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I embraced my mother. I didn’t want to fight with her. I buried my face in her neck like I was five years old and I didn’t know where the Shalimar perfume ended and she began. This time, though, I comforted her. We stood in the place that serves as a reminder that she will never see her mother again in this lifetime. Whatever questions she failed to ask Grandma Cap, whatever secrets they held, whatever went unsaid, will never be revealed. It’s over. But I still have my mother, and as long as I do, there’s a chance we can learn to communicate.

I close outof the notes app and go back inside my apartment. I flip the latch on the French doors and draw the curtains. I slideback into bed and pull the covers over me. Smokey jumps up on the comforter and marches through the thick folds of the down squares until she reaches my face, as is her routine.

Exhausted, I’m almost asleep when my phone lights up in the dark. It’s a text from Angelo.

I hope it’s not too late to thank you. My mother is not easy.

I smile and text him back.

You haven’t met Philly Baratta.

I’ve been apologizing for my mother all my life, so I know how Angelo feels. But I always had Uncle Louie, who was the balm.

I envy Angelo’s small family. It must be simpler to navigate. Is my family too close? Is that the issue? Did we insert ourselves into one another’s affairs without invitation? Did we believe that a secret would stay that way forever, harming no one, even if your own child was once the girl in the plastic bubble and you didn’t bother to tell her? Is it even a problem if your parents fail to share that you almost died when you were born? What good will it do you now?

I may never figure this out and it doesn’t appear that my landlord and her son will either. The therapist encouraged me to sever all ties, at least until I had answers. If I had to guess, Dr. Nora isn’t Italian. She can’t understand how I could love these people and occasionally hate them too. In my next session, I will explain that the Caps and Barattas were in each other’s pockets, but those pockets, for my money, were filled with gold.

17

Pisa

A marigold sunbursts through the clouds and illuminates the marble cathedral, the duomo, the baptistry, andil più famoso, the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I snap a photo of the tower and post it on Insta:Just what Insta needs #AnotherPicOfTheTower.

The tower looks like a wobbly stack of bone china plates in a fancy hotel kitchen that could crash to the ground with a nudge. The layers of eggnog marble are separated by arched windows that let in the light. The field around the tower has turned to a drab brown, like a tapestry that has aged, its vibrant colors drained over time to a soft patina, with only a few gold threads remaining that glisten in the sun. Conor and I stroll through the statues of saints and ornate marble urns on pedestals, treasures of the Italian Renaissance.

“Prato dei miracoli,” Conor says.

“I don’t need a field of miracles. One would do. And I hope it comes with keys to my new apartment that allows pets.”

“I’ll help you look.”

“You’ve done enough for me. I love my place at Signora Strazza’s. But I’m not giving up Smokey. ‘Women and cats.’ I’m on the team now. I never had a pet growing up because my motherskeevedanimals. What are the chances I move into a building where the landlord feels the same?”

“The same issues follow us around until we solve them,” Conor says.

“It’s my fate to be pushed around, have you noticed? I can’t even get closure with the FBI.”

“Why don’t you close down Cap Marble and start over?” Conor suggests.

“Because I don’t want to be the person who closes down a family business that’s a hundred years old.”

“That’s how they get us. TheLword.”

“Love.”

“Legacy,” Conor corrects me.

I take his arm as we walk. “You’ve done all right with your dad’s company; maybe I can too.”

“My solution was to grow the company after my dad died. My dad was the greatest, but he was cautious. I’d say, ‘Pop, I’m over here. I know Italy. Use me. Let’s expand this thing,’ but he didn’t get on board with it. When he died, I figured while I’m exporting marble from Carrara, why not expand to include other products? Now we export stone from Scotland and wine from Puglia.”

“You’re turning into Googs. That’s not for me. I love what I do. Marble and stone are enough. I love drafting. Thanks to you, I’m doing it. I haven’t needed to breathe into a brown paper bag since I arrived in Italy.”

Conor squints up at the tower. “Do you want to climb it?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t like heights, do you? Trust me. It will not topple.”