Stella potters around the garden while I fight the urge to nap and instead get ready for my first outing to Impruneta at a leisurely pace. After pinning back a handful of hair so it’s out of my face, I put some makeup on for the first time in months, letting the artificial colour dusted onto my cheeks bring me partly back to life.
I grab my large-brimmed hat and make my way down the villa’s pebbled driveway. Stopping halfway down the steep hill, I sit on the wall, admiring the country view, while my fingers rest on the warm stone. Here I am, upholding my end of the bargain in honouring my intuition, unable to fully explain what I expect from this adventure, but ready for whatever life might bring here. Awkwardly trusting, as I allow whatever glimmer of hope I have left to reignite my passion for life. My thoughts drift to what they usually do, worrisome ones about my life expectancy.
It should be easy to focus on the ninety per cent survival rate for stage two Hodgkin’s disease, but it’s not. The ten per cent haunts me like a dark grey cloud looming above my head, ready to burst open, showering my body with acid rain at any given moment. Let’s face it, the statistics haven’t really been on my side, given I’m the one in 479 who developed lymphoma in the first place.
I start to focus on my breath, just like Sarah taught me. Breathe in, hold the breath … and release, and eventually the thoughts evaporate. Approaching the town centre in my Zen-like state, all I can hear is the buzz of the odd scooter and the curious little three-wheel trucks called api that rattle by every so often.
A warm northerly breeze brushes my skin, dislodging wisps of hair that dance around my face as I drink in the seconds of what is right now. I hear Sarah’s words echoing in my head: ‘Mia, just focus on the present, because this is what really matters.’ My heart expands and an immense sensation of gratitude washes over me. Right now, I am not just a girl who has overcome her battle with cancer. I am not a girl who doesn’t know who she is anymore. I am not a girl whose nightmares wake her at night with the terrifying feeling that she might not live to see her next birthday. In this moment, I am just me. I find myself singing out loud until a group of boys startle me, calling out, ‘Ciao, bella!’ from a sky-blue Fiat Cinquecento.
As I approach the piazza, the smooth asphalted road turns into cobblestoned one-way streets. It’s just before four o’clock, and the sleepy town is waking up for the afternoon as the shop merchants of Piazza Buondelmonti hoist up the metal roller doors to their shopfronts, ready for the second half of the day’s trading. People venture into the main square after their siestas, having pulled down their shutters at midday for the riposo.
A row of vintage cruiser bikes are lined up beside the large basilica. It’s Tuesday, and people of all ages are filtering out from the afternoon mass, congregating in small groups. The passionate rise and fall of the Italian language carries through the air. Between the men smoking cigars and the young children kicking a soccer ball in the middle of the piazza, I’m unsure of which group to watch first. I’m intrigued by them all: their mannerisms, their appearances, their accents.
The priest trails behind the last group of churchgoers and begins his own animated chat with a few of them under one of the five large arches. The Basilica of Santa Maria, according to my Fodor’s, dates all the way back to 1060 and was restored after a bombing destroyed its baroque ceiling during the Second World War. I’m at my most comfortable amongst artwork, and, used to the silence of my own company, I easily spend an hour here, taking in the basilica’s rich history and beauty. A fleeting thought about the future passes in my mind as I wonder whether studying at the Academy of Art in Florence might one day be a possibility for me. Thinking too far into the future sends an uncomfortable feeling into the pit of my stomach. Trying my best to ignore it, I make my way to the church exit. A strong feeling wills me to turn back.
‘If you’re unsure of any emotion or feeling, just sit with it until the answers come to you,’ Sarah would say.
I take a seat in the back pew and sit in silence, the uncomfortable feeling growing stronger with each passing second. It doesn’t dissipate until I acknowledge what it is that I’m feeling. I think about the battle I was forced to fight and like a pipe that’s bursting with anger, something in me unlocks. I want my life to feel the way it used to feel: full of possibility, untarnished by fear. I feel an intense need to get back to that, except I don’t know how. Tears start pouring out of me as if the heavens have burst, staining my face and tickling my neck as they slide past my collarbone onto my cotton shirt. By some unknown force, I’m brought to my knees. I drop my head into my hands, my spirit grieving for what should have been one of the best years of my life. I sob and sob and sob for what was ripped away from me, and as I break down in the privacy of this holy space, I look at Jesus, hanging off the crucifix, palms bleeding, head drooping, and beg for myself back.
