I melted into my airplane seat and almost instantly fell into a deep sleep. It had been an exhausting
twenty-four hours. Before I knew it, I was being awakened by a steward who informed me I was in New York. I apologized profusely to the gentleman next to me for having drooled on his shoulder, then quickly made my way down the aisle and out of the plane.
The
flight to Rome was quite a bit longer than the first leg of my journey had been. I remained wide-awake the entire time, my eyes glued to the digital map marking our progress. I recalled my mother’s doctor stating that blood clots were a possible complication of cancer. They were also caused by long stints in planes—“Economy Class Syndrome,” I believe they call it. So I was at double risk for keeling over from a suddenly thrown clot. I was definitely not ready for any more complications, especially one that included instant death. Walking and drinking water were supposed to fend off the possibility of deep vein thrombosis, so I alternated between drinking gads of water and walking to the bathroom, driving the rotund Italian opera singer in the aisle seat nuts as I climbed over her again and again. I hovered over the porcelain god (or in this case, the stainless steel, blue-watered god) right after takeoff and just before landing. But at least the time passed quickly and I was thankful for that.
Seeing Michael, if I were able to, was likely to complicate things a whole lot more for me, but it was a necessity. If I were to ever move on into the acceptance phase of my diagnosis, I needed some closure
, for lack of a better word, and there was a possibility he needed some as well.
I had been so in love with Michael at one time. All of my memories of him were wonderful. I met him in high school, long after I’d realized that Jerry was not a romantic option. Michael was tall and thin with brown wavy hair that flopped over to one side. I was an introvert in school; I had the social skills of a wombat. Not Michael—he was outspoken and extroverted, even verging on popular. I was shocked when he asked to be my study partner in Art History.
On that first day we studied together, we didn’t get a whole lot of studying accomplished. Michael just kept staring at me, telling me that I looked like Princess Jasmine from
Aladdin.
He would compliment my eyes, my skin, my hair, even my feet at times. I devoured it all, but at the same time, it was embarrassing; I wasn’t used to being the center of attention, let alone affection.
Then one
day, seemingly out of nowhere, he kissed me. It wasn’t one of those awe-inspiring moments. I didn’t see it coming. It was sort of slobbery and spastic, but not so horrible that I didn’t want to try it again…and again.
Our first sexual experience was much the same. I
didn’t have a father or a brother, and the Internet hadn’t yet been invented, so the anatomy of a male was completely alien to me. I poked at him as if he were a mold of Jell-O rather than the object of my affection. I couldn’t keep from laughing when he grabbed my breasts. I learned quickly that boys do not appreciate being laughed at when they are trying to be intimate with you. They tend to take it personally, as an affront to their masculinity. But damn, it tickled!
Our sexual encounters were few and far between, as we both lived with our parents and my mother treated him as though he had the bubonic plague.
I was forced to grow up quickly. I’d wanted to please my mother and in so doing, I’d inadvertently ruined my own life. She thrust me onto Evan, then she was gone and I was just an empty shell of existence. My mother had stolen and discarded my one chance at happiness and my suppressed feelings of wrath toward her began to smolder.
My anger vanished long enough for me to admire the red rooftops through my airplane window as we approached the runway. Florence was just as I’d imagined it. It was after
eight o’clock in the evening, and it was still light outside. I considered strolling through the suburbs to take everything in, but I soon faced the fact that I was in a foreign country with no place to stay.
I grabbed a taxi from the airport and asked the driver if he knew of a hotel that would accept cash. He informed me that a hostel would be my best option and drove me to the Leonardo Hostel, which charged $28 a night. I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.
I woke up at 4:10 a.m., Florence time, and jet lag dictated that I would not be able to go back to sleep. I read until the sun rose, then showered and walked out the door. I felt amazingly well considering the time change and my condition.
Since the looming prospect of Evan locating me had dissipated, my stress level dropped significantly. The more I thought about the
daily struggle to keep him from becoming
disappointed
in me, and the total control he took of my life, the less guilty I felt about leaving him in the dark about my illness. I’d read somewhere that stress can cause malignancy. If that were true, then Evan was to blame, and my reward for staying in a shitty marriage was to get sick and die. My guilt about Evan was rapidly changing to full-blown hostility.
Florence was to be my home once upon a time, and I couldn’t believe I’d waited so long to finally
make the journey. My life with Evan had made Florence such an unattainable goal and yet, ultimately, getting there had been incredibly easy.
For the next couple of hours, I strolled along the mostly empty cobblestone streets. I decided to forget the map and simply turn whichever way my whim inspired. The hostel was very close to the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore (otherwise known as the Duomo), which was large enough to be seen from anywhere, making it very difficult for me to get lost.
