WEDNESDAY MORNING FINDS RAIN battering my windows and me unwilling to leave the sanctuary of my bed, my get-up-and-go got-up-and-gone. I haven’t heard from Gio, but then I haven’t made contact either. He doesn’t know my address, but Sophia has my cell number if she, or he, wanted to get in touch. I’m not surprised by the radio silence—I’ve been the one doing all the running, after all. It’s been a really complicated few weeks, an emotionally draining merry-go-round. I feel as if I’m constantly trying to balance doing more good than harm to the Belotti family. It’s so difficult being obscure with the truth regarding the recipe, but at the end of the day my loyalties lie firmly with my mother. I’ve squared it with myself by holding fast to the fact that I’m trying to honor her memory by helping Santo’s family without compromising a secret that’s stayed buried for more than thirty years. And that’s felt okay, in the main. I’ve nudged Gio closer and closer to the recipe, but the more time I spend at the gelateria, the more compromised I feel on a personal level.
I hate, hate, hate the lie about Adam’s death. I wish with all my heart I could rewind the clock and have a rerun at that bookstore encounter—I’d suck those words back in quick smart. Yes, I might sometimes, privately, inside my own head, tell myself that my ex is dead. It’s an ugly admission to make, even silently, and I judge myself harshly for it. Not because it’s wrong to wish harm on Adam—frankly, that man deserves whatever is coming to him. It’s the detrimental effect on my own mental health that bothers me, that the only way to keep putting one foot in front of the other every day is to lie to myself and others about his demise. How could Gio even begin to understand that? There isn’t a scenario where I can unpick that lie and come out of it with a shred of dignity or self-respect. Gio will hate me when—if—he ever finds out, and justifiably so—from his perspective, at least. Life has dealt him a very different set of cards and he will play his hand accordingly. I remind myself that I’m a decent human trying to do a decent thing, and then shove my head under my pillow and block the world out for a while.
10.
ONE OF THE NICEST THINGS about living on Chrystie Street is the long, skinny park that stretches the length of it, a shimmering green line separating it from Forsyth Street on the other side. Bobby tells me it hasn’t always been the safest place to hang out, but these days it’s a shady refuge on hot city days and an oasis on any kind of day. Kids come for the playgrounds and basketball courts, green-fingered locals come for the community gardens. I don’t feel much like it, but after my self-pity party yesterday I’ve pulled on my big-girl pants and hauled my ass outside to take a walk. I paint seasonal shade into my backdrop as I go—russets and burnt orange, evergreens and blackcurrant mauves, and the smoky, earthen scents of autumn. I feel…I don’t know. Peaceful? I’m still undecided what to do about Belotti’s, but after my strung-out morning yesterday I’m cutting myself some slack. I’ve got a home, friends, a job. Everything I had before I saw that door, I still have. All of the progress I’ve made since leaving London still shows.
Snatches of music catch my ear, and I follow them toward a busker who’s set up a synthesizer on wobbly legs, a microphone in front of it. She’s young, younger than me, and she’s playing that small keyboard with some serious skill. I recognize the upbeat opening bars of “Don’t Get Me Wrong” instantly—the Pretenders were a huge influence on my mother’s musical style. Even in her later years she rocked a Chrissie Hynde fringe and heavy eyeliner. Other people linger to listen too, and I find myself sympathizing because the girl has the most beautiful tone but is clearly struggling with a throat infection. It’s cold out here; she nods gratefully when someone throws a few coins in her upturned cap. It reaches deep inside me, reminding me of the way my mum would sell her soul to be out there performing. Music has always been my lifeblood too, so I sit for a while to show my appreciation to this girl for showing up even when she clearly feels like death.
When she plays the melancholy opening bars of “I’ll Stand By You,” all I can hear is my mother; it was one of her favorite songs to perform. I find a note and approach to put it in her hat, bending to tuck it inside the brim so it doesn’t blow away with the autumn leaves. I’m singing with her as I straighten, as much in solidarity as anything, when her voice cracks. I see gratitude in her pale-green eyes and I smile in sympathy, but as I walk away she catches hold of my sleeve and nods toward the microphone. I falter, and although she keeps singing as best she can, it’s clear she’s not going to make it to the end of the track and is desperate enough to ask a stranger for help. Me. Can I? I’m paralyzed in the moment, wanting to help, not feeling able to. She holds my gaze, her fingers still around the sleeve of my jacket. My mother would have done it in a heartbeat. Did she ever come to this park? For all I know, she could even have busked here. I swallow, summon up what vestiges of courage I have, and for the woman I am now and the woman my mother was then, I step up and help this girl out in her hour of need.
“Okay,” I whisper, pulling my bobble hat off and tucking my hair behind my ears.
She closes her eyes momentarily with sheer relief as she hands me the microphone, and I sense a ripple of anticipation among the people standing around. I’d be the same if I was watching this play out. I’d wonder if this random person was going to be able to hold a note or if it was going to be a bit of well-intended earache. Please let it be the former, I think. Singing in the shower is as good as it gets for me these days, and Smirnoff is an unreliable judge on my skills. Rolling my shoulders, I clear my throat and listen to the music. I know this song like the back of my hand.
“I’ll stand by you…” I sing, picking the song up at the chorus, my eyes trained on the busker, her eyes watching me, a cocktail of hope and fear. She barely looks down as she plays the keys from memory and I hear my voice amplified in the park. Relief dissolves the fear from her eyes and a slow smile creeps across her face as she listens to me sing. An answering joy blooms in my chest as I find myself in the music and lose myself in the aching lyrics. This. Just as it was playing piano in Belotti’s last week, making music is like watering my soul.
There’s applause when the song comes to an end, and I can’t quite believe I’ve just sung in public and that it felt so good.
The busker shrugs, laughing when I look her way. “More?”