‘Show me the way,’ I whisper.
I wipe my face against the clammy skin of my arm and take a few minutes to compose myself, when the priest who has been watching me, dressed in his cream-and-gold-embellished robe, cautiously shuffles towards me as if he’s approaching a wild animal.
‘Are you okay, signorina?’ he asks, his eyes trying to meet mine.
I nod because the words are too hard to find, especially if I have to find them in Italian. He passes me a tissue, which I graciously accept. I clean myself up, blow my nose and see that he’s still waiting for an answer. My mouth opens and closes, only no sounds come out. He rests the weight of his small, bony hand on my shoulder.
‘I’m Father Damiano,’ he says.
I place my palms together and nod, the only way I can express my thanks right now. And then I turn my back on the father and rush out the doors, hoping my prayer will be answered.
Sarah always said there’d come a time where I’d admit my feelings to myself even if I wasn’t yet ready to talk with her or anyone else about them. ‘When that happens, honey, you’ll know you’re on the road to healing what’s causing you all that pain in your heart.’
I find a fountain in the square and splash the cool water on my face, washing away the residual streaks of tears and any last traces of makeup. I don’t feel like going home yet, so I figure it might be a good time to grab a coffee. The seats outside the bar are mainly occupied by men wearing flat caps, blissfully people watching or playing a heated game of cards. They don’t look like regular playing cards, and I recognise one of the games they’re playing. Scopa. My Nonno Aldo taught me to play scopa with his deck of Sicilian playing cards when I was eight years old. He let me win every time because I’d throw the most livid tantrums whenever I lost.
I take a deep breath and ask the barman for a cappuccino in my rusty Italian.
‘Cappuccino is for breakfast!’ he teases. ‘You stranieri, you drink caffe latte in the afternoon. This is like eating Coco Pops for dinner!’ he says, chuckling.
Point taken. Short macchiatos from now on.
The barman is probably in his mid-forties and reminds me of an animated Roberto Benigni from Life is Beautiful.
‘Ah, si. Could you change that to a macchiato per favore?’ I ask, trying to act as local as possible.
‘Come ti chiami, bella?’
‘My name’s Mia.’
‘Silvio,’ he says, breaking into a friendly smile as he points to his badge. ‘Nice to meet you, Mia. Let me guess, I bet you’re from America.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Chicago!’
I shake my head.
He purses his lips, pretending to think. ‘Los Angeles!’
Again, I shake my head. I’m smiling now.
‘New York!’ His eyes are alight with humour.
A barman steps out from the kitchen and twirls Silvio around.
‘Aah! New York, New York!’ He breaks out into the famous Frank Sinatra tune.
‘Matteo, this is Mia—she’s from …’ Silvio eyes me off and winks. Matteo has white hair and looks as though he should be at home and in retirement, even though he has the moves of a twenty-five-year-old.
‘Melbourne,’ I reply, finishing Silvio’s sentence.
‘Australia? Now that’s a long way from here.’ Silvio rubs his chin.
‘Piacere. Are you enjoying your holiday?’ asks Matteo.
‘I only just got here, but so far so good,’ I reply.
‘We know the ones like you, signorina Mia. Just wait until you fall in love,’ teases Silvio, as if he’s seen my life played out before him.
I smile politely and tell him I’m not looking for love right now.
‘Ah, but you haven’t gotten to know the irresistible Luca yet,’ he says, winking at Matteo.
Their small-town behaviour is amusing, yet I nonetheless feel my embarrassment escalating as my cheeks flush until they’re prickling hot. Surely they can’t be talking about the same Luca. My irrational heart sinks at the thought of him being the local heartbreaker. It would be just my luck to fall for the wrong guy and go home just as damaged as I’ve arrived. Without letting the conversation get any more uncomfortable, I go to sit down before remembering Stella’s words cautioning me about not sitting at a table unless you are ordering a meal. She’s right; everyone around me is drinking their espressos at the bar, standing up.
