Chapter x
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THAT NIGHT, AFTER THE KIDS WERE IN THEIR rooms, I climbed into bed with my laptop and a flash drive of your photos from an envelope that said Spring 2009 . The first photos I saw were of the Sri Lankan cricket team in Lahore after the terrorist attack on their way to the stadium. Then there were photos of the destruction after an earthquake in L’Aquila. Then photos of Baghdad, all labeled with clear file names.
Even now, I find it mind-blowing to think about what you’ve seen. The devastation you bore witness to. No wonder you were done. No wonder you wanted to come home. After a decade of that, even you, with your face pointed toward the light and your eye for beauty, started to become subsumed by the darkness.
I scrolled through the photos. None of them were the ones Eric wanted. And none of them showed me what I’d been waiting to find—the Colosseum, the Pantheon, St. Peter’s Basilica. The contours of the Roman skyline. A woman, smiling at your camera lens.
I went to Rome once, years ago, with Darren. We were trying to repair our marriage, but everything kept reminding me of you. Every sculpted angel was the angel Gabriel; every blond man with a camera, your ghost.
I looked at another one of your photos and then opened a browser window and, without giving myself a chance to second-guess it, typed in flights from NYC to Rome .
The next week was February break and Darren was taking the kids to Florida. His mom was turning seventy-five, and she wanted her whole family together to celebrate. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal when Darren takes the kids away, but something about knowing that my children aren’t just around the corner puts me on edge the whole time. The few times I arranged my own travel—a girls’ trip with Julia or Kate, a retreat with the Tiger & Bunny writers’ room—it was better. But work had been so busy, I hadn’t planned anything this time around. Maybe this was my chance to change that.
A handful of options popped up on my browser, one flight leaving late Sunday night that was much cheaper than the others. I clicked on it. Direct flight from New York City to Rome on ITA Airways. Eight hours and twenty minutes. I stared at my screen for a moment, thought about the way I’d started my day in tears over you, about the way this address had been haunting me, about the long, lonely week missing my kids that stretched out before me—and then I pulled out my credit card and bought the ticket. Leave on Sunday, home on Friday. More than enough time to be back for the kids.
When it was done, I felt a rush of adrenaline, and then I felt calm. Calmer than I had since I’d gotten that call from Eric Weiss the week before. It felt like I was doing something, pointing myself in a direction instead of spinning in circles.