by Liska Jacobs
“Did you get between the straps?”
I tell her yes, even though no, I did not. I don’t want to go on touching her skin—and part of me wants her to get sunburned. To add a flaw, like a notch in a tree.
“Do you want me to rub some on you?” she asks.
“No, no. I’m in the shade.”
She shrugs and relaxes in her recliner. I can hear Matteo’s dad blowing bubbles in the water. He laughs when his son tries to mimic him.
“I want to thank you,” Marie starts. Her recliner is angled toward the pool; I can’t see her face. “Paul and I, we want to do something nice for you. Would you like a pumo di fiore? They are good luck.”
“You don’t have to get me anything.”
She twists so she can look at me. “I trust my son, but Hannah is young—and, allora, we take comfort in knowing you have been with them.”
I’m thinking about when Donato was playing tour guide in Rome. He wanted to show me his favorite church, Hannah waited outside with the dog. The temperature dropped the moment we entered—gone were the crowds of tourists and hustlers and street performers. Only the smell of frankincense; and mosaic and marbled floors, ionic columns and chapels and domes, a Renaissance painted ceiling. I followed Donato, impressed by the painters and sculptors he could name, the dates and histories he could recite—and then Hannah was there.
It’s so hot, she said. I had to get out of the sun. It was astonishing how much she looked like a teenage Emily. Fashionable and blond in a short linen jumper, hands on her hips, head tilted. A sour, spoiled expression on her face. I took a step back, worried she might direct her ire at me.
A uniformed guard appeared, pointing at Hannah’s bare legs and shaking his head. She spat something in Italian that made his eyes go big, but then Donato was between them. I imagine he said, Don’t touch her, or something like it because my niece looked satisfied. She went on yelling, though—their voices getting louder and louder. Families and couples and tour groups paused to watch. Nuns peeked out from the gift shop.
Shh, calm down, I said, but no one was listening.
Stupid Italian pigs! Prudes, all of you, Hannah was yelling. It’s the twenty-first century, a woman can wear whatever she wants!
The security guard had Donato by the arm, he was using a two-way radio.
Look, look, I told the guard, waving my old studio ID in his face. I made a filming motion with my hands. Hollywood, I said. We are scouting for a movie. These are my guides.
The guard examined the ID and reluctantly let him go. And I remember outside how Hannah and Donato had laughed. Like two misbehaving children who got away with it.
Cilla, you sneak! my niece said. Can you get me a studio ID? I was about to lecture them, to play the role of adult, but then Donato was grinning that damn grin. You were wonderful, he said, and I could feel that heat in the center of me, how breathless I was because of it, and I didn’t say or do anything.
“Where is that son of mine?” Marie says. “I thought they would be back by now.”
“I think I’ll take a dip.” I get up and leave her to sunbathe alone. The rocks surrounding the pool are hot, I have to walk quickly. I hop the last two, which makes Matteo laugh.
“Did you think that was funny?” I smile, wading into the shallow saltwater pool. Matteo’s dad is gliding him across the water in serene movements. He stops when I reach them.
“Matteo, practice English,” his dad instructs.
“He doesn’t have to. Buongiorno,” I say, and lightly splash the surface, which makes Matteo laugh some more.
“He knows an English word.” He speaks gruffly to Matteo, until he tries to pronounce hello, sounding more like all-oo.
“Very good!” I feel the strain in my smile. There is a twitch in my eye. “Are you ticklish?” I ask, and he squirms when I start to tickle his sides. He’s splashing and giggling, and I tickle until he’s gasping.
“Basta, basta,” his father says, moving the child away from me. Matteo rubs his eyes. He might be crying, but it’s hard to tell, and when I ask, he hides his face.
“Is he okay? Was I too rough?”
His dad makes a motion with his hand, speaking to me in Italian.
“I don’t understand, I’m sorry.”
He repeats himself, holding up his fingers. He might be saying, You don’t know Italian, not even a little?
“Nope.” I shake my head.
He laughs, which makes me laugh. “Va bene,” he says. “Va bene.”
