“Mom.”
“What, honey?”
“Oh, Mommy, it makes me sad. That’s all.”
“Not knowing how to put the right coins on a plate?”
“No, Mom. Thinking you were his mother.”
Mary considered this. “Except why would they think I was his mother? I’m American, he’s Italian. They probably didn’t think that.”
“You’re my mother!” Angelina burst out, and this caused Mary to almost weep again, because she had a searing glimpse then of all the damage she must have done, and she, Mary Mumford, had never in her life planned on doing, or wanted to do, any damage to anyone.
They sat by the window in the café past the church; the café was built on rocks that looked out over the water. The late August sun sparkled crazily on everything. In four years, Mary had never stopped being banged on the head with the beauty of this village. But Mary was very anxious; her eldest daughter, Tammy, had emailed her that Angelina was having trouble in her marriage, and Mary had thought she would ask Angelina about this as soon as they were alone; yet she could not seem to do so. She would have to wait for Angelina to bring it up. Mary pointed to a large cruise ship on its way to Genoa, and Angelina nodded. The window they sat by was open, and the door was open. Mary ate her apricot cornetto, then put her hand on Angelina’s arm; she started singing quietly “You Were Always on My Mind,” but Angelina frowned and said, “Are you still wacky about Elvis?”
“I am.” Mary sat up straight, putting her hands in her lap. “Paolo downloaded all his songs for me onto my phone.”
Angelina opened her mouth, then closed it.
From the corner of her eye, Mary noticed once again that age had touched her baby; Angelina’s face had creases by her mouth and by her eyes that Mary had not remembered. Her hair, still pale brown, and still worn below her shoulders, was thinner than Mary had thought it was. And the jeans she wore were so tight! Mary had noticed this right away. “Look, honey,” Mary said, waving a hand toward the sea, “I just love how things are lived outside more in Italy. This open door, the open window.”
Angelina said, “I’m cold.”
“Take this.” Mary handed her the scarf she always wore. “Unfold it,” she directed, “and it will open enough to wrap right around your skinny little shoulder bones.”
Her youngest child did this.
“Tell me about your life,” Mary said. “The tiniest stuff, if you want.”
Angelina rummaged through her blue straw handbag and brought out her phone, which she placed on the table between them. “Well, the twins and I went to a crafts fair, and you wouldn’t believe what we got. Wait, I think I have a picture on my phone.” Mary pulled her chair closer and peered at the phone, and she was able to see the pretty pink sweater that one of the twins had bought for Tammy’s birthday.
“Tell me more,” Mary said. Her desire seemed suddenly as large as the heavens. Show me, show me, cried her heart. “Show me all the pictures,” she said.
“I have six hundred and thirty-two pics,” Angelina reported, after squinting at her phone.
“Show me each one.” Mary beamed at her sweet youngest girl.
“No crying,” Angelina warned.
“Not a drop.”
“One drop and we stop.”
“My goodness,” Mary said, thinking: Who was it that raised this girl?
The sun went behind a cloud as they walked back to the caseggiato, and this changed the light dramatically. The day seemed suddenly autumnal, yet the palm trees and brightly painted buildings were at odds with this, even for Mary, who—presumably—should have been used to it. But Mary felt bewildered at all she had seen on her daughter’s phone, all the life that was going on in Illinois without her. She said, “I was thinking of the Pretty Nicely Girls the other day. The Club, I guess I was remembering The Club and the dances there.”
“The Pretty Nicely Girls were sluts.” Angelina said this over her shoulder.
“No they were not. Angelina. Don’t be silly.”
“Mom.” Angelina stopped walking and turned to her mother. “They were sluts. At least the oldest two were. They totally slept with everyone.”
Mary stopped walking as well. She took her sunglasses off and looked at her daughter. “Are you serious?”
“Mom, I thought you knew that.”
“How in the world would I know that?”
“Mom, everyone knew it. And I told you at the time. My God.” Angelina added after a moment, “Patty wasn’t, though. I think she wasn’t.”