I Never Stopped Page 9

  12

  Sloane

  Mama Nuccio waved her hand towards the center of the table. “Cecelia, could you pass me the salt?"

  She had a fish dish in front of her that Sloane didn't recognize.

  "Yes, Mama Nuccio," she replied. Who did this woman think she was?

  Molly sniffed the air. "Cecelia. Sounds like the name of a harlot."

  Sloane was too shocked to say much. She couldn't get the conversation out of her head.

  “–sorry. I thought a friend would be good for you.”

  “A friend? That was a setup!”

  Sloane had stopped listening, then.

  Mama Nuccio had set Francesca up on a date? She'd thought Mama loved her! Sloane had told her about her given name, even let her call her by it because she'd said, "You have to take it back, Susan. It's your name, not hers." Mama had told her about the letter too.

  She and Molly shouldn't have come.

  Everyone at the table fit so well as if they were already a family and had been for ages. And though Sloane had imagined what she would say if they were ever reunited a million times, she wondered if talking to Francesca would only make things worse, make them ache more. Defeated, Sloane started to tell Molly her fears, but wild eyes stared back at her.

  "She is off to the powder room. Let us follow her."

  Sloane thought to argue, but emotions got in the way. A suctioning feeling took hold of her innards, and she stood right inside the door of a gaudy women's bathroom. The busy purple and gold wallpaper looked like velvet and satin. Sloane took a small moment to lament her lack of touch response while she hovered near a yellow-gold tufted ottoman from the safety of The Gray.

  Cecelia strolled in humming a melody softly. The fabric filled bathroom sucked it up as though she were in The Gray too. Sloane watched, transfixed, as Cecelia turned on the faucet. Francesca had become smitten–if only a bit–and Sloane needed to know why.

  Cecelia primped in the oversized framed mirror: fluffing dark curled hair, checking pearly teeth. Shifting her weight, red high heels clicked on the onyx marble.

  Sloane used her weariness to propel herself forward.

  Standing behind Cecelia was strangely intimate. She used to stand behind Francesca and brush her hair aside, kiss her neck. They'd hold each other and stare into the mirror at each other and their future.

  The fingerprint smeared replica Venetian 18th century mirror held something different entirely. Alone, Cecelia touched up her gloss as Sloane's grief overcame her. She pictured Francesca's arms around Cecelia's small waist as they stared at each other in a mirror in their new home. So vivid, it felt as if it could be real one day. If it weren't for her being dead already, Sloane's heart would have stopped beating.

  A vague reflection of Sloane, barely distinguishable as her, appeared in the mirror above Cecelia's shoulder. As soon as Sloane saw it, she screamed, "What's happening?"

  "What are you doing?" Molly snapped. "She was about to see you."

  "Was that the plan?" Sloane was shaken.

  Molly sighed and became more smoke than girl. "There was no plan. But you had strength you were unable to let yourself tap into. If you cannot give in, how will you be able to contact Francesca one day?"

  Sloane's shoulders drooped.

  13

  Francesca

  She turned the faucet off.

  ”Rome is a good city to visit. There is certainly plenty to do there," Mama said.

  "They have a whole day planned, so we're going to have to leave pretty early. You know that's not my thing. That's why Sloane and I always made things two or three-day trips–so we could leave at eleven or later. We were able to see everything we wanted to, just on a lazier schedule. Mama, I'm not making a mistake; am I?"

  Dishes from the evening before and a late breakfast clattered as Mama pulled each out of a soapy water-filled sink. Francesca imagined the pile as a stack of teacups from Alice in Wonderland; if you tugged at the wrong one, they would all crash and shatter.

  "No. Alma is a fantastic tour guide! I wish I could be there. I'm proud of you for being able to be around Cecelia." Mama waved her wet dishrag at Francesca. With a smile, she snarked, "Dry faster!"

  "Hey! You just got dirty dishwater on me. Thanks, Mama. I really liked this dress."

  "I do your laundry. It'll wash. Speaking of dresses, you're already almost out. We'll go shopping later this week."