I did not hear when Donato and Hannah arrived, but there they are sitting at the table with Marie, watching us. The expression on Donato’s face makes me get out of the water and slip into my robe. Matteo’s dad follows me with his son.
“How was ice cream?” I take one of the empty chairs across from them.
Marie wraps Matteo in a towel, and Matteo’s dad, who has not bothered to dry off, sits beside me. Water drips onto my arm. “Mi dispiace,” he says, wiping it with his hand. His skin is cool from being in the pool. I look away from Donato.
“It was nice,” Hannah says. “Papa paid for it.”
Matteo’s dad says something in Italian, gesturing to Donato.
“I have a job.” Donato frowns. He sniffs, adjusts the crisp corners of his collared shirt. “I’m social media manager for a club in Roma.”
“He likes nice things, amore,” Marie says, looking at her son. Matteo has fallen asleep on her shoulder, thumb in his mouth.
Matteo’s dad laughs. I recognize the word ragazzo and the twitch of anger in Donato’s face. It had been the same in the beach parking lot. A slight sneer, a tilting of his chin.
“Cilla, how was your afternoon?” Donato asks. He tucks a cigarette between his lips. “Did you have a nice swim?”
“Donato,” his mother says, motioning to the child. “The smoke is bad for him.”
He looks at Matteo’s dad and lights the cigarette anyway. I don’t have to speak the language to know he’s being an ass. Matteo’s dad says something in Italian, it’s in a jovial, dismissive tone. He tousles Donato’s hair when he walks past him, that gold eyetooth glinting, and takes his son from Marie.
“Ciao,” he says to us as he heads back to the house. When he looks at Donato, he starts to chuckle again, shaking his head.
* * *
Agostina is calling to one of the girls who helps with breakfast. I can imagine the commotion in the kitchen. It was the same each morning. The clattering of dishes and glasses and silverware as they set up the sideboard and tables, Italian echoing off the cavernous walls, Matteo’s gurgling laugh.
I pull the sheet over my head and turn onto my side. I have every intention of skipping breakfast; of not leaving the room until lunch and the little A/C unit becomes no match for the heat outside. I’m not interested in witnessing Hannah and Donato dine at the table set especially for the two of them. Paul and Marie and Tonio nearby, their dynamic now awkward and unsure. And if Matteo’s dad is down there, Donato will try to humiliate him again. Last night, Matteo’s dad grilled arrosticini for us, and Donato kept the conversation on Bernini and Caravaggio, Guercino and Tassi. He laughed that boyish heehaw when Matteo’s dad tried to join in. The Scrovegni Chapel is not Baroque, Donato said, grinning at me. You are thinking of Giotto.
I reread his text from last night: We play in the olive fields tonight, sì? ♥
Sleeping has been difficult. I lie awake listening to the cicadas. It’s a sound that, when focused on, starts to suffocate the body. I get up and pace around the room to keep from feeling pressed into the bed, as if dragged into something darker than sleep.
I texted him back, Not tonight, be patient. Every sound outside might have been Donato about to ask for admittance. A crack of sticks, the wind twisting the cypress trees. I relaxed only when the sky started to lighten, the horizon turning pale pink. It’s a different type of sundowner. The natural progression of things, one of the nurses had said when Dad refused to sleep at night.
I d
elete both my text and Donato’s. Someone starts to vacuum the room next door; the sound is oddly soothing. There is muffled chattering too. The amiable voices of shared work. I fall into a thick, syrupy sleep. The kind where I’m dreaming I’m awake, walking around the room. It’s like quicksand—but then there is knocking and Paul’s voice, “Hello? Cilla?”
“Yes.” I struggle awake.
“Are you not feeling well? You missed breakfast.”
The room is overly warm. “One minute,” I shout, untangling myself from the sheets and pillows.
“There’s a focaccia bakery in town,” he says as I open the door. “I thought you might want to go with me since you haven’t eaten yet.”
I peer around him to the passageway, which is empty except for the maid’s cart filled with cleaning supplies and toilet paper and boxes of tissues.
