But sitting here with her now—thirty years earlier, on the other side of the world—watching her drink chilled rosé like it’s water—I think that maybe there were parts of her I never made an effort to see. Parts of her that just wanted to drink outside in the sunshine on a Wednesday. And go back for skirts, just because.
Lunch is good, but Il Tridente at Hotel Poseidon is better. There is grilled Halloumi on a bed of lettuce, calamari, caprese, and lots of wine.
“Remo took me to Capri last weekend,” my mother says. “It’s overrated, in my opinion. Positano is far more beautiful. More authentic, too. It feels far more connected to the Italian culture here than it does there.”
Remo shakes his head. “Capri is nice on the water. On the land, less.”
My parents and I took a trip to London when I was twelve years old. We stayed near Westminster, saw a production of Wicked, and rode the London Eye. That’s as close to a European vacation as I’ve ever gotten.
“It is a hard place to get to, and a hard place to leave, but a very easy place to stay,” my mother says. “I came for the first time with my parents when I was a little girl, and I never forgot it.”
I’m not sure I knew about that trip. There’s so much I never asked. And there is so much I want to know, now.
“Where else have you been here?”
“I went to Ravello, which was heaven. And Naples, which I didn’t care for. That’s where Remo is from. Rome is wonderful, obviously.”
“I’ve never been to Italy before,” I say.
“Well,” my mother says, reaching across the table for my hand, “you’ve picked a perfect time to be here.”
Remo tells us about the beauty of Ravello, one town over, and asks if I’ve been to Capri—I tell him I just got here.
“There is plenty of time,” Carol says. “Italy is about taking it slow.”
When we finally stand, I feel a little light-headed.
We push back our chairs and make our way outside to the rocks. There is a lounge chair open, and my mother throws her bag down, and I do the same. Then she lifts her dress up and over her head. I’m struck by the motion—so carefree, so thought-less. I think about my mother in Palm Springs, in Malibu. Her one-piece always offset by a well-placed sarong, her arms covered from the sun in a light linen shirt. She had a great body, always did. But there was a modesty to her that is not apparent here. When did it arrive? When did she decide that her body was something she should pay so much attention to? That it shouldn’t be admired?
She always loved the water, though. She loved to swim. She’d do laps in the pool every morning, her L.L.Bean hat like a ball floating on the surface.
I follow her, and then we’re padding into the ocean. I duck under the water, and when I come up, she’s floating on her back, eyes closed. I want to photograph her, capture this moment, but instead I copy her. We stay that way, just floating, until Antonio’s boat appears at the dock.
We board, soaked, and are transported back to the port of Positano. By the time we get there the sun is sinking lower in the sky. The boat docks, and Remo helps us off. We thank Antonio, and he tips his hat before pulling away.
“Thank you,” I say to my mother. “I had a really great day. The best I’ve had in a while.”
“Thank you,” she says. “It’s lovely to make a new friend.”
I realize I haven’t even asked her how long she is staying. “Will you be here tomorrow?” I say. I can feel the freneticism growing inside. The sudden desperation to hold on to her after a day of leisure.
She smiles. “Of course. I’m taking you to La Tagliata. It’s this incredible restaurant high up in the hills. You won’t believe it. The bus leaves at four from your hotel, so I can meet you there.”
“Where will you go now?” I ask.
“I have to drop Remo off and then pick up a few things at the market. The woman who owns the flat I’m renting is in tonight.”
I’m met with images of my mother cooking, laughing, sharing a meal with another woman. I feel a wave of jealousy come over me.
“But I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?” She peers at me. And for the briefest, tiniest slivers of time, I think that maybe she recognizes me, too. Maybe something in her is reaching through time and space to deliver her the information she needs to know. That she belongs to me. That we are each other’s. Only us. But then Remo taps her shoulder, and the moment is broken.
I nod.