Chapter xxiii
xxiii
THE NEXT DAY I WENT BACK TO RETRIEVE YOUR photographs with Rachele. The library was closed, but Rachele had gotten the key from her friend Michela. There was something so lovely about the community on the island. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and I was touched by how out of their way people went to help me, too.
Thanks to Rachele’s connections, we’d found a flatbed scanner at the local newspaper office that was big enough to fit your prints. Once the photographs were all off the walls, Rachele and I headed over.
The Lampedusa Oggi offices were small, with a few people inside laying out the next week’s edition on large computer screens.
Rachele spoke to a man at one of the computers and he led us to the scanner at the back of the room.
“Posso farlo io,” he said, looking pointedly at the framed photographs in my arms.
“He’s saying he can do it,” Rachele said.
I looked at her, and she inclined her head, which I figured meant it was okay to accept the help—or that I was supposed to. Maybe he didn’t want us using his scanner.
“Okay,” I said to him. “Thank you. I’ll just take them out of the frames.” I mimed the action while Rachele translated my words.
He nodded and walked back to his computer.
“That’s Giacomo,” Rachele said. “We went to school together. He was a year behind my brother.”
I imagined that Rachele would be able to find a first- or second-degree connection to anyone we met.
She and I worked together to undo the backs of the frames as carefully as possible. We used letter openers to pry up the small nails. Once the photographs were free, we handed them over to Giacomo.
“Alta risoluzione?” he said.
“High resolution?” translated Rachele.
“As high as he can,” I answered, following Eric’s instructions.
Once Giacomo had finished, I gave him my email address, and he sent over a link to an FTP site where he’d stored the large files. I forwarded it to Eric immediately, and then Rachele and I reframed the prints.
“I have plans to meet Michela later,” she told me when we finished, “so I can drop these off at the library when I do.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
I went back to my hotel, checked in with the kids, with my office, with my parents, with Kate. Read a bit more about Lampedusa and its history until it was time to get ready to meet Dax.
I wasn’t thinking of my dinner with Dax as a date per se, but I couldn’t deny that there was something pulling me to him. My body physically responded to him in a way it hadn’t to anyone since you. Judging from our hug goodbye, I thought he might feel the same way about me. I looked through my duffel bag. There were very limited wardrobe choices. After going through all my options twice, and contemplating going shopping in town, I decided on a pair of black jeans, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone, and black ballet flats.
For my fortieth birthday, Darren and Courtney gave me a beautiful gift—a necklace with each of the kids’ birthstones on it. Topaz for Violet, garnet for Liam, and aquamarine for Sammy, who was born in March, his birthday five days before mine. I wore it all the time and had it around my neck when I left for Italy, so it was there, completing the outfit. I brushed my hair out, put on a little bit of lip gloss and an extra coat of mascara, and decided that would do. The more I stared at myself in the mirror, the more the butterflies took over.
Rachele and I hadn’t been able to find cellophane, but we did find plastic straws and tissue paper, so I’d made two tissue-paper flowers to bring with me—yellow and green.
Dax had WhatsApp’d me the name and address of a restaurant in the center of town. The restaurant was within walking distance of my hotel, and I got there one minute past the hour. Dax was already waiting, and when he saw me holding the tissue paper flowers, his face lit up in a way that made me wonder if that was what he’d always looked like before whatever it was happened that made his eyes so sad.
“Not quite cellophane,” I told him, “but the best I could do.”
“They’re lovely,” he said. “I’m impressed you knew how to make flowers out of tissue paper.”
“It’s remarkable what you can find a tutorial for on YouTube,” I answered, and he laughed, that light filling his face again.
“I have some ideas about rocking horse people,” he said. “But I’m a bit stumped as to where to find marshmallow pies.”
“Not a baker?” I asked.
“Not a baker,” he affirmed, as he opened the restaurant door and then stepped back to let me through first. “Though also not sure if they have marshmallows here. Do you know how hard it is to find peanut butter?”
The restaurant was small but nicely decorated, and the aroma of tomato and spice filled the place.
“That smells spectacular,” I said as the waiter pointed us to a table.
“I eat here often,” Dax said, pulling out my chair for me. “But it’s usually just me and a book for dinner. I prefer being out, though, to being home alone.”
I felt like this man was dropping crumbs, and I was trying to figure out what the whole meal looked like. “What book are you reading?” I asked.