I stumbled upon the Piazza della Signoria, a major square in Florence and the hub of the city’s political life. There were already quite a few people amassed, given the early hour. I took some time to fully absorb the sights at the Palazzo Vecchio, including its replica of Michelangelo’s
David
, which stands majestically in front of the Palace. I gazed in awe at the Loggia dei Lanzi, the Tribunale della Mercanzia, and the Palazzo Uguccioni, whose styles of architecture are vastly different but still blend harmoniously together under the Tuscan sky.
I noticed a line forming further down
in the piazza and remembered that the Uffizi Gallery, which contains the
Birth of Venus,
is located there. I scurried over and jumped into the line with excited anticipation. While I waited in line, I distracted myself by rifling through the wares of the peddlers selling prints of Botticelli’s masterpiece on umbrellas, mugs, shirts, and a vast number of other
tchotchkes.
I rejected them all as personal sacrilege.
When I finally made it inside the Uffizi, I wandered around atop the pristine marble floors and under the magnificent ceiling frescoes. I soon found my way to the Botticelli Room. Quivering with anticipation, I purposely kept my eyes averted as I crept toward my favorite painting, not wanting to see it until it could be viewed from just the right angle. When I was sure I was situated exactly front and center, I at last lifted my head and took it all in for the first time. It was much larger and more heavenly than I had imagined. I stood in awe for over an hour, scrutinizing each magnificent inch of the
Birth of Venus.
I found it to be the most beautiful man-made thing I had ever seen.
Through Botticelli’s magical brushstrokes, I was witnessing Venus, the goddess of beauty emerging from the sea nude on a seashell as a fully grown woman, blown to shore by the entwined Zephyr and Aura, god of the west wind and goddess of the breeze. Horae, the goddess of seasons, the personification of nature, was there to clothe Venus’ naked body. Even after
twenty years I still remembered the meaning of his painting. Venus’ physical beauty was intended to inspire man to appreciate spiritual beauty. If I didn’t see another thing in Florence, I would have been satisfied with my trip. The rest of the museum was a blur, as I remained intoxicated by Botticelli’s masterpiece.
As I exited the Uffizi and my buzz began to fade, I had to remind myself that I’d come to Florence with a purpose: Michael. I pulled the crumpled paper with his address out of my backpack and strode off in search of a map. Via Palestro turned out to be only a
fifteen-minute walk from where I was. As I strolled down the cobblestone streets against the backdrop of the setting sun, I located Michael’s address with relative ease. I sat on the curb outside his door attempting to formulate my approach and considering which words to use. One way or another, I had made up my mind that I was not going to tell Michael my sad truth. I didn’t want it to cloud anything. I wanted whatever was going to transpire to be free from the influence of that poison. I felt strongly that our long-overdue reunion should not be tainted with the reprehensible stench of pity.
It suddenly seemed like madness, having traveled all that way to see him, but there was no turning back. I held my breath and knocked—at first, so softly that no one could realistically hear. In retrospect, I think I was nervously trying to convince myself that if no one answered, no one was home. Then I could tell myself that I’d tried my best. But this was one of my life’s few experiences in which I wasn’t willing to take the easy road. I knocked harder, this time willing him to answer. My heart pounded in my throat when I heard the approaching footsteps,
when suddenly, the door swung open.
The man who stood before me resembled an older version of the Michael I remembered from my youth. He was still tall and thin with deep-set hazel eyes and his now silver-flecked hair that flopped to one side. I watched in stasis as his expression morphed from one of
neutrality to one of confusion.
Finally, with a stern gaze, he demanded,
“Posso esserle d’aiuto?”
I was taken aback
. He didn’t recognize me.
“I’m sorry…I don’t speak—”
“Can I help you?” he asked impatiently.
“Michael, it’s me, Stacia.”
His brow wrinkled with confusion.
“I’m sorry?”
“Stacia. We dated once…”
“Oh. Of course, Stacia. Come in,” he offered as if I were a girl scout selling cookies.
It was definitely not the warm welcome that I had anticipated.
Michael offered me some tea and we sat. I stared down at the vile
cup of tea, searching for the words that wouldn’t make me sound like a bumbling buffoon. It was incredibly awkward.
“I got your address from your mother,” I finally managed.
“Oh, how did she sound? I need to call her.”
This odd version of my Michael seemed to
even have antipathy for his own mother.
“She sounded fine... Michael
, I know it’s been a long time, but I’ve always wanted to talk to you…you know…about the way things ended. I’ve wanted to apologize.”
“Don’t be silly; we were kids. You really did me a big favor anyway. I have an incredible life here.”
“Your place is lovely.”
