Conversation around us came to a halt, except the whispered Americano, the embarrassed glances away from us.
I made sure everyone was still listening when I shouted, “I hate you!”
Then I threw up, all over the gnocchi and the pretty pink tablecloth. I had not thrown up since I was a little kid, and it felt awful. I ran out of the café, fast, across the piazza where lovers nestled each other and small children chased one another, squealing with joy. I ran past the fountain, where the statues and their covered eyes seemed meant for me. I ran up the stairs of the church and through its open doors. Inside, it was hushed and dark, except the candles flickering in their tall red chimneys.
I kept running, down the aisle to the altar. When I reached it I dropped to my knees on the cool marble floor, clasped my hands together, bent my head, and prayed for a miracle.
I did not know how long I stayed there like that. But as I knelt and prayed, a vision played out in my mind. It was my life, really, the one that before the divorce stretched out in front of me with so much hope and possibility. I didn’t realize that all this time I had wanted the impossible to happen, just like Antoinetta. But now I saw that. I thought of all the times in my life, ballet recitals and performances, graduations and proms, even my wedding and the birth of my own children, all of these times when a person’s parents came together to celebrate with them, and I imagined my parents still together. I imagined finding their faces in the audience, in a crowd, in a church, and I imagined them together.
I imagined the two of them in the front seat of a car and Cody and me in the backseat, playing Botticelli and Ghost and all the other car games our parents loved to play. I saw the four of us, a family, moving into rented beach houses and hotel rooms, traveling through life together. If I closed my eyes and searched my memory hard enough, I could see my parents holding hands, sneaking kisses, sleeping together like spoons. There was no Ava Pomme. No Zoe. It was just the four of us, happy.
But suddenly, kneeling here, I saw my life differently. It would always be fragmented, broken in two. I would find my parents’ faces in a crowd, but they would be watching me separately. They would be holding hands with other people. They would be making different lives. And I would always be choosing, taking sides, feeling bad no matter which parent I left behind. My life would be full of train rides that left one of them waving good-bye and one of them waiting for me on the other end.
This wasn’t the life I would have chosen for myself. But I saw that my choices lay ahead of me. In this matter, my parents had decided. They had fallen away from each other, and I would forever be somewhere stretched between them.
When my father came and knelt beside me, the church had grown darker still.
“I’m sorry, Madeline,” he whispered. “I wish it could have all turned out differently.”
That was how I knew I was right. Sometime in my happy past, he had met Ava Pomme and fallen in love, and left Cody and our mother and me. Maybe he had done it because adults believed things only came to you once in a lifetime. Maybe someday he would understand that was not true.
Back in the apartment that night, I climbed into bed with Cody. Asleep, he looked almost like one of the angels in the Sistine Chapel, and I wanted to wake him up and hug him hard. Instead, I just pressed myself close to him, hating that someday he, too, would figure out what had happened, how our father had betrayed us all. On the walk home, my father didn’t say anything, and neither did I. What else was there to say?
In the morning, I woke up to Cody staring right into my face, breathing his morning breath all over me.
“Are you sick or something?” he said. “You smell bad.”
I smiled. “I threw up in the restaurant.”
“Really?” he said. “Awesome!”
“I want to go home,” I said.
“I want Mommy,” Cody said.
“Me, too.”
Cody studied my face for a minute, then grinned at me. “Was it projectile vomit?” he asked. “Or just regular?”
“Regular,” I said. “But gallons.” I laughed.
Our father took us alone on the subway to the airport, checked our bags for us, and walked us to the gate where an Alitalia plane would take us home. When I hugged Ava Pomme good-bye at the apartment, I kept my body all stiff, imagining another baby for my father’s new family.
On the train, Cody chattered about the pizza he would miss and the spaghetti carbonara, and the pony rides in the little park.
“Next summer we’ll do all those things and more,” our father said, and his eyes met mine over Cody’s head. I wasn’t ready yet to forgive him. Perhaps in a way I never would. But I knew one thing that adults didn’t: Over time things change. Kids don’t close the doors the way grown-ups do.