“ Wild by Cheryl Strayed,” he answered.
It said something nice about him that he was reading
a memoir by a woman. “I haven’t read it,” I said, “but heard it’s fascinating.”
“It is,” he replied, picking up the menu. “I find human beings so fascinating. The way we think, the way we act. It’s why I became a doctor.”
I laughed. “I could say the same, but then end with: It’s why I became a storyteller.”
He looked at me for a moment, then said: “Let’s put a pin in that and order. I recommend the fish couscous, if you like fish. Everything is caught fresh daily.”
I looked at the menu and said, “What about the first pasta dish? Pasta con le sarde?”
“Also delicious,” Dax said.
A waiter came over and took our order, and then Dax said to me, “Would you want to split a bottle of wine? Red?”
“Works for me,” I answered, mentally telling myself not to drink more than a glass or two.
“My favorite is this Barolo,” Dax said, pointing to one on the menu that said it was made in Alba. The vineyard was called Villa Della Rosa. “The man who runs the vineyard came here on vacation once and struck up a friendship with the owner, so now he imports the Barolo from the north.”
After the wine was ordered and the waiter left, Dax asked about you.
“So I’ve been staring at the photos your friend Gabriel took for the last five months,” he said. “I’d love to know more about him.”
I nodded. Over time, it’s gotten easier to talk about you, but there are still moments—many moments—that thinking of you, talking about you, brings tears to my eyes. I didn’t want to cry in front of Dax.
“He … he was a photojournalist who always wanted to find the beauty in any situation,” I said, playing with the gems on my necklace, sliding them back and forth on the chain. “He died on assignment almost ten years ago.”
He seemed to absorb that as the waiter brought over two red wine glasses and gave us each a generous pour of Barolo before leaving the bottle on the table.
“This goes down easy,” Dax warned me as we lifted up our glasses and clinked them together.
“To Lampedusa,” I said.
“To New Yorkers in Lampedusa,” he answered.
We drank and he was right. The wine was delicious.
“I see how this could be dangerous,” I said as I took a second small sip.
“And Gabriel was your friend?” Dax asked.
“Sometimes,” I answered. “Sometimes more than that.”
“But not your husband,” he said.
I shook my head. “No, that was someone else.”
We were both slowly drinking the wine, and I could feel my body loosening up.
“I’m divorced, too,” he said. “Three years last week.”
“Seven years for me,” I said.
The food came, and the waiter refilled our wineglasses.
“Any kids?” I asked him, remembering his eyes when I mentioned my kids. Was it because he had left his behind?
There was a long pause.
“I never know how to answer this,” he said, “other than to say that I had a son, but he died.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh my god,” I said. “I’m I’m so, so sorry.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. “Thank you.”
And then he didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything either. I wasn’t sure where to go from there, what to say next.
Dax cleared his throat. “How about we talk about something else?”
“Of course,” I said, taking another sip of wine.
So we talked about my trip to Italy, I told him about meeting Bashir, that I’d been to Rome once before, though this was my first time on Lampedusa. He told me about how terrible his cooking is, how he burns eggs pretty much every morning, how he can never quite get toast done properly.
The wine bottle and both of our wineglasses were empty when I stood up to use the restroom and stumbled slightly. “Whoa,” I said. “I think I’m switching to water when I get back.”
I was tipsier than I’d planned to be, but not so much that I was drunk. More like a really strong buzz.
When I sat down again, Dax looked at me and said, “My son died of COVID in the early days of the pandemic. He was being treated for leukemia, and the chemo was working, but then he got COVID and … I I do want to talk about him, but it’s always so hard.”
His eyes were glassy, but he’d managed not to cry.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Zachariah,” he answered. “He preferred Zac. He was eleven when he died. I think every day about what it would be like if he’d lived. He’d be turning sixteen this year.”
“Just like Violet,” I said softly, more to myself than to him.
“Violet’s your daughter?” he asked.
I nodded. “What did Zac like to do?”
Dax smiled in a way that told me he appreciated the question, appreciated that I’d asked about Zac’s life and not his death. “He loved math—facts and statistics. He loved sports, too, but more watching than playing. He started his own fantasy baseball league in fourth grade. It was the perfect marriage of sports and statistics for him. His dream was to become the general manager of the Yankees.”
