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PART ONE

Cry ItAway

1

Thera-Me

Exercise 1

I shove the pencilbehind my ear. I hold the sketch pad next to my face and lean into the mirror. I take inventory of my features in the self-portrait. Let’s see. I have rendered the oval shape of my face, neatly arched black eyebrowsallaPuglia, and a satisfactory Tuscan nose, prominent yet not too large. The lips are full in the center with commas in the corners. And finally. The eyes. Two round, dark planets of pain.

I prop up the pad on the table and stand to observe the drawing from a different perspective. I’ve been looking at this mug for thirty-three years, so you’d think there’d be no surprises. I lean over my work and squint. The hair is not right. I hold the tip of the soft HB graphite pencil flat, whisking it above the forehead in quick, successive strokes, smudging the hairline with my thumb, softening the fine strands at the temples. I’ve used every technique to lighten the overall effect and lift the mood of thisfaccia, but no matter how I tinker, I’m looking at the portrait of an unhappy woman.

I snap a photo of the sketch.

Dear Dr. Sharon,

The self-portrait you requested is attached. I make my living drawing marble installations to scale. I’m a draftsman who also provides designs for customers. Forgive the lack of nuance in the sketch, but it is a truthful rendering of how I see myself.

They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, but it would appear my sojourn began with a litany of missteps that led to a face-plant. This is why I am here. I need your help to get up and move forward. Emotionally.

I read your Keys to Contentment online.Make your own happiness.I will be happy to when I am able to define it.Follow your heart.Easy for others to say, sure, follow your heart but only if you have a good sense of direction.Listen to your inner voice.Trying. When I follow the daily Instagram posts that feature a cup of coffee, a cookie, and the advice of general philosophers, it seems my life gets worse. I’m trying to change, but reinvention is impossibly hard work for someone who isn’t sure where to begin. Or how.

You see, I’m the people pleaser in my family, the unsung cook, maid, babysitter, and driver. Looking down the road, I will become the nurse, responsible for our soon-to-be-elderly parents, because my brother and sister have families of their own. I am newly single and childless, which means I’m available to serve—more. My role has been carved as if it were etched in marble. And I know marble.

I created a dream board, with pictures and images of all I long for: it’s in the shape of the country of Italy, which should tell you something about my heart’s desire. There are the rolling hills of Tuscany, the marble quarries of Carrara, and the speedboats of Lake Como. I want to celebrate life, not dread it.

I moved into my parents’ basement apartment when I decided to leave my husband. My family prays that I reconsider and return to my ex. They are not alone. The general population of my hometown concurs. In fact, at our church, the Sodality, the women’s service organization equal to the Knights of Columbus for the men, even offered a (humiliating) mass for reconciliation. They were fervently praying one way, while I prayed the other. I said the rosary so many times during my divorce proceedings, I rubbed the face of Jesus off the crucifix.

I’ve held a passport since I was eighteen years old but have yet to use it. It is just one empty page after another of pristine navy jacquard without a single stamp to anywhere or the slightest scuff on the leather cover. When I went to renew it last year, the man at the passport office said, “Why bother?”

I want to bother! I want to know what it’s like to see the places that have lived in my imagination since I first read about them in books. Is there something out there for me, Dr. Sharon? Is there such a thing as bliss? If so, can you help me find it? With or without the cookie.

G.C.B., Lake Como, New Jersey

2

The Family Business

The red taillightson Uncle Louie’s chartreuse Impala blink as he backs the car out of his garage on his way to pick me up for work. He and Aunt Lil live in the last house on the corner lot before the intersection of Surf Avenue, which leads to the beach. Their Cape Cod, the most landscaped home in all of New Jersey, stands out among the mix of white split-level and soft blue saltbox houses that hug the curve of the shore of Lake Como like a rope of shimmering opals.

Through the years, Aunt Lil and Uncle Louie have installed every manner of ornamentation and architectural interest on their half-acre lot. There’s a koi pond, a three-tier marble fountain, and a walkway of gold-streaked pavers that swirls up to the front door like a yellow brick road. The backyard has a replica of the Parthenon built out of Carrara marble where they host the Knights of Columbus Weenie Roast every July Fourth. “My home is an advertisement for my business,” Uncle Louie says. “Italian craftsmanship and American elegance?” he asks, before he answers, “I’m your man.”

If he’s your man, then I’m your wingman. Uncle Louie is myboss at Capodimonte Marble and Stone, our family business since 1924.

My uncle pulls up to the curb. I inhale the chill of the morning air. It tickles my nose and fills my lungs, which causes me to sneeze with my whole body. I fish through my purse for a tissue.

“Jess. Are you serious?” Uncle Louie says through his open window as I wipe my nose.

I climb inside and snap the seat belt. He rolls his fist. “Leave your window down so any germs blow out.”

“I’m not sick. It’s the temperature.”

“Now you’re a scientist? If you don’t catch a cold, it won’t catch you. Words of wisdom from my mother.”

“Your hypochondria flares up whenever the seasons change.”

“You noticed, huh?” Uncle Louie’s mouth curves into a smile.