‘Actually, I’ll also have a … piadina,’ I say, pointing to the nearest thing I can find in the window. It looks like my early dinner is going to be a flat-bread sandwich with cheese, prosciutto and rocket salad. I hate the bitterness of rocket salad.
‘Toasted?’ asks Silvio.
‘Si, grazie.’
I wait for my piadina at a small uneven table overlooking the buzzing piazza and its honey-coloured buildings. I make the connection between macellaio and butcher, erboristeria and herbalist store, salumeria and delicatessen. Pulling out my pink-and-grey moleskine, I scribble down these new words.
Across the square is a motorbike workshop that hasn’t yet opened for the afternoon. A large scooter pulls up in front of it. It’s a cherry-red Piaggio. The broad shoulders of the rider look familiar. He takes off his helmet and there’s no mistaking him. Luca. Town Casanova. He’s now wearing a dark pair of jeans and a tight-fitting black t-shirt that accentuates the muscles of his sun-kissed arms. He hasn’t seen me yet, but he’s walking towards the bar.
I stare down at my plate when I sense him approaching, looking up only when he stops in front of me.
‘Bella Mia, buonasera,’ he says in a delicious tone, tilting his head slightly, his eyes on my half-eaten piadina.
Oh, God. Is it totally Australian to be eating a piadina at five in the afternoon?
He grins at me and our eyes lock, a magnetic force holding them in place. The world closes in around the two of us. My heartbeat quickens, and I unwillingly tear my gaze away from him as my lips purse together.
Mia, just breathe.
‘Silvio giving you trouble?’ he asks.
‘Salve, Luca,’ says Silvio. Salve. Just another word for ciao. Another word for the moleskine.
‘Silvio,’ he nods, ‘un caffettino per favore.’ He pulls up a chair beside me.
I guess rules can be broken.
‘Wasn’t it any good?’ asks Silvio, appearing concerned that I’ve left most of the piadina on my plate alongside a pile of untouched rocket.
‘It was great, but I’m a little full. We had a big lunch.’
‘You eat like a sparrow,’ says Luca, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Silvio, this is Mia, Stella’s new housemate. The one I was telling you about.’
‘I know. We already met,’ he says. ‘He couldn’t stop talking about you, Mia!’ he calls, as he walks away, carrying a full tray of plates and cups.
Luca grins and raises his eyebrows.
Does nothing faze this guy?
‘You were talking about me?’ I challenge. I can’t seem to help it, I want to shake his confidence somewhat.
‘You’re hard not to talk about.’
I almost choke on my saliva, and my mind scrambles as I try to find something to say. ‘So … you work over there?’ I ask, pointing across the street.
He doesn’t follow the direction of my hand, he just nods with a cool expression on his face.
‘Uh … do you live close by?’ I ask.
Silvio returns to the table with Luca’s espresso. ‘We don’t do table service, you know. But I’ll make an exception for you today, seeing you’re in the presence of a bella donna.’ He winks at me as though we’re old friends.
Luca throws back his espresso in one shot. ‘Not too far from here. I share an apartment with Paolo. I moved to Florence when I was eighteen. I’ve been here five years.’ He pauses, his eyes travelling across my face. I’m sure he’s studying every detail of the redness in my eyes and the puffiness in my cheeks.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, frowning suspiciously.
‘I’m fine. Must be allergies.’
He gives me a slow nod that says, ‘I know you’re lying,’ but he goes with it and points out that there’s a farmacia across the road.
‘Where are you originally from?’ I ask.
‘Orvieto. There’s not much work there, so when Paolo asked me to join him in the officina I decided to move here,’ he says.
‘Do you miss your family?’ I ask, thinking about my parents and how far away they are.
In a blink of an eye his expression hardens as he clenches his jaw. ‘More than you can imagine. My parents were both killed last year in a car accident. Drunk driver. My sister lives in Orvieto with her husband and my two young nephews. I don’t see them much these days.’
I don’t know how I feel about him sharing intimate details of a life I don’t yet feel privileged to know about. The whole conversation makes me uneasy. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your parents. That must be really hard.’
‘It’s life, I guess. It can be ripped away from us at any given moment, for no good reason at all,’ he says, spinning his cup on its saucer.
