She was going to Italy. A place she had dreamed about going since she was a girl. She would surprise the best friend she had ever had in her life by showing up at her art show opening. If Grady’s ego couldn’t take that, then she didn’t care.
“I may need your help if I get back and all my things are on the lawn,” Sara continued.
“Like Daddy would ever let the neighbors know there was a problem. Most of them are his customers.” Jess rolled her eyes, a gesture that Sara had hated when she was an adolescent, but now seemed endearing again. “Is your friend picking you up at the airport?”
“She doesn’t even know I’m coming.”
“She doesn’t know you’re coming? Mom, this whole thing is just so out of character for you,” she said.
“Thanks,” Sara said. She liked doing things out of character because it meant she had character to begin with. But her smile hid the terror she felt.
“Mom, is there something you’re not telling me? You’re okay aren’t you? I mean with the whole C thing.”
Sara hadn’t told anyone about her last trip to Doctor Morgan or that as soon as she returned she would be going through another round of chemo, a more aggressive round.
“No, honey. I’m fine. The whole C thing is taken care of.” Why this sudden inability to be truthful? Sara wondered. Was she trying to protect them or protect herself?
Jess looked relieved and popped her gum again. “Well, I’d better get back to work,” she said.
“Thanks again for seeing me off,” Sara said. They embraced and for the next few seconds Sara soaked in their reconnection.
“Ciao!” Jessie smiled as she walked away.
“Ciao!” Sara laughed in response. “I love you, honey!” she called after her.
Sara walked toward the airline check-in. Her stomach tensed. Second thoughts bombarded her. She could still catch Jess if she turned back now. Julia would never know she had backed out of the trip. She didn’t expect her anyway. But Sara had sold Mimi’s ring. She had taken a sabbatical from work. She had managed to surprise everyone she knew, including herself. No turning back, she told herself. If you don’t do this now, you’ll never do it. She willed herself forward.
Sara passed through security and reached the boarding area. Two hours later her flight was called. Sara found her seat next to a large man wearing earphones. He had the demeanor of a businessman who had taken countless flights, eaten his weight in fast food, with little time to exercise. He smelled heavily of cigarettes and a box of nicotine gum bulged in his shirt pocket. His bulky arm on the armrest forced Sara to lean into the window.
It was an evening flight; pillows were in every seat. The possibility of Sara sleeping through the night and waking up in Italy seemed remote, at best, considering the level of excitement—laced with fear—coursing through her body.
“Can I get you anything?” the flight attendant asked. Had she noticed how nervous Sara was? She looked Italian, perhaps in her early 30s, her hair and eyes dark, her features striking.
Perhaps a tranquilizer, Sara wanted to say. Her right knee began to shake and she placed her hand there to calm it.
As they sat on the runway the captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker to welcome them aboard. Perhaps they had an Italian crew taking them to Milan. The pilot’s English, while impressive, revealed his primary language underneath. Sara liked the idea that their crew was on their way home to wives and children and loved ones. In an odd way, it was as though she was on her way home, too. Sara didn’t even know Julia anymore, but at the same time she had missed her.
Flight attendants served drinks and a meal, rolling carts in steady increments up and down the aisles. Did they ever get bored with their jobs? The perpetual cheerfulness required would drive me insane, Sara thought.
A family sat in the center seats across the aisle. A husband and wife, she assumed, and a girl of about six or seven between them. The girl thumbed through the pages of a book, her head resting against her mother’s shoulder. Scenes of mothers and daughters often captivated Sara’s imagination. Had she ever rested her head against her mother’s shoulder like that? She couldn’t remember.
As they flew across the Atlantic, the businessman beside Sara ordered several vodka tonics and watched the in-flight movie. The lights were dimmed. From her window seat Sara stared out into the dark night, imagining the ocean below.
Periodically, the moon revealed patches of smooth clouds with stars behind them. Star light, star bright, Sara thought. Hadn’t she and Julia recited that as girls? She closed her eyes and rested into her memory.
“Look at those stars,” Julia said. ”The sky is full of them.”
“They’re amazing,” Sara whispered. She had been spending a lot of time at Julia’s since her mom had been sick. Her 12th birthday had been the day before and the charm bracelet Julia had given her dangled loosely around her wrist.
Julia and Sara lay on their backs in the soft grass of summertime, studying the universe from Julia’s backyard. A square patch of light reflected from the kitchen window. The only other light came from the moon.
“There are probably two girls in Paris looking at the stars just like us,” Julia said.
Sara sighed, the image pleasing her. Julia’s view of the world was always bigger than hers.
“Hey, let’s make a wish,” Julia said.
Julia took Sara’s hand, their fingers interlocking to make the magic more powerful. They said in unison, “Star light, star bright. First star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”
They made their wishes in silence, their hands squeezed tightly, as if this were required to thrust their intentions into the universe. With a final squeeze, Julia released Sara’s hand. Then she rolled over and looked at Sara, resting an arm under her head. “What did you wish for?” she asked.
“You’re not supposed to tell, or it won’t come true,” Sara said. She missed the warmth of Julia’s hand.
