Skye rode the subway to the end and back twice, looking through various search engines, along with Facebook, but had no luck finding her mother. She tried the white pages and siphoned through a list of Carol Bernard’s. She would wait until her favorite library opened and make her calls there. Maybe she’d pick out a new thriller novel and read that too.
Clinton Hill library was reasonably busy first thing in the morning, but she found her spot tucked in the corner, lost in a maze of shelving. A small round table and two chairs; the spot was almost always available to her. She took a seat, and began making calls to every Carol nearest their old address and outward from there.
Some hung up immediately, probably assuming she was some telemarketer or life insurance pusher. Some were rather friendly, maybe feeling lonely and just happy that their phone rang. Some were direct, telling her she had the wrong number, sounding annoyed. But she wiped through New York with no trace of her mother, the woman she had abandoned.
He had always hit her so hard. Nearly killed her once… What would he have done to her when they discovered I left? Skye continued to make calls.
She went to her favorite coffee place which was now quiet because the morning rush had come and gone. She ordered a lemon poppy seed muffin to go with her dark roast coffee, one cream, no sugar. The smell made her feel a little better, and although she didn’t think she was hungry, she scarfed down the muffin rather quickly. An old gray-haired couple sat across from one another; one reading a book, the other reading something on her phone.
Before she searched for more Carol Bernard contacts outside of NYC, she reconsidered the worst. As she tried to search obituaries, her hand was trembling. She thought of her mother’s pretty face. She didn’t smile often, but when she did, everyone else around her felt better about themselves. Her hair was always in a ponytail, her long elegant neck always dressed with a gold or silver necklace. She loved jewelry but took a beating the one time she purchased some on her own. She was so elegant, like a dancer, and her voice was as soft and as smooth as her walk. Then, thinking of her mother’s beautiful attributes, she remembered a conversation they had shared once, back when they still had some form of happiness.
They stayed up late into the night, her father out on a bender, and they ate popcorn with a movie on in the background that they paid no attention to. They told stories of their fantasies of living in Rome, sipping wine outside their hostel, listening to love stories of other backpackers, watching the tourists pass by on the beach within their sight. They’d eat fresh Margherita pizza on the beach and fall asleep in the sun, pretend fight with swords at the Coliseum like the idiots they were, check out hot guys at the Vatican, and make corny jokes. They would find a rich father-son combo and marry them to take half their shit and move on to the next country. They would spend the whole night spinning fictional tales, dreams that could only rest with the stars, and would go forever unlived. Their fantasizing fun would come to an abrupt halt when they heard cursing and clumsy footsteps coming up to the door. Skye would rush to her room and her mother would quickly set out his cup of water and Advil for him before rushing to her bedroom as well.
Did she escape?
Skye found the white pages for Italy and typed in her mother’s last name. There were many Bernard’s. She was scared to type in her mother’s first name, fearing the zero results that would show on the page. But she did it, and there were only three. She dialed.
After three dials, the voice that answered was soft and kind. It was her. Oh my God, it’s her! It has to be, right? Is that how she sounds? Her head screamed with joy, but the words didn’t follow. “Hello?” she asked for the third time. Skye couldn’t speak. “Um… I can hear you breathing. I’m not really into that.” Skye almost laughed. She and her mother had the same sense of humor. “Sorry. Wrong number.” And Skye ended the call.
Fifteen hundred dollars in her account. A one-way flight was four hundred dollars. Perfect. There was one stop on the way, a thirteen-hour trip total. She caught a red-eye and didn’t sleep a wink. Instead she wrote; everything about her mother, everything about herself, about leaving, about her horrible father. The flight was fast. It came and went as she lived in the same headspace, cleansing herself of all things that tormented her all those years. It spewed out until she found herself at the end of it all, her hand sore.
When she arrived in Rome, her mother had called her phone back seven more times. Three almost immediately after she first reached out. Either she was really eager to find out what the mouth breather on the other end wanted, or she recognized Skye’s voice when she said, “Sorry. Wrong number.” She turned her phone off again.
She had never heard from her mother, largely because she had no way of contacting Skye. New cell, new city, low profile; her mother had no idea she had become a teacher. Skye made a Facebook account briefly, but that got deleted quickly.
Skye knew why she had done it. There was a prominent fear of being trapped. Of knowing she loved her mom too much and would return to her, to that horrible house, to him. She prayed that she didn’t bring that monster with her to Italy, but laughed at the thought of that drunken asshole leaving the country. Maybe when hell froze over, she thought.
The train ride to Sperlonga was about three hours. She arrived feeling tired. She couldn’t sleep though, she was too anxious. Skye used her phone to scope out the beaches along with the map to her mother’s listed address. From the map, it appeared that the streets were crowded and confusing, and she was growing even more anxious about how she would find it once she got off the train.
During her research, she discovered many cute coffee shops and restaurants to try, and the private beaches that were gorgeous.
Because it was so late at night, the train was only a third full. The ride was long and it smelled like stale smoke. She liked it. Probably because it reminded her of her mother, when they’d sit side by side on the steps of their home, watching the sun set around a grassy hill at the end of the street where her crumbling old elementary school sat, while they shared a cigarette. After the first few stops, Skye turned her phone off again (having gone without receiving any more calls), and she set her sights on the view. The grassy countryside to her right was beautiful. She rested her head on the plexiglass window to her left, looking out over the cliff of white rock and ocean water moving gently back and forth on the shoreline. There was nothing but open space between the crowded, cute towns. In and out they went, making their stops, each town looking somewhat the same.
The stop before hers, a batch of people flooded into her car. She watched their various faces out of boredom and her heart stopped when she saw a man with a cap pulled down low. He looked like Sebastian.
He adjusted his hat and she realized that it wasn’t him. Her stop was the next one, and it came slowly.
She worked her way through tight picturesque streets that were more like back-alleys with brick stone paths, leading her in and out of a maze as she looked like a moronic tourist, holding her iPhone out to guide her every step. Although New York City had always been said to be a rich diverse pot of culture, Sperlonga felt authentic, the walls speaking to her, the locals probably holding on to stories of their ancestors that had been passed down their lineage.
Her desired location on Google maps involved a steep hill heading toward the ocean side. As she neared, the strong smell of baked bread wafted into her nose. Her mouth salivated, and she smiled and released a sharp giggle she couldn’t control. The path narrowed as she approached, and to each side of her were quaint and crowded homes stacked on one another. She reached a building that was connected with many others. Walking through an archway, she reached her spot, and looked down at the house number attached to the address. She walked another flight of steps and followed to the end of the walkway, counting each door along the way. I made it. Before she knocked, she gazed out over the ledge, down at all the homes and pretty lights shining in the dark. She could hear the tide moving on the sand. The smell of the bakery was still prominent.