They’d blown up balloons, and after dinner we played an epic game of Candyland; it felt like a celebration of what was to come, rather than what had happened. Afterward, as I was leaving, Jake tackled me around my knees and Andrew gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Let us know how it all goes,” he said quietly, looking into my eyes, meaning it. “And if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all…”
“Thank you. For everything.” I meant it, too.
I said goodbye to my mother, as well, as if I were going on a long journey, as if I were some sort of old world adventurer, an explorer off to unknown lands, the Arctic or the Amazon. That’s how I felt, and as I looked into my mother’s worn face and saw her smile try to hide the worry, her hands trembling against my back as she hugged me. I wondered if she would be much changed upon my return. If I would.
“Tell me everything,” she insisted. “I so wish I could be there, Rachel. Skype me whenever you want, as often as you can.”
“Of course I will.”
And lastly, I said goodbye to James. He’d texted and called me several times over the last few weeks, asking about the preparations for the trip, meeting me at the hospital to sign medical forms. We didn’t talk much beyond the logistics of getti
ng Emily to Italy; everything emotional had already been said and lay between us like a frozen river, but one at least we could now cross.
The last time I saw him, two days before now, at the hospital, he hugged me. We hadn’t hugged or even touched in years, and the feel of him—the smell of him—was like falling back through time. It was a quick but tight hug, and then he stepped back.
“Keep me informed about everything,” he said almost brusquely.
“I will.”
He turned to Emily, his throat working. I watched, my eyes filming with tears, as he bent over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Bye bye, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Have a good trip. You’re going to Italy, and I’ve never even been there.”
I swiped at my eyes; I couldn’t recall the last time James had spoken to our daughter in my presence.
He stepped away from Emily, his face back to its usual mask as he looked at me. “I hope… I hope you find what you’re looking for, in Italy.”
“Thank you.” I tried not to let that rub me a little bit raw; he made it sound almost as if I were going on some indulgent, self-help trip, like Andrew’s wife Christina jaunting off to a yoga retreat. But I knew he meant well, that he was trying, and I swallowed down the reply that had sprung to my lips, that the only thing I was looking for was for Emily to get better.
Now I lean my arms on the windowsill and stretch my head to glimpse more of the narrow street below. Window boxes spilling over with bougainvillea decorate every house, and in the distance I hear the melodious peal of church bells. I can’t believe I’m actually here.
From behind me I hear a knock on the door of my bedroom, and I go to answer it. Eva stands there, looking fresh and pretty, her hair still damp from a shower. She is wearing a pink sundress and she looks softer than I’ve seen her before, as if her hard edges have been rounded off.
“I thought you were back from the hospital,” she says. “Emily settled in okay?”
“Yes, fine.” Eva has been remarkably unfazed by Emily’s needs. Most people I know would school their face into what they think is a bland expression when they see Emily, but the horror is visible in the widening of their eyes, the higher pitch of their voices. They can’t quite make any of it seem normal, and I don’t blame them. How can I? It isn’t normal.
But Eva, to my surprise, didn’t exhibit any of those signs. From the moment she met Emily, she treated her like a person, not a patient, or worse, a thing. She talked to her as if she wanted to, as if she knew Emily was listening, and she touched her—her hand, her cheek—something most people never do. I wasn’t expecting it; Eva has always seemed so polished and professional, almost cold, that this sudden warmth emanating from her towards my daughter took me completely by surprise, and moved me almost unbearably. I needed another person in my life who saw Emily the way I did.
It was what made me agree to let her come, and I’ve been glad of her presence since. Already she’s made herself indispensable in a dozen small ways, from bringing me coffee while I waited with Emily at the airport, to taking my mind off everything as we chatted about the best series on Netflix on the plane.
“How’s the jet lag?” she asks, and I shrug.
“I slept for an hour or so when I got back. You?”
“The same. I’m not sure my body knows what time it is.” She makes a face. “Anyway… are you hungry?” Her eyebrows rise. “We could go out to eat? There’s a cute little place I spotted on the corner—actually, there’s a dozen cute little places. Take your pick.”
I hesitate, because my imagination had not stretched past a hurried meal somewhere charmless—food has been a matter of expediency rather than enjoyment for a long time. Yet right now, with the sun still shining, and the jabber of joyful conversation audible from the street—everything in Italian sounds emotional— I think, why not? Why not enjoy myself here, if just a little?
“I suppose we could,” I say, still cautious, and Eva gives an expansive shrug.
“We should. I’ve never been to Italy before, and Bologna looks beautiful.”
I haven’t either, and yes, it does. I realize I don’t feel guilty for wanting to enjoy myself, because I know, I know Emily is in the best place she could possibly be right now. “Sounds like a good idea,” I tell Eva. “I don’t mind where we eat.”
“Why don’t we walk around and see what we like?” Eva suggests. “It’s so beautiful out.”
I thought it would feel stranger to be here with Eva, and yet somehow so far it hasn’t been. As we head out into the balmy evening, I am amazed at how companionable we can be. I’ve never disliked my ex-husband’s second wife, but I have, at times, resented her existence. Yet now I am thankful for it, for her, and that she chose to come to Italy with me.