Chapter xvii
xvii
BASHIR AND I WALKED BACK TO HIS FRONT DOOR . His mother, Sahar, was waiting downstairs for him and took both of my hands in hers. She said, in halting English, “I’m sorry for you. He was a good man.”
“Thank you,” I told her.
I love that there are probably other Bashirs in this world whom you touched, whom I still may meet. It’s like getting you back for a moment, seeing you through their eyes, hearing your story in their words.
Bashir’s mother conversed with him in Arabic, and then Bashir turned to me and said, “My mother would like to see a photograph of Mr. Gabriel’s son.”
I smiled at her. It was a touching request. But in that moment, I realized that telling Bashir the truth about Samuel meant Bashir’s whole family would know, that maybe the secret wouldn’t be mine and Darren’s to control anymore. It felt uncomfortable, them knowing when Sammy didn’t. Still, I pulled out my iPhone and showed her the first picture of Sammy in my recent photos, of him standing next to a huge Lego castle he built. He’d been so proud of it and asked me to take a picture. In the shot, he’s grinning broadly, his blond curls are a little wild, and he has his hands on his hips. A power pose, Julia would call it.
“Jamil, mash’Allah,” Sahar said.
“She said he’s beautiful, and then that Allah wills it. That second part, it’s to protect him, to ward off evil,” Bashir explained.
“Mash’Allah?” I tried saying it slowly and carefully.
“Yes,” Bashir answered. “You say ‘mash’Allah’ after you give a compliment, for protection.”
I turned to Sahar. “Your son is beautiful, too,” I told her. “Mash’Allah.”
Bashir started to translate, but she waved him away, smiling. She’d understood.
“He looks just like Mr. Gabriel,” Bashir said, looking more closely at the photo.
“He does,” I said. “It takes me by surprise sometimes.”
“I can imagine,” Bashir said. He was quiet for a moment, then added, “Are you going to Lampedusa?”
“Yes,” I told him. “I think I am.”
He nodded. “There was a hole in the fence then,” he said, “and the polizia turned the other way when we kids wanted to get out. There was a woman there with a bake shop on Via Roma, Signora Paola. She would give us a treat if we could share a new word we’d learned in Italian. If you happen to run into her, would you tell her I say hello?”
I nodded. “Of course,” I told him.
Bashir translated for his mother, who nodded.
“Good luck,” she said to me slowly. We clasped hands once more, and I walked down the street in the direction of my hotel.
It had been a wild imagining, that the address would lead me to another family you’d had tucked away in a Roman apartment. But while it wasn’t your family, it was a family who held a piece of you I was able to retrieve.
ON MY WAY BACK TO MY HOTEL, I SAW SIGNS TO THE Trevi Fountain and decided to take a detour. I’d gone with Darren on our second honeymoon, the one where I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and remembered the wishing rules: You had to turn around so your back was to the fountain, and then throw coins over your left shoulder using your right hand. If you threw in one coin, it meant you’d return to Rome one day. Two coins meant you’d return to Rome and fall in love. And three coins meant you’d return to Rome, fall in love, and have a happy marriage. Darren and I both tossed three coins into the fountain, wishing we’d fall back in love with each other and that the rest of our marriage would be happy. Later, when he met Courtney and married her, I wondered if that was his coin toss coming true. And if mine ever would.
As I walked toward the fountain, I paused. It was as stunning as I’d remembered, with far fewer people thanks to the February cold. The fountain was a gorgeous baroque sculpture—Oceanus surrounded by horses and mermen, all so much larger than life it made me feel tiny. Seeing artwork like that, so grand, so beautiful, so aweinspiring, made me wonder where talent comes from. As I stood there, admiring the statues, I thought about Sammy. I wondered where his talent would take him. Whether, with enough study, enough discipline, enough passion, his talent might create artwork on this scale of wonder.
“Thank you,” I whispered to the universe, “for this feeling, for this beauty.”
I wondered then if you’d ever visited the Trevi Fountain, maybe stood on the exact same spot and admired the scene. If you’d ever turned your back to Oceanus and thrown three coins, wishing you’d fall in love, get married. If you did, did you wish that one day you’d get married to me?
I moved closer to the fountain and zipped my coat up higher as a winter wind blew through the piazza. I had just two coins in my pocket: a return trip and love. No marriage this time. That seemed better, somehow.
I stepped forward, turned my back to the fountain, and tossed, listening for them to plink into the water.
When I turned back around there was a woman standing next to me. She smiled.
“English?” she asked me.
“American,” I said.
She laughed. “I meant, do you speak English. But nice to know where you’re from as well.”
From her accent, I could tell that she herself was English.
“How many coins did you throw in the fountain?” she asked.
“Two,” I told her. “That’s how many I had in my pocket.”
“You know a secret I’ve heard?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“If you whisper your heart’s desire to Oceanus, he’ll deliver.”
“Oceanus the statue?” I answered. “Did that happen to you?”
She nodded. “I’m living here now. That was my dream. So now, whenever I pass by, I stop to say thank you.” Then she looked at her watch. “Oh! I’ve got to run. Enjoy your time in the Eternal City.”
I looked up at Oceanus. He was so much larger than life. He looked like he might be able to grant a wish. I checked on either side of me—no one was close enough to hear.
Then I leaned over the side of the fountain and whispered. “Oceanus, on the chance that what the woman said was true, I wish for”—I paused—“freedom.”
It wasn’t what I’d planned to say, but as I began speaking, my body filled with a deep longing for freedom. My heart wanted to grow wings.
“Heal me,” I said softly, perhaps to Oceanus, perhaps to the universe, perhaps to myself. “Heal me, please.”
I’d had a wound, Gabe, for a decade. You had been my wound. And I needed to be healed, to be free, to live my life without your ghost beside me. It was time.