I thought I was getting better, and the words are pitiful even in the silence of her own mind. I thought this was over.
But she’s beginning to realize there isn’t an over, not really. The waves can just keep on coming like this, and there’s nothing she can do to stop them.
Amma doesn’t cross the space between their beds this time, doesn’t make those soothing noises that Brittany simultaneously hates and appreciates, so Brittany stays curled up into herself like a wounded animal, waiting for the sun to rise.
Once it does, they go back out, walk the streets, duck into shops, eat more overpriced pasta, and it’s only as the sky turns to dusk, as they sit at another outdoor café, that Brittany utters the words that have been on the tip of her tongue all day.
“Maybe we should go home.”
She knows Amma is thinking it, too: that they’ve had their moments of fun, but this isn’t the escape they were after. Except, maybe it is, for Amma? Brittany can never really tell. She loves the other girl, loves her more dearly than she’s ever loved any friend, but over and over again, she’s reminded that they only have this one awful thing in common, and nothing else. She doesn’t really know what Amma is like, regular Amma, in-the-before Amma. She could be suffering, too—just better at hiding it.
Now, she looks across the table at Brittany and gives a little shrug. “Maybe we should. My money is getting tight, and at least we got to see Paris and we’ve had nearly a week here in Rome. That’s not nothing.”
It’s true. Brittany had always dreamed of visiting both cities, had hung a poster of the Eiffel Tower in her dorm room, for fuck’s sake, and now she’s also tasted gelato in the shadow of the Colosseum. Maybe it’s enough.
She stirs her cappuccino, glances over at the table of people next to her, raggedy backpacks by their feet. They’re a little sunburned, their clothes wrinkled and dull in the way things get when they’re repeatedly cleaned in hostel sinks and never dry completely. One of the girls leans down to unbuckle her sandal, laughing when the straps fall away to reveal stripes of pale skin amongst a layer of dust. Brittany’s accumulated that dust, too, walking through Rome, and she wishes she had that girl’s easy laugh, wishes all of this wasn’t so fucking hard for her for some reason.
And then she realizes the girl is staring directly at her, her sheaf of strawberry-blond hair pushed behind one ear as she grins and waves at Brittany.
Brittany nods back, but to her surprise, the girl actually gets up from her seat, crossing the crowded little café to come over to their table.
“Hiya!” she says brightly, and then she’s offering her hand, a faded, fraying string bracelet around one slender wrist. “I’m Chloe.”
A small moment. But that’s how it starts.
Dear Mama/Pop/Sis:
Greetings from Paradise! Me and the boys landed a real sweet assignment and find ourselves on [CENSORED]. It’s so pretty, I wish you all could see it. Like that book I made Pop read every night when I was twelve, Robinson Crusoe. There are palm trees everywhere, coconuts, too. One of the fellas, [CENSORED], even made a pet out of a monkey! We call him Barnum, and [CENSORED] trained him to take peanuts right out of our hands. It really passes the time, but it makes me miss home and Shep even more. He still doing good? I know he’s getting old, but tell him he’s gotta hang on til we’re done whooping these guys!
Today, I went for a walk by myself for a bit just to get some quiet, and even though the guys say this place is spooky, I think it’s peaceful. I guess there’s some story about a [CENSORED] here back in [CENSORED] where some guys ended up killing each other for food, but luckily, we got a whole box of supplies, so things shouldn’t get that bad for us. And looking out at all that ocean makes me think of being back home, seeing cornfields all the way to the horizon. I miss you all, but getting to see the world like this counts for something. You really get that every place is the same in a way. The guys say it’s boring here, but I tell them they should come to our farm in the winter, see how quiet it gets!
So no, I don’t mind being out here on [CENSORED]. It’s not a bad place, just a lonely one, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
Will write again soon.
Your son/brother, L.
—LETTER HOME FROM PFC LEONARD AMES （1923–MIA 1943, DECLARED DEAD 1950）
NOW
TEN
“What do you think their deal is?”
Last night had been fun. Almost too much fun, if my dry mouth and aching head are any indication. Despite the hangover, all I can think about this morning is all that food, all that wine. The diamonds in Eliza’s ears.