the marina and along
the shoreline until we reached our spot a short while later.

  Sam walked to the bow of the boat where I relaxed into my chair and took in the beauty of the clear oceans meeting green cliffs. He handed me a glass of wine and sank onto the deck beside me. We both stared off into the distance for a while, happy in each others reverie, and sipped on our wine. Before long Sam pulled me from my seat and kissed me firmly. He pulled my shirt over my head and helped me slip out of my shorts. I thought we were about to make love, I reached toward his shorts but he held out a hand to stop me. I stared at him confused and with a flash of a wicked grin he grabbed me firmly by the waist.

  I was over his shoulder in seconds, screaming and hitting my fists on the back of his thighs. He was throwing me overboard. I plummeted into the clear waters, freezing to my sun-warmed skin, and surfaced seconds later spluttering expletives and laughing through my coughing fit. “Sam!” I screamed and swam back toward the boat. Sam stood grinning on deck, pulled his shirt over his head, and kicked his shorts off. He stood, gloriously naked, on the side of the boat and sprang headfirst into the water after me. The splash made me close my eyes and the next thing I knew I was being pulled under. I twisted under the ocean surface and found Sam’s arms. I swam into them and we floated to the surface together, laughing and kissing. It was a beautiful day. Just the two of us.

  * * *

  We lost track of time. Swimming in the ocean, eating the picnic Sam had prepared on deck, and other things young lovers do when secluded on a boat in the middle of the ocean. So when we finally got back to shore, around 4 PM, we rushed back to the scooter and sped up the hill to Nonna’s. I had an hour to get ready before the party. Nonna scolded me as I ran into the apartment, streaking past her in a fluster, and headed straight for the bathroom. I didn’t want to shower. I didn’t want to wash the day off my body. I didn’t want to clean off his scent. But reluctantly I shampooed and shaved and scrubbed every inch. Afterward I styled my hair for the first time all summer, pinning back my curls with a clip, a few tendrils falling loose here and there. I borrowed a touch of Nonna’s red lipstick and used the smallest amount of blush and mascara. I never really wore makeup, but tonight I wanted to feel pretty.