“Come on, Sara, tell me,” she insisted. “A wish among friends is sacred. Nothing can keep it from coming true.”
“I don’t want to jinx it.”
“Tell me,” she said again.
Sara hesitated. “I wished . . . that my mother wasn’t sick anymore.”
Julia reached over and squeezed Sara’s hand again. Then leaned on one elbow and caressed her hair. “It’ll be all right, Sweetie.”
Sara’s tears blurred the stars. She didn’t know what she’d do without Julia. She was more like family than her own family was these days. She wiped away the tears. “What did you wish for?” Sara asked.
“I’m not telling,” Julia said. “It may not come true.” Her giggle escaped into the darkness.
“You bum!” Sara rolled over and tickled Julia who squealed her protest. “What was it?” Sara asked again.
“I’ll never tell,” Julia giggled. Their laughter dissolved into the summer breeze. Sara was captivated. Not only by the vast, starry night, but by the vastness of their friendship.
Sara opened her eyes. Her smile reflected in the window and for a fleeting moment she saw the girl she used to be. The jet engines hummed steadily. Sara tugged at her hair, willing it to grow. This length looked almost fashionable. At least she had the face for it.
She wished now that she had called Julia before she left. Sara and Julia were seventeen the last time they had seen each other. Now they were in their 40s. Would Julia even recognize her?
Sara reached inside her purse for the loose photograph she had brought from home. She redirected the overhead light to study the image. It was the summer before their senior year at Beacon. Grady must have taken the photograph with the camera she and Julia had bought him for his birthday that year. He still used that old 35 mm. Sara had not, until then, attached a sentimental motive to his unwillingness to buy a newer model.
Sara returned the photograph to her purse and remembered the game she and Julia had invented in order to survive another boring summe
r in their small town. Julia would spin the globe on the desk in her bedroom, its blue world about the size of a basketball, attached to a rickety metal stand. The plastic earth rotated with dizzying speed and made waffling sounds as it turned, threatening to come off its man made axis and bounce across the room.
Meanwhile, Sara would stand poised, eyes closed, ready to let fate decide their destination. Wherever her finger landed was the place they would be that day. With the help of National Geographic and the Encyclopedia Britannica, their imaginations soared to far-away possibilities.
When Julia had left, Sara’s spinning world had halted. Now, almost thirty years later, she was finally having one of the adventures they had dreamed about. She was finally keeping her promise.
The businessman next to Sara snored, spittle forming at the corner of his mouth. Stubble had grown on his face overnight. They flew toward the rising sun. Flight attendants pushed their carts down the aisle like bees dispensing honey, serving each passenger a beverage with a small plate of fruit, cheese, and pastry. The businessman startled awake, looking over at Sara as if he had found her lying in his hotel bed and had no idea how she had gotten there. He quickly erased his drool, popped a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth and ordered a Bloody Mary from the flight attendant.
The snow-covered Alps came into view, the morning sun reflecting off the snow. Sara pulled herself up straighter, and mentally took a picture of the scene before her. She thought of Julia’s spinning globe. Her finger had landed on the Alps. She smiled. We must be getting close to Milan, Sara thought.
She went to the lavatory to wash her face. The tiny faucet rebelled, splashing a wide ink-blot of water down the front of Sara’s blouse. She soaked up the water with midget sized paper towels bracing her knee against the door to steady herself. She looked like she had been in a fight with a garden hose.
Sara awkwardly applied fresh make-up, her elbow anchored against the door. She dotted concealer on the gray arcs under her eyes and blended it in. “Well, that’s as good as it gets for now,” she said. Sara relaxed her face and smiled at her reflection. Who is that person? she thought. She looks almost happy.
Sara returned to her seat and shortly afterwards the jet began its descent. The pilot spoke a few sentences, first in Italian, then in English, telling them the time and weather in Milan and wishing them a pleasant stay in Italy. Was she really going to Italy?
As a third grader she had done a geography report on Italy citing their imports and exports, among other things, and drawing a large map of the country that looked like a boot. Something about it had captured her imagination, even then. I’ll go there someday, she had thought at the time. It was as clear and tangible a thought as she had ever had.
“Could you please stop that?” the businessman said. They were the first words he had spoken to Sara the entire flight.
“Excuse me?”
He motioned to her hand. Without realizing it, Sara had been tapping her nails against the arm rest. A nervous habit she had indulged in since high school, when she had finally stopped chewing her nails and grown them out.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize....”
He grunted and reached for an airline magazine in front of him.
“I’m visiting an old friend,” Sara said. “Actually, I’m surprising her. She has no idea I’m coming to her art opening. But I guess I’m more nervous than I thought.”
He turned a page, not looking at her.
“We haven’t seen each other in almost thirty years,” Sara continued, this time hoping to irritate him. She was nothing to him, a mere gnat whizzing around his head.
He turned another page. His disinterest did little to curb her excitement.
After a reasonably smooth landing passengers unloaded overhead compartments and began their migration through screening and customs. Like cattle directed through various chutes, they eventually ended up in baggage claim, where the same stream of rumpled passengers moved toward the exits. Outside the airport Sara was swept into a tide of activity. Animated Italians greeted loved ones. People stood like statues peering up at a large board of constantly updated flight information. The numbers and letters flickered past like a giant slot machine. She rolled her luggage out the front entrance and followed signs to the Autobus, which would take her to the train station.
