My Heart Lies in Pisciotta

by Cate Nielson Raye

  Next, I addressed the voicemail messages. The first two were from Abby, urging me to pick up my phone and talk to her. I deleted them and played the final message. “Um, Anabella,” small cough, “It’s your father,” long pause and a sigh, “I read your email. Please call me. There are things I would like to say if you are still willing to listen to me. I understand if you don’t wish to speak to me, but please know that I am immeasurably sorry,” gasp, “Bye”. I had bolted upright from my lounging spot and sat with my mouth agape and the phone clamped tightly to my ear. My father had apologised. He had almost sounded like he was crying, but that was impossible, he never cried.

  I sat spinning the phone between my fingers for the next hour, contemplating whether I should call him back. My mind wandered back to Thursday evening in the car park and how alone I had felt since then. I had already lost the love of my life, if I had a chance to get my father back I needed to take it. I unlocked the phone and selected his number before I could think any more on it. The phone rang once and was picked up as if he had been watching over it, waiting for me to call. “Ana? Is that you?” My father sounded urgent and hopeful. I took a deep breath and answered, “Yes, Papa, it’s me.”

  With a sigh of relief and a strangled sob, my father’s voice shook as he spoke to me, “I’m so sorry I failed you, sweetheart. I should have been someone you could go to but instead, I drove you away.” His sob broke my already wounded heart, “It’s ok, Papa, I’m doing ok, I’m here.” He continued muttering how he had failed me, how sorry he was and how he missed me. “That boy, he told me how broken you were when you arrived in Italy. I’m so ashamed I did that to my own daughter.” I was taken back by his comment, I didn’t know which boy he was talking about, he surely couldn’t have meant Sam?

  “What boy, Papa?” My father sniffed and I heard him sip from a glass, “That boy I met at your school. The art teacher. I said such vile things about the two of you. I promise you, sweetheart, I don’t think that of you at all.” I wracked my brain trying to think of a time Sam and my father could have spoken. Had he followed him after our confrontation? “Sam spoke to you?” I asked. My father sighed with the weight of his guilt. “He called me on Thursday evening, sounded a bit worse for wear. Told me that I had ruined you. Told me how broken you were in Pisciotta and what a terrible father I was to you.” He sobbed once more. I couldn’t breathe.

  Sam had called my father out on years of emotional abuse. Sam had got drunk after our official break up in the car park. Sam was hurting. I tried not to dwell on him and instead apologised to my father that he had received that call. “You shouldn’t apologise, he was right. I should have asked what you wanted. Instead, I crushed your spirit.” I closed my eyes, hearing my father admit his wrongdoings offered some comfort, a beginning to the healing of invisible wounds. “You were just trying to do what you thought was best for me, Papa.” I fiddled with the tassels on my blanket and took a deep breath before continuing. “I was always good at science because I tried so hard for you. But all I ever really wanted was your support in something that I loved. Art is part of my soul, Papa, if I’m going to do something for the rest of my life I’m going to make sure that it’s something that makes me happy.”

  My father was quiet, I worried that he was about to argue against my reasoning and ruin the bridges we had built in the past fifteen minutes. He sipped from his drink once more, “Well, you have that from me now. I won’t allow my mother to care for my daughter. You have my support, all of it. I will help you in any way that I can. If you are going to be an artist I’ll make damned sure you are the best artist to come out of that school.” A warm feeling filled my chest and I began to cry, happy and sad tears, silently sobbing that things were finally coming together and I no longer had Sam to share it with.

  I spoke with my father for the next hour, updating him on what I had done in the semester so far, what friends I had made, what my flat was like, and where I worked. I didn’t tell him about Sam, he didn’t want to know about that part of my life and I was happy not to raise the topic. My father agreed to contact Nonna and arrange to take over my financial support. I also invited him to visit me in York, to come and see what I was doing here. He graciously accepted my invite. Before hanging up the phone for the night I told him that I loved him. I hadn’t said those words since I was a little girl, not to anyone. He was silent for a moment, moved by the sentiment. “And I love you, my beautiful girl. Get some sleep now. Buona notte.”

  * * *

  The autumn breeze had turned into wintry winds, I bundled up to protect my face from the bite of the late November air. It had been a month since Sam and I had said our official goodbye. It had come around quickly and, like the anniversary of a particularly sad death, it wasn’t something I wanted to dwell on. I had been living my life as best as I could. Painting, working at the coffee shop and going to class. The autumn semester was to end in two weeks and I had a lot of work to do. I didn’t have much time for socialising, which was all well and good as I was avoiding my only university friend, Charlie, like the plague.

  Not too long after the ball, I had finally met up with him for breakfast before class. I had apologised profusely for leaving him at the ball, citing my father’s call as the reason I had to leave. He was sympathetic about my father and candid about the ball telling me he had actually gone home with another girl that night after I had left. I didn’t know if it was true or whether he was trying to save face but I smiled and sipped my coffee anyway, allowing him to brag. After a brief silence, Charlie placed his cup down and leaned in close, a serious look on his face. “What’s going on with you and Mr. Beneventi?”

