“Now?”
“Why not?” she says. “Unless you have plans?”
“No,” I say. “No, I actually have no plans.”
“Great. Come with me. I just have to pick up a few things before we head back to mine.”
“Of course,” I say.
She smiles. She cocks her head to the right, for me to follow. “Wonderful.”
We start walking. I have to hold my dress up, so I don’t trip all over it.
“You look great, by the way,” she says. “Very elegant. I love that dress.”
It’s yours, I want to tell her.I took it from your closet. You once wore it to see Van Morrison play at the Hollywood Bowl. You were so beautiful.
“Oh, thanks.”
We keep winding up the hillside, and then Carol points to a little bodega up to the right. “Just here,” she says.
We go inside. An older woman sits behind the register. Two young children play on the Formica floor.
“Buonasera,” I say.
“Buonasera, sì,” the woman says. She turns to Carol. “Ciao, Carol.”
“Buonasera, signora. Hai i pomodori stasera?”
“Sì, certo.” The woman leads Carol to a small produce section.
“Grazie mille.”
Carol loads tomatoes and basil and some small shallots into her basket. I never knew she spoke Italian. A few words, maybe, but she always had to reach for them.
“I’m just trying to think,” she says. She holds her fingers out and counts off them. It’s something I’ve seen her do so many times over. On the hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of errands I ran with her over the course of her life. Trips to Rite Aid and Target and the Grove. Saturdays at the Beverly Center shopping for a new pair of flats and the Brentwood Farmers Market on Sundays counting the berry pints and the little pots of cashew cream cheese.
But standing here in this small Italian store, in this small Italian town, with my mother who very much is and is not at the same time, I realize how much of her life I was always missing. She knew me completely, but it didn’t work both ways; it couldn’t. Look how much life was lived before I ever even arrived. Look at who she was before she met me.
I think about her childhood in Boston, school in Chicago, moving to Los Angeles. I think about the death of her own mother—so young, far younger than me—and her warm butremoved father. Who taught her how to love? Who taught her how to be the woman she became, the woman she is here today?
Carol pays, and we carry on with a small paper bag full of groceries.
“It’s a steep climb,” she says. “But quick. Are you okay in those shoes?”
I look down at my espadrilles. They’re already rubbing. “Sure,” I say. “No problem.”
We take the stairs. After two flights, I have to rejigger my dress so it’s looped over my arm.
“You’re doing great,” Carol says. “Almost there. You know I’ve been climbing the stairs almost daily since I saw you? It’s actually a great way to start the morning once you get over the leg cramping and potential cardiac arrest.”
I laugh. “I agree.”
After another minute, we reach a split in the stairs. One set leads up and to the left, the other straight ahead, and to the right there is a small turquoise door.
“We’re here,” Carol says. She hands me the paper bag, a sign of casualness and warmth that fills me with a particular kind of ease, and takes out her key.
Inside is immediately warm and bright and cozy. Carol’s taste is not my mother’s, not even close, and this is a temporary living space, of course, but there is a familiarity here that I would recognize anywhere. A small kitchen that spills into a living room. To the right is a bedroom and beyond the living room, a balcony. The view is not the same as at Hotel Poseidon, but it looks out over town, and you can see the ocean beyond. A sarong covers the couch. There is a brightly colored rug on the wood floor. A map of Greece is taped to the wall. The wholeplace feels a little like an English cottage in the middle of the Mediterranean.
