Before I fall asleep, Richard slides into my room and gently sits on the bed.
“Everyone loved you,” he says.
“Thanks, it was so much fun. I can’t believe your life here.”
“Well, it’s not always about the glamour. Although we seem to infuse it every chance we can. Listen, about Isabella …”
“She’s a lesbian.”
He laughs. “No, actually. She has what is called an ‘open relationship’ with her husband. They are allowed to, well, stray, as it were.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yes, it seems that way, but in some cases it’s fairly natural. Anyway, Julian and I, we don’t have an open relationship and neither did your parents.”
“Maybe they should have,” I say.
Richard looks at me with new eyes, as if I just said something profound, which is strange, because it was actually kind of a joke.
“Richard, when you look at me, do you see your sister or your niece?”
Again, he gives me a surprised look.
“I would have to say both,” he says, his eyes collecting moisture.
“Why did she have to die?”
I know this is a stupid question. But it’s one I don’t think I’ll ever stop asking. Richard doesn’t answer. Instead he kisses my cheek, puts his hand over my forehead for a second, then walks to the foot of the bed to retrieve the box.
“They are mostly inconsequential things, but I saved them for you.”
I open the box, and the first thing I see is a hairbrush that’s encrusted with what looks like diamonds.
“These are fake, right?” I ask.
Richard chuckles. “You kidding? I would have sold it for a Rolls-Royce by now.” He grabs it from me and runs his long, tanned fingers across it. “She got it at an airport one time. She liked shiny things. In moderation, of course.”
The next thing I pull out is a white scarf, with small red flowers embroidered into the edges. Exactly something she would wear. It strikes me as unbearably sad. I put it on the table and grab the next item, a watch with Snoopy on the face.
“She loved Snoopy,” Richard says. “Ever since we were kids. She had this stuffed animal of him, and the ears came off and it looked a little sinister. She kept it until the thing was just a pile of shreds.”
I put the watch on and decide this will be the thing I keep forever. At the bottom, there are some letters addressed to Richard and postmarked from New York.
“Can you imagine?” Richard says. “The days before email.”
I see her curvy, tall handwriting, the same as mine.
“I figure there’s nothing in those letters you don’t already know, and having a letter someone wrote is probably the closest you’re going to get to them. This,” he says, taking out a small red pillbox, “was our mother’s, so I will keep it, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Is there anything else?”
“Just this.”
He hands me a yellowed photograph of Tile and me sitting on a bench in Central Park. Our legs dangle in the air above the ground. Tile is smiling brightly, and I seem to be staring off into the distance at something that might be scary. The future?
I put the photograph and the watch next to my bed and say, “Well, that’s about enough nostalgia for one night.”
“Agreed.” Richard kisses me lightly again and says “Sogni d’oro” before he closes the door. I know that means something like “Sweet dreams.” My mother used to say it to me. At first I thought it was silly, but then I knew it was unique, that she wasn’t your average mother. She was larger than life, and even now that she’s gone, she is everywhere: in my wide-set eyes, in Richard’s soft voice, in the Snoopy watch, the bling hairbrush. Even though I loved her more than anyone, sometimes I wish she would leave me completely alone for a day. But I get the feeling that will never happen. Death is harder on the living.
I hear voices by the pool and get up to look out the window. Charles is holding his sleeping daughter in his arms while he kisses Bridget, and I can see their reflections on the dark water. Their body language is completely in harmony, as if everything in the world has led up to this moment.
I get back in bed and simply close my eyes.
In the morning I notice one more thing at the bottom of the box among the letters. It’s Cole’s business card, with an Italian address. On the back is his cell phone number, handwritten, with a happy face and what looks like a sloppy heart. Sloppy indeed. I dress, slip the card into my jeans, and go downstairs. There’s a note from Julian with arrows leading to blueberries and oatmeal. I pour myself some juice and end up drinking two glasses. The oatmeal is steel-cut and perfectly cooked, of course. I have the house to myself, so after breakfast I take a long bath, then read my book, then take a nap. When I wake up, I tell myself I’m over the jet lag. I put on my mother’s scarf and tie it the way Isabella did. I go back downstairs and make myself a little cheese sandwich. The phone rings about ten times so I finally pick it up.
“Moon! So glad I caught you!”
“Yeah, sorry Dad, it’s been kind of a whirlwind.”
“You okay?”
“Yes, great. Coming here, I think, has given me that word you always use, perspective.”
“That’s a good thing.”
I run my fingers through the end of the scarf.
“How are you? How’s the film?”
“Great and great. Haven’t seen Elise in a while, but we’re supposed to be getting together this evening.”
“Good.” I can’t believe I’m being so supportive of him and Elise. Shouldn’t I be bitter?
“Listen, I sent you a FedEx with those pita chips you like, and your report card, and Tile put some stuff in for you.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Well, say hi to the guys for me, okay? And please be careful. I know you’re beyond your years, but you’re still fifteen and in a foreign country.”
“I know, I might run off with a band of gypsies.”
“Listen, check in via email at least every other day, deal?”
“Deal.”
“Okay, Tile wants to say hi.”
When Tile gets on the phone, I can sense he’s nervous but am not sure why. I hear a door shut and he says, “Sorry, I was waiting for Dad to leave. Listen, Oliver told me that he saw something, that he knows something about Dad.”
“What?”
“Well, that’s the thing, he was being really strange. He didn’t really tell me, he just hinted at it.”
This is getting weird.
“Well, what did he hint at?”
“Moon, just chill. You can talk to him when you get back. Have you had any pizza yet? Better than Ray’s?”
“No pizza, Tile, but pretty good lasagna.”
“Okay, get me soccer shirts. But nothing yellow. Gotta scram.”
He hangs up and for a brief moment, I sigh and miss New York.