“My son Liam would have loved a fantasy baseball league in fourth grade,” I said. “I wish they’d known each other.” Sammy, on the other hand, is not at all into watching sports, as much as Darren tries to entice him. He’s like you, Gabe.
“You have a daughter and a son?” Dax asked.
I nodded. “Two sons. Liam and Samuel,” I added. I felt guilty for having three healthy, living children.
“How old are they?” He took a piece of bread from the plate in the center of the table.
“Violet turned fifteen last November. Liam just turned thirteen in January. And Sam will be nine next month.”
“You must have your hands full,” he said.
I smiled. “A bit,” I said.
“Are they with their dad a lot?” he asked.
“Half the time. Every other week. But Sam he’s actually Gabriel’s son.” I hadn’t intended to tell more people, to tell Dax in particular, but it was like once I told Bashir, I couldn’t stop. The truth will out, people say, and this truth kept popping out of my mouth.
I saw Dax’s eyebrows rise for a split second, and then his face went back to neutral. Maybe a skill he’d perfected for talking with patients?
“Is that why—” he started.
“My marriage ended?” I finished for him. “Essentially, yes.”
“I was going to say is that why you’re here,” Dax replied, lifting his glass to see if he could find a last drop of wine there.
I laughed, slightly embarrassed. “Oh. No. I’m here because I can never leave well enough alone,” I said, stopping there. We were both quiet for a moment.
The waiter came by with another bottle of wine and refilled Dax’s glass. He went to refill mine, but I put my hand over the top.
“Have you heard of Aviva Landsman?” he asked, taking another sip of wine.
I squinted. Her name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place her. I knew there was a story, though.
“Broadway singer who ” he started.
“Got COVID in March of 2020, at the very beginning of the pandemic, and gave concerts during lockdown out her window to build her breath support back!” I said, remembering the articles in the New York Times .
He nodded. I knew there was more to the story, and I was searching around in the recesses of my brain to find it. It was a while ago, but I remembered talking about it with Julia.
“Her … her husband was an ER doctor, and her son had—oh,” I said, realizing. “Your ex-wife?”
“My ex-wife,” he said.
“I remember those stories. She’s starring in … in …”
“In Into the Woods now on Broadway. As the Baker’s Wife.”
I nodded. “I’m not so into Broadway,” I told him, “but that’s a good part, right? Sara Bareilles played the role, too.”
He smiled. “Want to know a secret?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I prefer TV to live shows, particularly the ability to pause them after a long day of work. But I couldn’t admit to that the whole time I was with Aviva.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “I work in TV,” I told him. “Children’s television.”
“As an actress?” he asked.
I shook my head, “A producer. Rocket Through Time was mine—not sure if you ever watched that with your son. And now I’m working on Tiger & Bunny .”
“ Rocket Through Time? ” he said. “No way! Zac loved that show.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “It means a lot to me when people like that show in particular. I based one of the characters on Gabriel.”
“You know,” Dax said, after a moment, staring into my eyes. “I think we may have messed up here. I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about previous relationships on a first date.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Is this a date?” I answered, flirtation curling around my words. The wine was making its way through my system.
“Do you want it to be?” he answered back, resting his hands on the table in front of him. They were beautiful hands, long fingers, perfectly trimmed nails. “And, I guess, actually, yesterday was our first date. This is our second.” He gave me a small smile that felt like it thawed my heart.
“I haven’t gone on a second date in a decade,” I told him, wondering, too late, if admitting that was a bad move.
“So then this can be your first,” he said, not acting shocked or surprised. Just accepting that that’s where I was and meeting me there. “Your first second date. That’s a big deal. Let’s make it count.”
His response made me smile—and then made those butterflies come back, because he wanted this to be something that counted. He wanted to be someone who counted. “How about you?” I asked, tucking a piece of errant hair behind my ear.
“Do I date?” He answered my question with one of his own.
I nodded.
“I’ve been on a few in the last couple of years,” he said. “Nothing serious, no one now.” He looked at me, as if he was making sure I understood what he was saying.
I nodded again.
He motioned to the waiter to bring the check.
“I think I owe you some rocking horse people, right?”
“That’s the rumor,” I said.
“Then let’s go.” He stood and held my hand, helping me up from the table. When our fingers touched, I caught my breath and looked up at him. He was already looking at me, and our eyes locked. My body seemed to melt a little more.
I truly hadn’t felt that way since you. And I couldn’t believe I was feeling it there, with him, for the first time in forever.