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Grandma Cap pressed her delicate pink lips into a soft smileand closed her eyes. She took three sips of breath, and without any struggle, she stopped. I watched her color change as her soul left her body. I didn’t panic; instead, I was filled with gratitude that I was with her. This was her passing as I imagined it, just the two of us.

“God bless you, Grandma.” I said the Hail Mary aloud so the Blessed Mother might meet her on the other side. It wasn’t a coincidence that Oscar flew away; he had completed his mission. Italians believe that birds appear to accompany our souls to heaven.

Outside the window, the light changed. The grim, rainy day grew darker under a heavy canopy of gray clouds over the lake. It was so dark, I turned on the lamp on the bedside table. I heard my mother at the front of the house calling out for us; Oscar wasn’t the only one around here with intuition. I let go of my grandmother’s hand and placed it gently across her waist.

I met my mother in the hallway. Her raincoat was wet. “Mom, she’s gone.”

“What do you mean?” My mother was stricken as she looked past me and back to the open door to the bedroom.

“I was holding her hand.”

Mom pushed me aside and ran into the bedroom. She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around her mother. I ran out of the house and into the rain to find my father.

I put downmy phone and wipe my eyes. I miss my grandmothers; somehow they seem closer to me in Carrara, even in memory.The therapist told me to push through my feelings and stay in the moment I live in, but the past is potent, and it has a grip on me.

A few well-dressed folks crisscross the piazza on their way to work. Soon they are joined by a young mother with wet hair pushing a pram with a crying baby inside. A shopgirl unfurls the awning over the entrance of her store. Someday, I hope to know all of their names, just as I know the names of the folks in Lake Como. A gaggle of schoolgirls runs together under the loggia, their backpacks bouncing as they go. A deliveryman pulls an Amazon cart piled with boxes (Et tu, Italia?), passing two older men as they have a spirited conversation beneath the statue of Maria Beatrice. A shopkeeper sweeps the portico and eavesdrops on their conversation. The scent of freshly baked bread wafts up to my terrace. I see a line of folks outside the bakery. My kind of people. I go back inside the apartment and throw on clothes.

I join the line at the bakery. I am completely unknown, except for the occasional stare acknowledging my status asuna sconosciuta. This is the first time I’ve been a stranger anywhere in the world, living in a place where people don’t know me and I don’t know them. Even when the Jersey Shore swelled with summer tourists, I could always find Lake Como locals in the crowd, and they could find me.Embrace the anonymity, I tell myself.You always wanted it and now you have it.

I place my order to the baker in Italian, who appreciates my efforts at speaking the language. I studied traditional Romance-based Italian with Latin roots in school, but there are more than thirty dialects in this country. If I live here for the rest of my life, I will never learn all of them.

I carry thecornetto, a buttery layered pastry, hot from the oven, back to my apartment. Everything in Italy is fresh. I haven’t slept in fresh air since I can remember, and I haven’t woken up to the sunsince I went on a Girl Scout camping trip in the Poconos when I was nine years old.

La Cava Di Michelangelo

(or Michelangelo’s Quarry)

I began working for Uncle Louie when I was eighteen years old. My job brought me a sense of purpose that nothing else could. So Conor understands that the sooner I earn a paycheck, the better I’ll feel about the future. He texted that he has already gotten me drafting work, which pays the rent, but I am required to share any information about salary to the FBI until the matter of Uncle Louie’s offshore accounts is settled. I am taxed in Italyandin the United States for my salary. Uncle Louie was right about most things, but he never mentioned two Caesars. I have gone from one constricting marriage to another: first with Bobby Bilancia and, second, a marriage of inconvenience with the US government and now the Italians. Once a week I get a text from Detective Campovilla, keeping me in the loop on their investigation.

“Sorry,” Conor apologizes, gripping the metal bar on the back of the seat of the van as we ascend the winding Canalgrande Alto from Carrara to the quarries at the top of the mountain. We slide into one another as the road swerves. I clench my teeth when we hit a deep pothole. There is one truth that binds all of humanity together around the globe, and on this we can agree: there is no such thing as a comfortable ride in a van.

“Perdonatemi. Questa è una strada di merda.” The driver looks up at us in the rearview mirror.

“He says it’s a bad road,” Conor says.

“I can’t talk right now. I don’t want to break a tooth.”

“Piove.” The driver blames the heavy rains.

“LaFortezza needs to fix the road,” Conor groans.

“Who’s LaFortezza?”

“Mauro. He is one of the last local quarry owners on the mountain. When he meets you and gets to know you, I think he’ll recommend you for projects.”

The van hits another pothole. The driver grunts.

“Thank you. Not for the ride, the recommendation,” I tell Conor.

“Se vuoi mordere, morditi la lingua,” Conor says.

“Is there an Italian saying for everything that happens in life?”

Conor laughs. “Tutte le riposte si trovano nella saggezza della vera amicizia.”

The van tilts close to the edge of the cliff as the driver hits a curve. I stifle a scream, but Conor cries out in fear loudly enough for both of us.

The driver chuckles. “Non sono mai andato oltre la montagna.” The driver’s reassurance that he’s never gone over the mountain does little to comfort us.