  Leave it to her mother to think Francesca couldn't wear her clothes more than twice. When she was younger, Francesca's wardrobe had been a reasonable size. Wealth had played no part in her life then. Oh, how things had changed.

  After another ten minutes of drying, the towel had become too damp to be of any use. Francesca hunched her shoulders in defeat. For some reason, the useless cloth became the end of the world. Eventually, the mood swings had to stop.

  "Mama, I need another towel," she said on the verge of tears.

  "Go to bed, Essie. There aren't too many more. At least we didn't eat here for dinner, right?" she said. "I'll bring you some wine and chocolate as soon as I'm done; you'll need good sleep for tomorrow."

  "No need. I'll be in bed, hopefully already sleeping by then."

  Mama's barely lined face creased, as she hedged, "If you're sure…"

  Francesca needed to unpack the evening: simple, pleasant conversation with a promise of a trip with the Loreti's. What had she just done?

  Alma woke up to a migraine, but Francesca decided to be an adult. She could be around Cecelia–especially with Tony there.

  Cecelia had horrible taste in music. Tony complained about it the entire three-hour drive to Rome. Francesca would have preferred resting at such a bleary-eyed hour, but Cecelia had turned Irish wailing to full blast to annoy Tony. Cecelia must be the eldest.

  By the time Francesca threw herself out of the car, desperate to escape the sibling bickering and melodic noise, she wanted to call and thank Mama for not having any more children.

  "So, here we are." Tony beamed. He stretched, and his striped polo lifted up to expose his stomach. As he adjusted his khaki shorts which had become wrinkled and re-tied his hair into a low ponytail, he sighed. "Great, no?"

  The siblings called a non-verbal truce the moment they closed the car doors, becoming the adults Francesca knew them to be. Cecelia and Tony led Francesca towards the famous Colosseum. The multi-shades of weathered stone stood hulking above her. She was but an ant in front of the stacked open arches.

  "Do you want to take the tour? Or we could just tell you what we know?" Cecelia asked. But when she turned, she must have seen Francesca's wide eyes of wonder as they avoided the lush grass surrounding the broken structure. "Or we could shut up and let you explore. You tell us what you want to do."

  "That one," Francesca said–hopefully out loud–as they made their way to the entrance.

  Her body hummed with the energy the amphitheatre gave off. She couldn't wait to know more than the blip her World History classes had taught her.

  Francesca was thankful she spoke two languages fluently and knew pieces of a few others. It made Italy a whole lot richer; at tourist sites, it made life easier. Cecelia and Tony didn't have to wade through their bits of decent English to ask for tickets or tell the poor harried exchange student named Kelly they wanted the self-guided tour.

  "Thank you," Francesca said. Her naked nails, bitten to the quick, clutched her ticket as though it was made of gold and lead to a chocolate factory.

  Kelly stood on shaky legs, her blonde hair matted to her head from the hot, windless day. Her eyes read shock as if not a single person in the hour they were open–or maybe since she'd begun working there–had ever thanked her for their ticket.

  She stammered, "You're welcome. Hope you enjoy it."

  "We will," Francesca assured her with a kind smile. "Hope work goes quickly."

  The girl loosened up a little then. "Only five more hours. It's not so bad. It's great pocket change while I'm getting my Bachelors degree
."

  "Is everything alright?" Cecelia twisted the hem of her tank top.

  Clearly, she hadn't been listening at all. Francesca saw Cecelia's face fall when she mentioned Sloane–in English–to Mama at the dinner table the other night, so she knew at least a little of the language. If only she'd paid attention, she could have understood Kelly.

  "Yes. I was just chatting with this young lady. She was telling me about her day."

  Tony looked utterly lost. "Why?"

  "Because. Give me a minute."

  Francesca turned back to Kelly, who looked astonished.

  "You're Italian is beautiful."

  "Thank you. I haven't lived here for a long time, but my mother refuses to use English more than half of the time, so she keeps me on my toes. I'm from San Francisco."

  "You're kidding? I'm from LA; what a small world! Anyhow, got to take care of that line."

  A line of sixty or so people had built up behind Francesca–each redder than the other.

  "Oh! I am so sorry," Francesca said admonishing herself. "Where's your boss? I can explain for you."