“And so are they,” he replied, motioning to a photograph of people who I could only assume were his wife and kids: a beautiful brunette and two
precious little girls.
“This is my wife, Graziella, and these are
my daughters, Filipa and Bianca.”
“They’re beautiful, Michael. I’m really happy for you,” I effused uncomfortably.
“So how long have you been in Italy?”
“Not very long, actually.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Not far. The Leonardo Hostel.”
“The rooms are nice enough there, but I’d skip the breakfast. I could tell you stories. Anyway, how long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure yet. I thought I’d see how things go and—”
“Well, I hate to do this to you,” he said, cutting me off, “but I have to run out now. It was nice to see you.”
Michael walked over to the door and opened it for me. I had no choice but to walk through it
. I could barely hold back the tears until he closed the door behind me.
I stood there stunned for a moment, alone on his front porch. I walked around the corner and hid until I was sure that he was gone. I had come so far to see him and he’d barely even acknowledged my presence. It was hardly the tearful Nicholas Sparks-style reunion I had imagined, as I was the only one crying—and they were anything but tears of joy. I guess I had selfishly imagined him pining away for me all of those years. I had spent the last
seventeen years feeling guilty for hurting him and wishing I had chosen him over Evan, during which time Michael had clearly remained unaffected. We were supposed to grow old together, but he had moved on with his life, and I wasn’t going to grow old at all.
I wandered aimlessly down the street as the torrent of tears continued unabatedly. I didn’t know or care where I was going. At that moment I wanted to be lost; instead, I was forgotten. I turned corner after corner, traversing this alleyway and that one, when I found myself standing in front of a little church called The Ognissanti. I had never been a religious person but the idea of a church sounded somewhat comforting at that moment. Beside
the fact that I recognized the name from my days of studying Renaissance art.
A traditionally dressed nun was sitting out front as I approached the ornate façade.
“Hello,” I said to the nun, attempting to maintain my composure.
She had shriveled
dark skin and was missing a few teeth, but she had a kind face. She smiled and held out an offering bowl with one hand; with the other she presented me with a small silver charm. It was engraved with the face of the Virgin Mary on one side and a cross entwined with a letter “M” on the other.
“A geeft for
ra’ you,” she said with a thick Italian accent.
She clearly expected an offering in return.
I handed her a few of the Euros that I had exchanged at the airport, took the charm, and said, “Thank you.”
“
It issa’
Medaglia Miracolosa,
a Miraculous Medal.”
I gazed down at the charm, unimpressed.
“Eef a’ worn weeth faith and devotion, it will breeng you a’ special graces through da’ intercession of our mother Mary atta’ your hour of a’ death.”
I’d barely even met the woman and she’d already mentioned death.
“Are you a’ all right?” she asked in response to my red, puffy, wet face.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I mumbled as I pushed against the heavy wooden door and crossed the threshold into the ancient church. The detailed, arched structure stood in stark contrast to any church I had visited in the States—which admittedly, were few. At first glance, I found the church to be dismal and somewhat foreboding, except for the light that filtered in through the narrow windows just below the vaulted ceiling
, but the art and the architecture had the power to transport me into the Renaissance. Still I bypassed the experience to simply plop into a pew and have a good cry. I was fully engrossed in my self-pity when suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. My self-defense mode took over and I almost laid out the owner of the hand before I noticed that it belonged to the kind, old nun.
“What is
sa’ troubling you, my child?”
“I’m sorry—I’m not Catholic. Am I supposed to confess?”
The toothless, shriveled nun chuckled.
“No, you a’ suppose’ to confess to
da’ priest, but you canna’ talk to me.”
I lost the composure I had managed to muster only moments before and the words came
flooding out.
“My whole life has been a disaster
. I’m going to die and I don’t have anyone in this world that gives a shit…I mean…truly loves me.”
“God loves
a’ you.”
I made a conscious effort not to roll my eyes at the cliché. I had no idea how to respond.
The truth is, I’d never given God a second thought. I realized that ultimately, there is really no way for anyone to slowly perish without at least examining his position on God and the afterlife. My position was that if God
did
exist, I was pissed off at him too.
“I am a’ Suora Constanza. May I show you our treasures?”
“Treasures? What do you mean?” I sniffled.
“We have a’ many
importante
works of a’ art here including a’ frescos by Ghirlandaio and a’ Botticelli.”
Suora Constanza
, or Sister Constance, instantly became my hero.
“You have a Botticelli here?” I asked, incredulous.
“We also have da’ painter heemself.”
I turned off the water works and instantly forgot my woes. Gambling had been my mother’s cure-all vice; this was the beginning of my realization that Sandro Botticelli would be mine. I eagerly followed Sister Constance down the aisle.