He grabs my arm and swings me into him. I feel the warmth of his body, the low hum of his heart.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me. “Really, honestly stunning. I think about it every time I look at you.”
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Of course.”
“Did you know when you met me? Did you think, I don’t know, I was the one?”
Eric considers this. He’s thoughtful when he speaks. He never takes his arms away from me.
“I don’t think so,” he says. “We were so young, I’m not sure I was thinking like that back then.”
“So when did you know?”
Eric wraps his arms even tighter around me. He brings his face close to mine. “I know now,” he says.
History, memory is by definition fiction. Once an event is no longer present, but remembered, it is narrative. And we can choose the narratives we tell—about our own lives, our own stories, our own relationships. We can choose the chapters we give meaning.
Carol was an incredible mother. She was also flawed and complicated and a woman, just like me. One summer does not make that untrue. One summer is one summer. It can be a watercolor of beach days. It can change your life.
“Let’s go home,” I tell Eric. “I want to call Andrea. I even think I might miss La Scala.”
He smiles. He kisses my cheek. “There’s just one thing I think you may want to do first.”
Chapter Thirty-One
It’s barely sunrise when we take the boat out. It’s just me and an older gentleman named Antonio. “He’s the best; we’ve been working with him forever,” Monica told me when she arranged it.
I had to fight the urge to tell her I knew.
Eric is asleep in bed. We decided to stay, to spend an extra few days together in Italy. It’s been wonderful.
I toss on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt; grab my bag; and pad down to the dock. The boat is waiting.
We pull away from the marina, Positano behind us, still shadowed in the time between days.
The day is warm, but the combination of the water and the speed makes me pull my sweatshirt tighter around me. The wind whips by; the sea caps dance strangely in the darkness.
When we get close to the rocks, Antonio cuts the engine. We bob in our little vessel; the three rocks like monuments before us rise out of the sea. Testaments to the resilience of the past, nature, perhaps the gods themselves. How many peoplehave gazed upon these rocks? How many people have kissed underneath their archway?
Thirty years of happiness.
I nod to Antonio. I remove the small tin container from where it sits secured between my legs. I screw off the top.
“I brought her ashes,” Eric had said. “I thought you might want to do something with them here.”
As we near the rocks, the sun begins to crest, break. The dawn awakens around us; the smallest crack of sunlight gives way to more and more and more light. Every day the world is born again. Every day the sun rises. It is a miracle, I think. A simple, everyday miracle. Life.
We move forward, bobbing on the ocean. And it’s then that I take out the letter. The one that has sat in the vault for days, for thirty years.
I thread my finger along the edge, breaking the long-held seal. And then I open it, uncurl the paper, and read what is scrolled there in her own calligraphy.
My darling Katy, my baby girl—Italy is so beautiful. It reminds me of you. How happy everyone is in the morning, how the stars come out at night. I know I am not there, and I hope someday to explain to you why. I hope so many things for you, baby girl. I hopeyou walk through the world knowing your value. I hope you find a passion—something you love, something that lights you up inside. I hope you find the peace and confidence it takes to trust where your path leads. Remember, it is only yours. Others can wave and cheer, but no one can give you directions. They have not been where you are going. I hope you’ll understand someday that just because you become a mother doesn’t mean you stop being a woman. And above all else, I hope you know that even if you can’t see me, I am always with you.
Forever,
Your Mama