  "No worries. What's your name?"

  "Francesca." She stuck out her hand.

  "Nice to meet you, Francesca," Kelly said, shaking it. "And seriously, no worries; I'm pretty fast. Thanks for chatting. It's been refreshing. Have a great walkthrough. If you end up wanting the tour–" She dropped her voice. "It's on me." Kelly winked.

  "Thanks so much.” Francesca turned to Cecelia and Tony who looked bored, if not a little irritated. "Ready?"

  They nodded. Francesca knew neither Tony nor Cecelia cared about any of this, but the day wasn't about them. Before they made it too far in, Francesca looked behind her. Kelly swiped cards and took cash at breakneck speeds. Just as the line began to dwindle, more people joined it. Luckily, the original angry tourists were filing in quicker than seemed possible.

  "Good we got here early."

  "Told you so." Tony stuck his tongue out as if he'd dropped twenty years in age.

  Francesca nodded and wondered if she would like either of her personal tour guides by the day's end. They yammered on as they entered the expansive circular walkway while Francesca tried to yield what information she could from the leaflet and guides in front of them. Francesca peered over the metal railing meant to keep tourists from jumping into the ruins. The arena itself was a fair distance down, but people have done crazier stunts for photographs.

  To think of the blood spilled, the people killed, even the tigers that were slaughtered for the spectator sport of gladiator fighting, made Francesca's stomach turn. All of those lives lost for nothing. Sloane's life lost for nothing. Damn it. How could the rich and royal's enjoyment of the forced struggle of life and death make her think of Sloane?

  Because everything did. Francesca found it hard to breathe.

  Cecelia touched her shoulder; what coincidental timing. "Are you alright, Francesca? You've been staring into the abyss for a while." She chuckled a little, but worry laced her voice.

  "Oh, sorry. I was picturing the violence here. Guess the brochure had me thinking a little morbidly. I'm thinking it's breakfast time. Sorry to cut it short."

  "You paid, so why would we care?" Tony said.

  "True enough. Well, I should have told you no sad places before I eat." Francesca chuckled. They didn't know her well enough to hear the hollowness behind it.

  Cecelia and Tony erupted in laughter.

  "Well, Rome's out!" Tony quipped.

  "Let's grab something to eat and go to the fountain. It's still early enough it shouldn't be as busy as it would be at say… lunchtime."

  Something about the way Cecelia said it had Tony nodding furiously.

  Retching sounds came from under the bathroom door. Francesca wanted to be supportive from further away, maybe outside in air that smelled of food and perfume, sunscreen and plastic, not Tony's regurgitated stomach contents. Thankfully, Tony told them to leave; he would be there for a bit. He'd call them, he said.

  "Are you sure, Tone? We don't mind waiting," Cecelia said. She turned to Francesca and shrugged.

  Francesca returned the shrug, wondering which dish he'd eaten had caused his probable food poisoning. "We really don't," she agreed, only gagging a little as she opened her mouth.

  "No, no," he said in between heaves. "I'll be fine anytime now. Besides, I have the keys, so I can wait there if I need to. Francesca, I don't want to mess your day up. Please let Cecelia finish your tour; I can't believe this after Mama had to stay home. But we did drive all this way, after all."

  How he could so much without vomiting–Francesca didn't know; she was impressed.

  "If you're sure…"

  "He's sure. Thanks, Tone," Cecelia shouted into the widening space between them and the bathroom as they headed towards the exit.

  They left Tony in the bakery to ruin the scent of chocolate pastries for everyone. A few customers had already gone just because of his sounds. Francesca didn't blame them.

  A cacophony of tourist guides spiels and squealing birds blared in Francesca's ears as they stepped onto the ancient stone.

  Still in a dark state of mind, she wondered what the ground she stood on had seen: the angry chases, bloody fights and deaths by mobs, strolls of love, proposals that lead to bruised knees and kisses. She wished she could witness a moment that would imprint the square, leaving a ghost to haunt the cobblestones forever. Most would be lost to the people in a rush around her, but the street would remember.

  Memories of a different kind crashed through her then.

