Sono incinta. Sono incinta. Sono incinta. Would it feel different if those words were in English? I’M PREGNANT. There. I can barely think. This morning I puked up my breakfast like I have every day for the past week, and as I was flushing the toilet a horrible thought occurred to me. I tried to brush it off, but then . . . I had to know. I’ve always been sort of irregular, but had I been more irregular than normal? I walked to the pharmacy but forgot my English-Italian dictionary and had to go through this horrible pantomime to tell them what I needed, and then I rushed home and took the test and—positive. I went back for two more. Positive. Positive.
They were all positive.
JUNE 13
For the past two days I’ve barely come out of my room. Francesca left yesterday, and now every time Howard knocks on my door I pretend to be asleep. I know I need to leave here. Howard loves me. And I love him. But that doesn’t matter anymore, because I’m pregnant with someone else’s baby. I know I have to tell X, but the thought of it makes me want to die. What will he say? According to Francesca he’s been looking for me, but I know for a fact that he wasn’t looking for this. And the timing is so unbelievable. Is it a sign that Matteo and I were meant to be together? But then what about this time with Howard? Three days ago I wrote that he was the one for me. And now this.
I want to tell Howard so badly, but what do I say? I have called my mother and hung up twice. I keep dialing Matteo’s phone number but only getting a few digits in. I’m giving myself until tomorrow night and then I have to decide something. I can’t even think.
June 14
I called Matteo. He’s working in Venice and I’m going there to meet him. I can’t tell him over the phone.
JUNE 15
I’m on the train now. Howard insisted on giving me a ride there, and even though I didn’t tell him why I was going, I think he knew. Tears just kept running down my face, and the last thing he said was, “It’s okay. Please be happy.”
As soon as the train pulled away I started crying so hard that everyone around me stared. I’ve gone over this again and again in my mind, and everything points to Matteo. I’m having his child. I have to put Howard out of my mind. I have chosen Matteo. Fate has chosen Matteo. Our baby has chosen Matteo. He has to be the one.
JUNE 15—LATER
Venice might be the worst place in the world for a pregnant woman. Of course it’s beautiful. One hundred and seventeen islands connected by boats and water taxis and those striped-shirt gondoliers paddling tourists around for ridiculous fees. The Floating City. But it smells horrible, and the water lapping against everything makes me feel like I’m going to topple over at any second. As soon as the train arrived I dried my tears, then forced myself to eat a salty piece of foccacia bread. One hour until Matteo and I meet. One hour until he knows. I read that Venice is sinking into the ocean, an inch and a half every century. What if I sink with it?
JUNE 16
We met in Piazza San Marco. As soon as I’d gotten my bearings I left Venice’s train station and went straight to the piazza. I was early, so I walked around looking at the Basilica of St. Mark. The Basilica is so different from Florence’s Duomo. It’s Byzantine-style with lots of arches and a flashy mosaic on the exterior. Part of the piazza had flooded and there were tourists rolling up their pants and wading through the water.
Finally it was five p.m. I realized we hadn’t said where to meet, so I just walked into the center of the piazza. Pigeons were everywhere, and I just kept seeing children. A little boy with dark hair and eyes ran past me shouting something, and my first thought was How clever, he speaks Italian so well. Will I have a child that speaks a language I hardly understand?
And then I saw Matteo. (Why call him X anymore?) He was walking toward me in a suit, his jacket in one hand and a bouquet of yellow roses in the other. I just watched him for a moment, feeling everything that this moment meant. Then, before I could say anything, he scooped me up in his arms and pressed his face into my hair. He just said over and over, “I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you,” and feeling his arms warm and solid around me, I closed my eyes and exhaled for the first time since I found out I’m pregnant. He isn’t perfect. But he’s mine.
JUNE 17
I still haven’t told him. I’m waiting for everything to feel natural between us again. He has been incredibly kind and gentle with me, and we’ve been spending most of our time walking through the streets of Venice. He is renting a small apartment with a view of a canal, and every half hour or so a gondolier passes below, usually singing to his passengers. Matteo told me he knew he’d made a mistake the second my train pulled away in Rome. He said he saw me everywhere—once he followed a woman who looked like me for half a block before realizing it couldn’t have been me. He said he couldn’t concentrate and that he’d started spending hours studying the photographs he’d taken when he was with me. He said I’d inspired some of his best work.
He invited me to stay in his apartment with him, but I booked a room in an inexpensive hotel. It’s run by an older woman and has just three bedrooms that all share one bathroom. There are lace doilies covering everything and I feel like I’m staying at an elderly relative’s house. I haven’t taken a photograph in more than three days, which may be a record for me. My mind is just too full. Tomorrow I’ll tell him about the baby. Tomorrow.