“Everyone’s changing for the pool,” he says. “We’re taking a break from the book.”
I change into a sundress and meet him in the courtyard, where Marie is lounging with Donato and Hannah.
“She lives!” Marie takes my hand. Her bathing suit straps peek from beneath her dress.
Donato is shirtless, wearing only swim trunks. His body looks much too long and brown and soft against the rough pinewood chair.
“You are going with Paul? We will come with you.” For a moment he looks desperate, his eyes large and pleading.
“You ate an entire omelet at breakfast,” Hannah says. A towel rests on the table in front of her. “I thought we were going to swim.”
“We should get going,” Paul says. “The article I read said they can sell out by eleven.”
“No time to change, then,” I tell Donato.
They follow us out to the car park, where Matteo’s dad is playing with a soccer ball. He’s wearing a blue-and-white striped jersey, his forehead and neck dripping.
“Ciao,” he calls to us.
“It’s hot out here,” my niece replies, holding open the gate to the pool for Marie and Donato. “Come swim with us.”
“Paul and I are going into town for focaccia,” I tell him, though I don’t think he understands. He bounces the ball from one thigh to the other.
Donato has stopped to watch him.
“Fo-ca-ccia,” he says, tapping it out with each muscular leg.
“C’è solo l’AS Roma,” Donato says, knocking the ball away from him.
Marie claps her hands together, Hannah leans on the wall. Paul even gets back out of the car to watch their scrimmage. Dust and dirt rise around them, loose shale grinds under their quick feet. I think I see Donato push Matteo’s dad, but he’s so big it must be like trying to budge stone. Donato is sweaty and panting, and when Matteo’s dad lunges for the ball, Donato trips, and goes sliding against the ground.
A flurry of Italian endearments and concerns from Marie and Hannah as they run to him.
“Is he hurt?” I ask, remaining by the passenger door.
“Basta, basta,” I hear Donato say to his mother and Hannah. “It is only a scratch.”
“He’s got some gravel in his palm,” Hannah says, examining it.
Matteo’s dad offers him a hand, but Donato ignores him.
“We should go,” Paul says, looking at his watch. Donato follows his mom and Hannah back inside to ask Agostina for a first-aid kit. He does not look at me.
“Hopefully they haven’t sold out,” Paul says, starting the engine. “The New York Times said it’s not to be missed.”
The car bumps along the dirt road. He slows as we come to a roundabout, studying the GPS screen. We circle twice before he decides which way to go, and curses when he realizes he was wrong.
“I always read these damn things backward,” he says, making a U-turn across the median. The driver behind us holds down their horn.
He chuckles when he notices I’m hanging on to the roof handle. “You remind me of your sister, she hated when I drove.”
“I can see why,” I say, which makes him laugh harder.
He slows as we come into town, braking hard when a pedestrian runs across the street. I brace myself against the dashboard. The focaccia place isn’t anything special, but Paul takes his time choosing which loaf he wants, then chats with the workers as they ring him up.
“I had an ulterior motive when I asked you to come,” he says, glancing at me as we climb into the car.
My chest is tight. I pretend to be preoccupied with the bag of bread, which is warm; oily spots have soaked through the paper.
“Does Hannah seem okay to you? I can’t tell anymore.”
I breathe out. “She’s a typical teenager, boy crazy and emotional. Emily was a lot like her at that age.”
He smiles. “It’s hard to imagine Em like that. She was a different person when we got together.”
The focaccia has made the car smell good, all fresh herbs and yeast. I rip off a piece, the tomatoes burst, the salt seeps in. “This is delicious.”
“Do you remember when you visited us in San Clemente?”
I nod, still chewing.
He smiles to himself. “She was so nervous, everything had to be perfect.”
“Why? She worked the room, all eyes on her—as per usual.” I’ve forgotten to mask my voice, Paul is taken aback. He looks at me from the corner of his eye.
“That’s not how it was,” he says, pulling into the roundabout again. This time he doesn’t miss the turn. “Emily felt like the screw-up, pretty but not very bright.”
