Of course, the photo
was
old. In the thirteen years that had passed since my time in Rome, so much had changed.
I
had changed. As I started flipping through the rest of the photos, which I had never put in an album because it made me sad
to look at them, I marveled at how young and happy I had looked. I was like a different person. Not that I wasn’t happy here.
I was, of course. It was just that, in Rome, there was a lightness to my smile, a carefree look in my eyes. I looked so excited
to be there, so excited to be exploring the city, so excited to be on my own.
I flipped through various poses of me and Francesco at the Trevi Fountain, me and my roommate, Kara, at the Colosseum, me
and Francesco doing shots at his favorite bar near the Pantheon, me by myself outside the museum in Vatican City. I smiled
as I passed photos of me kissing Francesco on his smooth, darkly tanned cheek, or of me posing near his Vespa. I felt as though
I’d made a lifetime of memories in that summer. And yet there were only a few dozen photos to prove it. I’d been through them
so many times over the years that I almost didn’t know whether my memories of Rome were real or whether I was just remembering
the things that the pictures showed me.
I quickly flipped through the rest of the box. There was the diary I’d kept, the one I hadn’t looked at once since I returned.
There were ticket stubs from my train rides around Italy, brochures from the museums I’d visited, pressed sunflowers that
I’d picked by the side of the road in Tuscany. There was also the butterfly necklace that Francesco had given me two weeks
after we met. It was costume jewelry; he’d probably bought it for a few dollars from some guy on the street. But to me, it
might as well have been Tiffany silver and diamonds. I had stopped wearing it a year after I came home from Rome, eleven and
a half months after I’d stopped hearing from Francesco. It had almost completely fallen apart by then, anyhow.
I picked up the keepsakes one by one, letting the memories wash over me, and I studied the pictures for a long time. I had
almost forgotten how much I’d loved his bright green eyes, the way he’d furrow his brow when he was concentrating on something,
the way he’d wink at me when I said something funny or referenced a private joke between us. I’d nearly forgotten how good
we looked together. He had driven me crazy all the time with his haphazard, devil-may-care approach to life, his constant
disorganization. I liked to think that we had balanced each other out perfectly, me with my obsession with order, him with
his total lack of a schedule. I think he made me loosen up a little, if only for the summer. And I think I helped make him
a little more responsible.
But I had no idea where he was now, or what he was doing. He had never specifically asked me to stay—but I wouldn’t have,
anyhow; I had to come home to help take care of Becky and finish college. He had told me he couldn’t do long distance, and
I had left anyway. I could have stayed. I knew I could have stayed and built a life in Rome. But Becky and Dad needed me,
and so I’d turned my back and gone.
So, in the end, I suppose it was my fault. I didn’t even blame him when he stopped calling or responding to my e-mails two
weeks after I’d left Rome. I knew I had hurt him. But I’d thought then that the world was wide open for me, that I’d fall
in love again with someone new, that Francesco would one day be a fond memory.
Instead, I was nearly thirty-five, and despite the fact that I’d been in and out of several relationships in my adulthood,
Francesco remained the only man I’d ever really loved.
How had I walked away from that so easily?
I put the keepsakes, diary, and photos away, back in their box, and closed the lid decisively, as if banishing the memories
to the past, where they belonged. But even after I climbed back into bed, turned out the light, and tried to fall asleep,
Francesco was still there, lurking at the edges of my mind.
That Sunday morning, after avoiding nine calls from Michael and deleting the six messages he’d left without listening to them,
I arrived at my dad’s narrow row house in Brooklyn, juggling a big brown bag of pumpernickel bagels (our favorite), a container
of cream cheese, and two cups of coffee, one of which I had managed to spill on my white T-shirt en route.
“Hello, beautiful,” my dad greeted me as he usually did, taking the bagels and cream cheese from my hands as he bent down
to kiss my cheek.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind me while balancing both coffee cups in the crook of
my arm.
We settled in the kitchen nook with our usual Sunday spread of bagels, cream cheese, and the lox Dad always bought from the
deli two blocks away. He poured us two glasses of orange juice from the jug in his fridge and sat down across from me, a serious
expression on his face.