  My mouth had dropped open in shock, I automatically responded. “Nothing, what are you talking about?” Charlie sat back in his chair triumphantly as if I had answered his question. Turning his paper cup in his fingers he studied me intently, my cheeks flushed and I could not meet his eye. “Well, I started piecing some things together and now I think you knew him before university.” Once again I shrugged off his questioning. “Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie, where would I have known him from? I don’t know where you’ve got this from but nothing is going on between Sam and me.” I began packing up my things, eager to escape further scrutiny and desperate not to give any more away.

  “You were torn up after our first lecture. You kept your head down and didn’t ask or answer a single question. You stayed behind after class and the next day you didn’t come to the workshop.” I continued to pack as he spoke. “He watches you incessantly in class yet you avoid him.” I began to argue my case but he held up his hand to stop me. “I watched him follow you outside the other night at the ball, Ana. Then you suddenly have to go home and I don’t hear from you for days.” I flinched at the memory, the wound still so fresh, but he didn’t seem to notice my pained expression. He continued listing off behaviours he thought proved our inappropriate relationship.

  “Are you done?” I shoved my arms into my jacket and threw my bag over my shoulder, my narrowed eyes daring him to continue. He smirked at my sudden show of anger, looked around us to make sure we were alone, and lowered his voice. “Come on! Just tell me! Did you sleep with him? You have the hots for teacher but it got a bit too real?” His mask was slipping. There was a grin on his face but his eyes had a fire in them, it angered him to think of me with Sam. I snatched the muffin I had bought him as an apology back off the table and pushed my chair under. For the first time, he noticed the hurt in my eyes and the tears threatening to spill over my lashes. The grin disappeared and he reached toward me. “You really have no fucking idea what I’ve been through, and it’s none of your god damn business.” I stormed out of the coffee shop without looking back. I sat on my own in class from that point on.

  Speaking of class, Sam and I were keeping our distance, limiting the amount of time we had to spend in the presence of each other. We could barely look at each other anymore. He arrived to teach promptly at the time class was scheduled to start and
left the room immediately as it ended, before any of the pupils had left their seats. I avoided all class social events that he may have been obliged to attend and I kept away from his office in case I ran into him in the halls. I spent long hours in the studio or the library, working on my emotions through my artwork and desperate not to allow my personal problems affect my education.

  The distance had been healing. But while I was in a much better place mentally I could tell Sam was suffering. The air of sadness around him prompted various rumours among the students that he’d either experienced the death of a dear family member or lost the love of his life. I refused to engage in such conversations. I was finally settling nicely into my life in York. After a month of self-care, I realised how much I enjoyed being independent, but I still did not enjoy being alone in my flat and would often spend long afternoons and evenings in the studio or library, working until I was asked to leave.

  It was after one of these particularly long study sessions that I gathered my books wearily and strolled down the street toward the bus stop. The brightly coloured leaves that had fallen from the trees over the past few weeks were turning to mush in the gutters. The keen wind bit at my cheeks now that a wintery frost was in the air. It was my favourite time of year and made me want to go for long, brisk walks, eat stew and dumplings, and drink copious amounts of hot chocolate. As I passed the coffee shop where I worked, the warm inviting glow drew me toward the windows. While I debated treating myself to a large hot chocolate, with cream and marshmallows, I spotted him.

  Sam was wedged in the corner of the room at a small table, its surface scattered with stacks of paper and books. His head was in his hands and I couldn’t see his face but I knew instantly it was him. I knew those arms. I knew those fingers that were tangled in his coffee-coloured locks. He looked tired and stressed and much different from the carefree Italian boy whose waist I had gripped as he sped off on his moped. Part of me still wanted to protect him, to take away his pain and suffering even though it was no longer my job or my right.

  The bell rang as I entered the cafe but he didn’t acknowledge it. I ordered my hot chocolate and watched him, engrossed in his work, while I waited. With my drink in hand I wandered over to his corner, he still didn’t look up as I approached. I cleared my throat awkwardly and spoke to him. “Uh, is this seat free?” His head snapped up and our eyes met. The deep, dark circles under his eyes and the stubble across his jawline made me frown. He smiled almost shyly and moved a pile of papers to clear a space for me. I whistled at the amount of work. He sat back in his armchair and sighed. “Yep, this teaching thing…there’s a lot of admin.”

  I pursed my lips, “You look tired. Maybe you should call it a night.” He sipped at his coffee and scrubbed at his eyes with his palms. My insides did the twisty thing again so I forced myself to look away. “Never mind me. How are you?” I know he was referring to our last encounter but I didn’t want to talk about it. “As good as I can be I guess.” I shrugged dismissively and picked at a marshmallow amongst the foamy chocolate. “Ana, I’m so sorry. I…” He sat forward in his chair and placed a hand on the table. “Don’t.” I held my hand up and stopped him in his tracks. “Please don’t. I’m trying to move on. I’m doing well, I’m busy studying. I’m fine.”