“I wasn’t the one who treated her like that—that was our parents, our mom, mostly.”
“Then you can understand why she wanted you to see the life she’d made for herself. She was sober, she had intelligent friends that were doing things in the world. Did you know she was working on getting a degree?”
I shake my head.
“It was how she came to be at my NYU lecture. She had been going to all of the university’s free public talks, trying to figure out what she wanted to study.” He waits, trying to catch my eye. But I’m pretending to be distracted by the view out my window.
“She settled on history.”
The same olive fields and crumbling farmhouses speed past.
I’m remembering something that I have not thought of in years, maybe decades. There was an El Niño the month I got my driver’s license—streets were flooded, the north part of Pacific Coast Highway had closed from a mudslide. Mom and Dad were somewhere, a party, probably. They had forgotten to pick up Emily from her ballet practice. I remember being furious. It would have been the first time I’d driven myself to Guy’s apartment. Like an adult—like a real woman. I had bought a new dress for the occasion. But just as I was about to leave the house, Emily called, and I had to cancel my plans.
Get in the damn car, I said to her when I pulled up. I intentionally swerved into puddles on the way home. Muddy water splashed the sides of the car, one so immense it covered the windshield, and I felt such a surge of recklessness that I laughed out loud. Cilla, please, no more. You’re scaring me, my sister said. How pretty and delicate she looked in her leotard and raincoat. One more, I promised, and tried to cross a river of water and silt at the bottom of Corral Canyon. But the Land Rover stalled out, and we were stuck in the rain until we could flag down another car. Our mom was furious with me. Your sister is soaked through. I wasn’t allowed to drive for a month—but the point is, Emily did not tell her what really happened. We got lost, she insisted. It’s not Cilla’s fault. I remember later asking why she lied. Because. She shrugged. I understand why you did it.
* * *
“Agostina’s daughter has a drinking problem,” Marie is saying, leaning in as if Paul and I were trusted confidants.
Ahead of us, Matteo is holding hands with his dad and grandmother—every few feet they count to three and swing him. The promenade is crowded; we had to park four blocks from the seaside restaurant where we’re having dinner.
Uno, due, tre! And then Matteo’s excited cries. The sky is a dusk
y blue beyond them.
“They moved back so Agostina can help with the baby.”
“How sad,” I say. When something drops out of Matteo’s pocket, Agostina squats to pick it up. I can make out a thong through her white jeans. What must it be like to be her daughter?
I hate how she treats you, Emily had said one holiday when our mom had gotten herself and Emily matching garnet earrings, and me a box set of Turner Classic Movies. Doesn’t it bother you? she asked. I remember being more surprised by Emily’s frustration than the gifts themselves. One of life’s inevitable disappointments is the moment when a child sees their parent as a fallible human being, and for me, that had happened years before.
Paul turns to look at Donato and Hannah, who have stopped walking. “Are they okay?” he asks us.
My niece has her hands on her hips, Donato is shaking his head. His nose and forehead are badly sunburned. There is a Band-Aid on his palm from where he fell on it. He has spent the last two days lording over the pool as if it were his, scowling at Matteo and his dad whenever they came out to swim.
I’m fine, he said when his mother saw his face, and swatted away her hand.
“Stay together,” Tonio shouts ahead of us. The streets are packed, ripe with body odor and cologne and cigarettes. I can feel heat radiating from the concrete walls and asphalt like precipitation evaporating. When we pass a gelateria, a group of boys take off on mopeds, sending puffs of black exhaust in their wake.
The restaurant is a sleek, recently remodeled place, with a fish tank and high-backed leather chairs, everything black and white.
Matteo’s dad must know the waiter, because they embrace.
“Los Angeles,” I hear him say, gesturing to me, and whatever else he says must impress him, because the waiter directs his attention to me. The menu recommendations and specials, his wine preferences—I’m the first glass he fills, and the only one for whom he unfolds the cloth napkin, placing it across my lap. “I have always wanted to go,” he says in stilted English.
Donato, who had been sitting at the end of the table, excuses himself.