I took my time, putting on the red floral apron I liked to use because it had four pockets and snapped easily in the front. My wide-brimmed straw hat hung from the peg at the back door. I filled up my water bottle and walked through the small, sunny yellow kitchen and out the screen door that squeaked when it shut. A covered box I kept on a bench held my dirt-encrusted tools, with rubber handles and wide grips. I found that after a few hours, my hands cramped from my arthritis and my tangled fingers bent oddly at the knuckles, giving me a shiver of horror when I glanced down or studied them. Sometimes, pieces of my body seemed not to belong to me any longer, as if they’d suddenly appeared on me, kidnapping my normal appendages for ransom. The worst was when I took a shower and caught a glance of myself naked. I’d stand and look at my flabby flesh, which had once been firm and golden, distaste in my gaze as I took in my sagging breasts and soft, wrinkled stomach. I used to pride myself on keeping trim, painting my toes, and shaving every day, but after Jack passed, it seemed less important.
I tugged on my gardening gloves, filled up the cornflower blue watering can, and dragged my stuff over to the square patches of dirt filled with little green leaves sprouting up and an occasional shock of color. Slowly, with methodical movements, I lowered my knees onto the twin cushions and began checking all the plants and herbs. The sun warmed my back through the cotton fabric, and the gorgeous rush of spring noises filled my ears. The wind in the trees, the scrabble of a squirrel, the shriek of a bird, the flutter of wings in the air, all combined to put me in that hypnotic state I craved because it seemed to be the only time my thoughts were clear. I didn’t sleep much anymore. I mourned the times I’d believed sleep was something I’d own forever—a precious commodity I always wanted more of when Frannie was young and Bagel craved a six a.m. potty break. I’d lie there on the fluffy pillow, stretch out, and dream of the day when I’d get a good nine or ten hours. I’d do anything to get that ability to sleep back, but it disappeared with all the other good stuff.
I dug in the dirt, snipped weeds, and began prepping the soil for my new additions of green beans. The pink gnome Frannie had given me when she was in second grade stared grumpily at me like an old friend. Bagel used to growl and bark at him, as if afraid he’d turn real, and a pang for my dog hit me in the gut, surprising me with its violence. He was a good dog, with a crooked ear and a goofy grin that made me smile. After Frannie left, he used to follow me from room to room, as if sensing I was the only person left to take care of him. Grief was funny that way. The moment you thought you’d beaten it, or at least made peace, it bashed you on the head during a warm sunny afternoon in your garden when you weren’t expecting it, then watched you bleed.
I worked for a while with no important thoughts other than getting ingredients prepped for dinner with Allegra and wondering whether Dancing with the Stars was on tonight—I always got my days mixed up—until my mind was strong enough to begin dealing with bigger problems.
My girls were in trouble.
I sensed it, just like I sensed something rotten growing inside me. After the conversation with Frannie, I realized I had expressed myself poorly again. I always thought birthing children would give me some type of wisdom to guide me. It didn’t, of course. Motherhood was a complicated maze of disappointments and failures, peppered with the occasional wave of pure love that made it all worth it.
How could she believe I wasn’t proud of her accomplishments? Was it wrong to worry that she’d dedicated her days to the pursuit of success and that she’d regret not making enough time for her daughter? I wasn’t judging. I wanted her to have it all. The last time I saw her, she seemed high-strung and nervous. Her actions were jerky and unfocused, as if she was afraid of something. Was losing control or admitting she was human so hard for her? What if all that stress was beginning to affect her body?
God knows, Jack had suffered the same. His love for his job had eventually torn apart his body until he was ripped away from us far too soon. My worries for my daughter were completely valid. She was following right in his footsteps.
Then there was Allegra. My sweet Allegra, who looked at her mother with the same type of resentment I remember in my own daughter—a youthful arrogance that was probably needed in order to carve out an independent life. I was lucky my granddaughter and I were close, that she actually liked spending time with me. But lately, I sensed a simmering anger wrapped in disdain growing toward her mother. Frannie laughed it off as teenage angst, but I knew it ran deeper. Maybe that was what also kept me up at night, staring at the ceiling while I waited for dawn, hoping I wouldn’t die before I was able to help fix their relationship.
Always so melodramatic, the familiar rough voice whispered in my ear. You can’t fix everything, my love. Life doesn’t work like that.
My skin prickled but I kept my attention on the dirt sifting through my gloved fingers. I’d learned not to question the voice, or the solid sense of his presence beside me. Jack always liked to surprise me, whether it was presenting me with a bouquet of fresh wildflowers he’d picked on a high hill on his way home from work, or whisking us out for an expensive late-night supper where he’d set up dozens of candles or a musical serenade. It would make sense that he liked to jump out at me when I least expected it.
I shot back my answer.
Yes, I can. Our daughter is in trouble. I need to do something.
The image of his face danced in my memory. Laughing blue eyes, crinkled at the corners, with rounded cheeks and a mouth that loved to smile. Thick dark hair that turned to a premature yet beautiful white, crowning his head in Einstein glory. He worked so hard at his job nonstop, up until the day the heart attack struck. How long I’d begged for him to retire, but he’d thought we had plenty of time. Another cruel joke life played on you. Taking away the only person who could make aging bearable.
I’m sorry, my love. I didn’t know. I would’ve taken you to Italy on the tour of a lifetime, like I promised so many times.
I grunted, but how could I be mad at his ghost? I’d longed to travel to my parents’ homeland for years. It was always the big trip that would happen one day—when Frannie grew older; when we had more money; when work eased enough to take a long vacation. It never happened. I was left with the strains of Frank Sinatra in my kitchen, making homemade pasta and dreaming of the rolling Tuscan hills I ached to see. I wanted my feet on the same ground my mother had walked and to hear the lilt of Italian drifting in the air. One day. Always one day . . .
The thought was so fragile, so delicate; it brushed my mind like gossamer wings. As I covered the seeds with fresh dirt, making sure to turn and dampen the soil, the possibility began to form and take shape.
I paused, gazing down at a small worm frantically trying to dig back into the moist darkness of home. And I was suddenly struck by an innate instinct of what I needed to do.
I would take my family to Italy.
I could go this summer. It’d be Allegra’s last opportunity before college, and a birthday celebration. Frannie hadn’t taken a vacation in years. We’d have time to bond as a family and rediscover one another.