Boy, don’t I know it.
My heart goes out to him. ‘Prendi la vita come viene,’ I whisper.
‘Every day, as if it’s your last.’ He leans across the table, takes my hand and plants a kiss on it. ‘Bella Mia, I need to open up the shop.’ And with that he gets up from the table. ‘Don’t go meeting any handsome Italian guys between now and tomorrow night,’ he warns in a voice so smooth I want to bottle it up.
By now he’s walking backwards across the street as he calls out, ‘Seven! Your place!’
I can’t help laughing.
Yes, this is what it feels like to laugh again, Mia.
‘É cotto!’ exclaims Silvio from behind our table. I have no idea what that means, but I scrawl the word in my moleskine so I can look it up later.
I do know what ‘mia’ means and I do know what ‘bella’ means. Together, they mean ‘my beautiful’, or in the case of my name, beautiful Mia. From the intonation of Luca’s voice I know he means the latter, although I can’t help admitting to myself that I wouldn’t mind the former.
I spend the next hour or so exploring the shops, quaint streets and alleys before heading home, where I find Stella preparing panzanella, a typical Tuscan salad made with pieces of tomato and soaked stale bread. I help her throw in some red onion, cucumber and basil, and we sit down to eat at eight-thirty. She tells me I’ll need to get used to late dinners this summer. Afterwards, we sit down to watch a game show with numerous glittering dancers dressed in skimpy clothing.
‘Discreet,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.
‘It’s Italy. There’s no shame in appreciating a beautiful woman here,’ she says, chuckling.
‘They’re certainly not backward in coming forward.’
‘More wine?’ she asks.
‘No thanks, I’m pretty tired. I’ll be heading to bed soon. It’s been a big day,’ I say, yawning.
‘What did you think of the town centre?’
‘It was … nice. Actually, I bumped into Luca again.’ I picture his beautiful face. ‘What does “è cotto” mean?’
‘It’s cooked.’
‘Huh?’
‘It also means … Oh, Mia!’ she says, eyes widening. ‘I knew it!’
‘Knew what?’
‘It means he’s smitten. A crush! I can’t believe it—I’ve been trying to set Luca up with girls from work for months. He hasn’t been interested in anyone. Not since …’
I wait for her to continue, but when she doesn’t, I finish the sentence for her.
‘His parents?’
‘What? He told you about his parents?’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘Why?’
‘He never talks about it. With anyone. Ever. He took it pretty hard. It’s been difficult to watch. You know what Italian families are like—very close. He used to go home every month to visit his parents, but he hasn’t been back since the funeral,’ she says. ‘Who told you he was cotto?’
‘Silvio. Barman guy. He reminds me of Roberto Benigni.’
‘Ha! Totally!’ She laughs.
‘We’re going out tomorrow night.’
‘Oh my God! You’re going to love Italy, Mia. I just know it!’ she says, rubbing my legs affectionately. She switches off the TV and turns to face me, her eyes sparkling. ‘I had a good feeling about you, you know.’
‘That’s good, because I thought the same about you,’ I say, choosing not to tell her that I’d made a list of local hotels before I’d arrived in case I didn’t like what I found here at the villa.
I retreat to my bedroom, flop onto my bed and switch on my phone.
Mum has sent me a message asking if I’ve managed to get a SIM card yet.
I can’t wait to hear your voice again. How is it there?
Better than I could have imagined. Look at the furniture, I respond, attaching a photo of the living-room furnishings. I try not to think about how Mum had to put her interior design business on hold because of me when I got sick.
Love! That light fixture! The wall art! Imagine all the things you’ll be able to paint over there! (If you let yourself try.) I packed two boxes of paint sets for you. Bottom of your suitcase. Make sure you unpack!
She follows this with a series of messages telling me how much she loves me, how much she misses me, and how much she wishes she could be here with me. I choke back the lump in my throat. I miss her, too. I just don’t know how to say it. So I text back, I love you too, Mum, and hope that it’s enough for now.
I get changed, slip under the sheets and rest my head on the pillow. My mind drifts to a certain dark and handsome guy. For the first time in months, I’m asleep within minutes, the last thought that enters my mind one of love, not fear.