Catholic guilt, atheist-academic-mom-style.
She looks to me with an unassuming grin and reaches up to run a hand over my hair, left down today and looking not half bad. At least it was, before I got smacked upside the head with myths about motherly sacrifice and thankless devotion to an absentee daughter.
“How fortuitous,” Ilaria says passionately. She is relishing this story and ostensibly not picking up the less-than-hidden messages Mom is putting down. “This was one of the first frescoes uncovered in the villa excavations, while you were stillcarrying Camilla. Do you remember how you felt as it became clear what was pictured? What kind of connections you made, if any, with Demeter and Persephone?”
Mom looks from Ilaria to me and back to the camera, resting her hand on my shoulder casually. “I don’t think I felt like a mother myself yet, not truly. I didn’t know what was coming for me in terms of responsibilities, yes, but neither could I have understood the kind of love I would have for this person I’d brought into the world. And even once she was here, I couldn’t yet relate to Demeter’s experience of loss and learning to let go.
“Cam and I were a package deal, attached at the hip for most of her childhood, and I’m so lucky I had that. But as she’s gone to college and become her own adult woman, out in the world chasing her own dreams, I’ve had to learn to let go. To release some of the control and attachment, the right to know all facets of her life. Every parent has to learn this at some point, get their own sense, I suppose, of Demeter’s experiences. It’s…”
Her gaze goes distant, like she’s examining thoughts she hadn’t known were there until they poured out of her.
“It’s strange timing, being back here this summer and seeing this again with my grown daughter.” When she looks my way, there’s a sheen in her eyes that causes unexpected emotion to rise in my throat. “Strange, but also very special.”
“Beautiful,” Ilaria says softly. “And Cammie, what does this make you feel? Do you relate to Persephone in turn?”
I swallow down the feelings lump, unwilling to make a melodramatic spectacle of myself on camera. “Um, yeah, I don’t know,” I say. “I do really like pomegranate seeds.”
That gets a laugh out of Ilaria, but a weary sigh and warning squeeze of my shoulder from Mom. While I struggle to come up with a more intelligent answer, one of the cameramen says something to Ilaria in Italian, earning her hum of dismay.
“Our batteries are dying, and there’s an issue with the spares,” she says. “So we will take a break for now, okay? But this was perfect. Thank you both for your time.”
The documentary crew talk among themselves and make their way back toward Villa Russo. As their voices fade, Mom and I are left looking at each other. I step back and put my hands on my hips while her hand drops from my shoulder.
“So does this mean you think West Jacobs is the devil?”
Mom laughs. “Of course not.” She pauses, eyeing me with suspicion. “But what’s interesting is you don’t seem to think so, either. That’s a new development.”
My brows come together, as if I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Speaking of devils and other things with horns,” she goes on.
I choke out an “Excuse me, what?” but it’s like Mom doesn’t hear.
“Is that a cornicello necklace I see?”
I glance down at the red pendant hanging from my neck like I’d completely forgotten it was there. It was tucked under my sweatshirt last night, or else I have no doubt it would’ve been part of her fake-stern, post-curfew interrogation act.
“Oh. Yeah, it is.”
Mom smirks. “You buy it for yourself ?”
I keep my expression neutral. “No, I didn’t.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?” I turn to study the wall with Demeter and Persephone.
Mom just hums again, turning to stand at my side. We take in the painting in silence for a few moments before she says, “I got one of those from a guy I dated back in the day.”
My breath catches, and I hear Paolo’s voice in my head, telling me he bought a cornicello necklace for the first girl he ever loved. Was it Mom? Were they together long enough for that?
It’s my turn to hum noncommittally. I consider my words carefully before replying, “Interesting. Whatever happened to him?”
Looking her way, I don’t see any outward sign that the question makes her nervous or uncomfortable. She narrows her eyes thoughtfully and her mouth forms a little pout. “I’m not really sure,” she says.
I honestly can’t tell if that’s the whole truth or not. I want to press for more, but she usually shuts down when I ask about her old relationships. And I’m worried about accidentally revealing something I’m not supposed to know if I veer too close to talking about Paolo.
Quickly searching my mind for a subject change, I remember something I wanted to run by her.