  "You okay?" Cecelia asked, too observant for Francesca's liking. "I'm beginning to wonder if today was a good idea."

  "Sorry, lost in thought. I haven't been to Italy in a long time," Francesca said.

  Too busy attempting to shake out thoughts that would scare all three therapists she'd seen, Francesca couldn't come up with anything better. Usually, she could shake the image of a bloody Sloane wrapped around her when it flitted through her brain. But in squeals of excitement, she heard sirens, and every camera flash had emergency vehicle lights swimming in her vision.

  Francesca tilted her head back. Outsiders may assume she enjoyed the radiating sun; reality was, she was hoping her eyes would reabsorb their welling tears.

  "Let's carry on with your itinerary; I could use a distraction." Right?

  "That, Francesca, we can do. This way!" A grin broke Cecelia's face in two as she laced her fingers with Francesca's and took off running.

  Practically being dragged, Francesca's heart exploded with excitement and worry again that she'd made a huge mistake. She hated herself. Hadn't she just been thinking of Sloane's mangled body? Was it okay to live while she grieved? Before she could answer, they were in front of a stone pillar she thought she recognized–its name lost with algebra and the location of a frog's heart.

  "Why did we run here?" She was out of shape. "We could see this from the window of the restaurant; I'm sure walking wouldn't have taken all that long."

  "True. I just needed the rush." Whoa. Sloane said things like that. "I thought we could wander the square. It wasn't about this monument; it just happened to be a good breather point."

  "Right." Francesca dropped Cecelia's hand. "Well, carry on then."

  Strappy sandals were a poor choice for a day filled with walking and–apparently–running. Blisters formed by the buckles and at her heels. The back of Francesca's legs felt damp and sticky; she wished she had worn longer shorts.

  As they neared a quieter street, she pulled up short. A large fruit stand had become a magnet. Cecelia followed Francesca, despite her initial take-charge lead. The cart blocked their view of the obelisk. Francesca stared at a polished apple, wishing it was shiny enough to see her reflection. Better that she couldn't. She'd see the crease that had begun developing between her eyes almost a year ago.

  "I have an idea."

  "Oh?" Francesca wasn't sure she was up for 'ideas.'

  "Tony and I do thi
s thing where we kiss statues. We have pictures of us doing it since we were teenagers. Silly, I know. But I thought you could join in the tradition. Then, I was going to take you to the Fontana di Trevi–a fun touristy thing. After, we could feed the pigeons. Food would happen at some–"

  Francesca hardened her expression. "So we ran around for no real purpose?"

  Cecelia looked self-conscious. "I told you; it was to feel alive. Besides, I had to see how you'd handle this before I suggested the statue thing."

  "You weren't joking? Cecelia that sounds insane."

  "Have I told you I love the way you say my name?"

  "Which way?"

  "The way you just said it."

  "No, I mean which way to the fountain?"

  "Oh–" Cecelia looked dejected but held out her hand nonetheless; Francesca did not take it. "This way." Cecelia sighed. "So no kissing statues?"

  Francesca chose not to look at Cecelia as she said, "It's not like I can just crawl over hoards of people to kiss a triton."

  Despite her irritation at the childish idea, Francesca did like the sparkle in Cecelia's eyes.

  "You're right."

  They veered towards a smaller street, which Francesca just had to explore. A little fruit kiosk with bright shiny apples sat on the corner. A man stepped out of a modest grocery shop and stood beside the blood oranges. His kind smile made him seem trustworthy–a quality in rare supply.

  "I'd like to buy an apple and one other piece that you pick out for me," Francesca said, hoping he owned the fruit stand too.

  With an accent so thick she barely understood him, he told her she should go with a cluster of grapes. They were the freshest thing he had, as a local winery gave him a small sampling of them only two hours before.

  They cost a fortune despite her "local" appearance. She couldn't imagine what twelve perfect round purple grapes would cost the tourist couple who had come to browse while she paid. The woman held a small square shopping bag, while the man held three larger ones. She wore a tight 'Bride' tee that stretched over her busty chest, while he wore an equally tight blue tank top with no mention of his marital status.