  He nodded and straightened the papers in front of him then sat frowning at his hands, fingers crossed, and resting on the tabletop. I took the opportunity to look over him again, from his dark mass of hair to the taught skin of his forearms. This wasn’t the man from the small studio hut by the sea. This man was broken or breaking anyway. “You look lost,” I said without thinking. He laughed without humour. “The man without a muse.” He shrugged, drained the last of his coffee and stood abruptly, gathering his things. I struggled for words as I watched him pull on his black denim jacket, the one I loved him in. I looked down at the cup resting between my palms instead.

  “Are you going on the class trip to Rome?” My eyes met his. My father’s recent declaration of support would mean I could now afford to go, but I knew Sam was chaperoning the students and was our unofficial Italian guide. I didn’t know if I could bring myself to go to Italy with him again without opening a wound I was already struggling to heal. “I’m not sure.” His green eyes turned sad. “You should.” As he turned away I called out to him. Unsure whether to say anything up until that point but now unable to contain myself. He paused near the doorway. “Thanks,” I said with a small smile. His brow creased in confusion. “I know you called my father.” He ran a hand through his messy hair and a small smile played at his lips. “I had to make him see what I see.” Before I could respond he turned and walked off down the dark, wet street. That night, back in the comfort of my bed at home, I emailed off my application for the trip to Rome.

  * * *

  December flew by at an unbelievable pace and before I knew it the semester had ended and I was preparing for the Christmas holidays. Now that my father and I were on speaking terms he insisted I came home as soon as classes ended so that we could have a proper family Christmas. Part of me appreciated the sentiment and the fact that he was trying so hard to make amends but I had to turn him down. York was a tourist trap around Christmas and the coffee shop would be extremely busy on a daily basis. My manager couldn’t afford to lose a member of staff for those few weeks, so I told my father I would be home by Christmas Eve.

  My current situation with Abby was another reason I wanted to avoid returning home too soon. After the car park breakup with Sam, I had finally called her days later and explained what had happened. She was overwhelmingly supportive and listened while I sobbed and sniffed through the hardest parts. I knew I had to tell her about Tom, I just didn’t want to admit to what could be perceived as promiscuity on my part. When I did eventually spill the beans and confess I had slept with him she remained completely silent. “Abby? You there?” I heard her breathing over the line, “Ab, you ok?” She scoffed at me bitterly, “I thought you said there was nothing between you and Tom? Why did you set me up with him?”

  I was shocked by the coldness of her tone, “You talked for a few days! You said you didn’t get on,” I argued, sure she couldn’t possibly think of me as the bad guy. “It had only been a few days, what if I wanted to give him a chance, go out on a date with him?” I tried to reason with her, pointed out they had stopped talking and that I never would have gone to him if they were involved. She wasn’t having any of it. “You know what, Ana? Since this whole Sam thing you’ve really changed. I know he screwed you up but you should really learn to keep your legs closed and not be so damn selfish.” She hung up on me and I sat in shock, the phone still pressed against my ear.

  Abby and I hadn’t had a fight since we were twelve-years-old, and that was because she had always claimed the role of Ginger Spice when we were pretending to be the Spice Girls. I always got stuck as Posh or Sporty and everyone knew that Ginger or Baby were the best, I wanted my time to shine. After a major falling out, and many tears, she relinquished the role only for me to discover that I really wasn’t “out there” enough to play Geri. Since then we’d had each other’s backs through thick and thin. Like during Abby’s parents messy divorce when she was eleven. When I failed my mock GCSE exam and my father threw away all my paints, and now more recently with all my boy problems. After her comments about her indifference to Tom, I never dreamed she would take offence to me being with him.

  So a few weeks before Christmas I bought her Christmas present anyway and sent her a text. I’m home Crimbo eve. I want to pop your prezzie around. I’m sorry I hurt you.

  She didn’t reply but I told myself I would go around to her house anyway. Abby had a tendency to be stubborn and hard-headed, but I missed my friend and had to do what was in my power to get her back. Part of me knew she had been right. I had become slightly self-absorbed with my situation, and the old me would never have had a one night stand with someone I considered a friend. The old me wouldn’t have had a one night stand at all! I had
let my life and its series of unfortunate events uproot everything that I knew about myself.

  I worked many late shifts on the lead up to Christmas Day and we were busy up until closing time. It was a Friday evening, a few days before Christmas, when the shop was surprisingly quiet. The students and lecturers had gone home to their families and the tourists were out in the city enjoying the sights and the bars. Not long before closing the bell on the door rang as I cleaned cups behind the counter. I looked up as I realised the person had stayed standing in the doorway and was not approaching the counter. Sam stood with one hand on the door handle and an awkward expression on his face.

  “Hi…” I managed to sigh, dropping my cloth in shock and suddenly ducking beneath the counter to pick it up. Sam scratched the stubble at his chin nervously, his other hand remained glued to the door handle. “Uhh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you would be working tonight…I can go…if it makes you uncomfortable.” He pointed toward the street and I hesitated to agree he should leave. I hated how awkward things had become between us, it was as if we were strangers. I shrugged my shoulders and waved him toward the counter. “It’s fine, what can I get you?” He approached the till and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Tall, decaf cappuccino would be great thanks,” and with a little smile, he slid a five-pound note across the countertop to me.