“Becky told me about your date with that young man from the restaurant,” he said without any preface.
I could feel myself turning red. “It’s no big deal.”
“Cat, it is a big deal,” he said firmly. He paused and didn’t speak again until I looked at him. “You’ve had a lot of bad
luck, kiddo. But it’s not your fault.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yeah, well,” I said, “at some point, I think we have to start tracing it back to
me. After all, I’m the one making all these bad decisions, aren’t I?”
“I don’t think the restaurant guy was a bad decision,” my father said. “How were you to know?”
“Don’t you think I should have sensed that something was off?” I picked up a knife and began to violently slather a bagel
with cream cheese. “But all I thought was,
Wow, this guy is so nice
. I actually thought I’d finally met a good one, you know?”
My father looked at me sadly. “You will.”
I set the knife down and stared at my bagel. “I don’t know why we’re even talking about this,” I said. “It’s fine. Let’s talk
about something more exciting. Like the wedding. Or Becky’s honeymoon. Or your new golf clubs.”
My dad arched an eyebrow at me. “You always do that,” he said. “But not this time. We’re going to talk about you for a minute.”
I took a bite of my bagel and ignored him. “The bagels are great this morning,” I said cheerfully.
“Cat…” My father looked at me sternly.
“What?” I played innocent.
Dad rested his chin in his hand and shook his head slowly at me. “You need to make some changes.”
I set my bagel down. “What is this, an intervention?”
“I think you need more than one person for an intervention.”
“Okay, so it’s a really bad intervention.”
“Cat,” he said. “It’s not an intervention. But Becky and I have talked about it, and we have a suggestion for you.”
“You and Becky talked about me?” I asked.
He frowned. “You can let other people help you sometimes, too, you know,” he said. “You don’t always have to take care of
everyone.”
“Okay. So what’s your big suggestion for how to change my life?” I took a giant, defiant bite of my pumpernickel bagel, steeling
myself for what was to come. Had they signed me up for speed dating? Posted my profile to several online sites? Sent up a
blimp with my number, photo, and a message that screamed,
Desperate and dysfunctional? Call Cat Connelly!
My dad took a bite of his bagel and avoided meeting my gaze. “Go to Italy,” he said with his mouth full.
I swallowed too soon and choked on my bagel. After a moment spent dislodging a giant chunk of creamy pumpernickel from my
throat and downing half the glass of water my father had jumped up to pour me, I wiped my eyes and repeated, “Um… go to Italy?
What are you talking about?” I had the disturbing thought that my father had turned into a mind reader and knew I’d been obsessing
over Francesco last night.
My father looked surprisingly calm. “It’s the place where you were the happiest,” he said. “Becky and I think it would be
good for you to go back there for a little while.”
“What are you talking about? I’m happy right here.”
He just gave me a look. “Cat.”
“What? I am.”
“Oh, yes, I can tell,” he said. “This is what you’ve always dreamed of. Working fifty-hour weeks at a dull job and delivering
me pumpernickel bagels every Sunday morning while your love life goes down the drain.”
“I take offense to that.” I paused. “All of that.”
My father sighed. “Look. You certainly have the vacation time saved up. And knowing you, you have plenty of room on your credit
cards.”
“I do not,” I responded. “Are you forgetting I just bought an apartment?” It had been one of my proudest accomplishments yet;
I had scrimped and saved for a decade to put enough away for a down payment late last year on a one-bedroom on the Upper East
Side.
“You didn’t pay for your apartment on your credit cards,” Dad reminded me.
“No,” I grumbled. “But I save my credit for emergencies. And I’ve been using my cards to make ends meet while I earn back
some of the money I spent on the down payment, okay?”
“So spend a thousand on a plane ticket and another fifteen hundred on a month in a hotel.”
“Wait, you want me to go to Rome for a
month
?”
“You can’t change your life in a week,” he said. “Go over for a few weeks, at least. Make it worth your while.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said flatly.