I am in Italy, she kept telling herself. This is an Italian expressway. This is an Italian billboard. We are passing Italians on their way to work. Everything felt novel.
Fifty minutes later she had arrived at the train station. Despite Italy’s consideration for the tourist trade, the station was confusing. On a website Sara had learned of pickpockets who preyed on befuddled tourists. At that moment she felt like the epitome of befuddlement.
Sara stood in a long line and bought a fare to Florence at the ticket counter from a helpful young man who spoke English. A loudspeaker constantly announced arrivals and departures in a language she couldn’t understand. It took several seconds to decipher the track number from the electronic schedule and then Sara walked up the two flights of stairs to get to the tracks.
The family from the plane was ahead of her, the girl’s hand securely in the hand of her mother. Sara felt like a child, too, at that moment. Someone who needed a hand to hold onto in such unfamiliar territory. She quickened her pace to catch up with them.
“Excuse me,” Sara said to the father. “Are you going to Florence?”
“Yes, Firenze,” he said.
“I am, too,” Sara said, her excitement revealing her nervousness.
The crowd carried them along as they spoke.
“Have you been to Florence before?” the mother asked.
For the first time Sara noticed how young she was. Maybe just a little older than Jess.
“No, I haven’t,” Sara said. “It’s my first trip to Europe.”
“Oh, you’ll love it,” the father said. “This is Elizabeth’s first trip abroad, too.” He put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. She smiled at him. The man’s hair was gray at the temples. He looked old enough to have grown children himself. Was this his second family? Sara wondered if Grady would get married again and start another family if Sara were out of the picture.
“Be sure and stamp your ticket,” the man said to her.
Sara followed his lead and stamped her train ticket in the yellow box beside the tracks. They approached the train and she lifted her luggage up the steps. She had packed and repacked the bag to weigh less than 20 pounds as the websites suggested, but it was still heavy. The exertion triggered a twinge of tenderness underneath her blouse, stretching the scar that remained. In her excitement she had almost forgotten the cancer that had decided to return for a second act. But she challenged herself to put that aside for now and enjoy herself.
The family found their seats in the first section as Sara found her seat further back. The conductor made his way down the aisle. When he reached Sara he smiled, winked and validated her ticket without taking his eyes from hers. Were the stereotypes true? Sara wondered. She smiled and looked away.
The train traveled through the industrial section of Milan before entering the flat, Italian countryside. Buildings were the color of the land, made with stone. Terra-cotta roofs and balconies graced every apartment building. Farmhouses in the distance rested amidst green and brown patchwork squares of land, tilled for centuries.
They stopped in small towns where more people boarded and others departed. Sara took it all in, trying to imagine what it would be like to live there and ride the train to work or school. With every stop Sara was aware of getting closer to Julia.
Three hours later she arrived at the train station in Florence with luggage and jet lag in tow, she walked through the ornate train station out into the streets of Florence. Sara stopped and stood in the middle of the square taking in the ancient city around her. “I made it,” she said to herself. She smiled. In a rare moment, she felt proud of herself. She stood tall and breathed in the Italian ai
r. Pigeons landed at her feet, as if she were a new statue to explore. When she moved, they cooed their surprise and flew away in unison.
Sara approached a taxi waiting near the train station. The driver quickly got out and lifted her luggage into the trunk. She showed him the piece of paper that confirmed her hotel and gave the address. He smiled and nodded. They traveled through the congested, narrow streets of Florence, sharing the road with an enormous number of scooters, Fiats, and pedestrians. The driver deftly maneuvered his way through the maze of streets and spoke like he drove, with very little pause. It hardly mattered that Sara couldn’t understand a word. His monologue played in the background like a radio. Too excited and exhausted to fear for her life, Sara gripped the back seat and leaned into the corners of the cab with every curve.
A traffic light halted their progress. Sara caught her breath. The light changed. The driver accelerated quickly, swerving to miss a startled pedestrian. His dialogue became more animated, as Sara could only guess he held the pedestrian at fault. Well, I wanted an adventure, she thought. They took an immediate right before coming to an abrupt halt in front of a beautiful old hotel. The brass numbers on the outside matched the address on the paper she held in her hand. The driver pointed at the doorway and smiled. Despite the short, harrowing drive from the train station, he appeared completely devoid of stress. Sara gave him the appropriate euros and what she hoped was an appropriate tip. The driver thanked her, handed her luggage to the porter and drove away.
The photos on the internet had not done the hotel justice. It was exquisite. “Thank you, Mimi,” Sara said under her breath. The room was spotless and filled with Italian antiques. She looked out her window that overlooked the Arno River.
Sara sat on the bed and took the invitation from her purse. She had four hours before Julia’s opening. She had cut it close. Would Julia be happy to see her? At that moment she didn’t really care. She set the alarm on her cell phone and lay down on the bed for a short nap. Within minutes sleep had finally claimed her.
Seeking Sara Summers Page 5