My dad looked away. “Maybe it’ll give you some time to deal with your issues with your mother, too.”
“My
issues
with my
mother
?” I asked, standing up.
“Stop being so dramatic,” my father said. “Sit down.”
I glared at him for a moment and then slowly sank back into my chair. “I don’t have any issues with my mother,” I said softly.
“Aside from hating her,” my father said nonchalantly. He wrapped his hands around mine before I could move to protest again.
“Relax, Cat. I don’t blame you for feeling that way. But maybe you could pay a visit to her family while you’re there. Maybe
they can help you to understand that she never meant to hurt you. Perhaps once you understand that, you’ll be able to move
on.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled. I looked away. “Look, this has all been very enlightening. But I have a really busy day ahead of me.
So I’m afraid I have to get running.”
My dad sighed and let go of my hands. “Will you think about it, at least? You don’t even have to see your mother’s family,
kiddo. Just go over there and remember what it feels like to be happy again.”
“I was a lot happier before I came over here this morning,” I muttered.
I stood up, and we awkwardly kissed good-bye. I expected to feel angry with my father and Becky as I marched out of his house
and headed up the street to the subway. But all I felt was a strange emptiness surrounded by a question. And at the center
of it all, I kept coming back to Francesco.
That night, after running errands, cleaning my apartment from top to bottom, watching TV for a few hours, and trying to fall
asleep, I finally gave up, got out of bed again, and turned on my computer. It booted up slowly, and I found myself tapping
my foot impatiently, way too eager to get on to the Internet.
I logged on to AOL and pulled up my address book. I’d been on AOL since college, and I had saved Francesco’s e-mail address.
I hoped he still used it. I clicked on his name in my AOL address book and watched Francesco
[email protected]
came up in the
SEND TO
field of a blank e-mail. Just seeing his address again made my heart leap. I remembered how many mornings in Rome I’d started
with e-mailing him a brief,
“Thinking about you… xoxox, Cat”
note. I also remembered with a pang how many times I’d tried writing to him in vain after I returned home. I must have sent
him fifty unanswered e-mails before I finally let it go and decided to salvage the remainder of my pride.
Twelve years had passed since I’d last tried to reach out to him, yet he was burned into my mind as clearly as if I had seen
him yesterday. What if he didn’t feel the same way?
I took a deep breath and began writing.
Forty-five minutes and six drafts later, I finally had an e-mail I felt okay about. I read it over one more time.
Dear Francesco,
Hi. It’s been a long time. I hope you remember me;
I know I could never forget you. You meant more to me than you could have known. I wonder where you are and what you’re doing
these days. I still think of you often. I’d love to hear from you.
xo,
Cat
I closed my eyes and hit
SEND
before I could reconsider. I hoped I wouldn’t regret this in the morning.
I logged off, shut down the computer, and crawled back into bed. And for the first time that night, my mind was silent. Finally,
I slept.
By the time I got to work the next morning, I felt like I had kicked up a huge sandstorm of dormant emotions. What had I done?
My work in-box was filled, as it usually was, with dozens of messages from over the weekend. I read through them quickly and
gritted my teeth when I saw
[email protected]
on one of the return addresses. I hadn’t given him my e-mail address, so he’d obviously Googled me to find it. It annoyed
me to no end as I pictured him holing up in his apartment and furtively searching for me while his unsuspecting wife played
with their child in the other room. I hit
DELETE
before I could think any more about it.
There was nothing in my AOL in-box from Francesco. And a strange gnawing had begun in the pit of my stomach.
By noon, I had gotten a little work done, but I had also wasted a ton of time refreshing my AOL mailbox every few minutes
and hoping that Francesco had responded. With every hour that ticked by without an e-mail from him, I was growing more and
more nervous—and feeling sillier and sillier for even trying. I kept doing the mental math in my head. By noon our time, it
would be 6 p.m. in Italy, and he’d be heading home if he was still working as a computer programmer as he had the summer I’d
known him. Did he check his e-mail at home, too? Maybe he had read the e-mail at work and was at war with his own emotions
about how to respond.