All the Way to Heaven

Chapter 27

I awoke on Monday morning with an overwhelming sense of regret. It was a terrible way to start a day, but as I lay there, my head throbbing, my mouth lined with cotton, I realized it wasn't the same kind of regret I'd brought with me to Italy, but the regret of my own bad behavior.

I'd had far too much to drink last night, and I was paying for it in more ways than one. I regretted my shameful behavior and the disappointing ending to the still life that had come alive in my head.

It should have culminated with me in the arms of a besotted lover, strains of Puccini floating in the air around us as we swayed together along a magical moonbeam, or at the very least, with endless exchanges of kisses on cheeks among family and friends, lingering looks and ciaos and arrivedercis brimming with promises of tomorrow.

Instead, it ended with me drunk and flirting unbecomingly with two men I knew were already at odds, my friends babysitting me until they were sure I wasn't going to die from alcohol poisoning, and me getting all snarky because Paulo hadn't told me he was from America. I didn't even get a thrill out of Cosimo's coy offer to help put me to bed. Not that I would have taken him up on it, even had I been in the best of moods, but I didn't even bother feeling flattered. After a muttered goodnight and thank you to everyone, I lumbered off to my room, managed to fall into bed without putting too much weight on my foot, and drifted off pouting about Paulo.

Why? Why did it matter that he hadn't told me? At first I tried to convince myself that I was, indeed, overreacting, but the longer I lay there in my physical discomfort—the water balloon in my bladder, the headache from hell, my foot resting at an odd angle because I hadn't bothered to prop it up last night—the more I realized I had a right to be bothered, if not angry. He wasn't just a fellow student here on vacation, but an American citizen who quite likely had a working knowledge of how a person survives the ups and downs of a different culture. Maybe he'd never had his man purse stolen, along with all his personal documents, but by his own admission, he'd worked with many of the youth who were responsible for such actions. In fact, he might even know the kid who took my bag.

And I bet he knew exactly where the American Consulate in Florence was, too, but did he offer to give me the number to call or tell me the best way to get there? Nope.

Paulo had made it clear from the very first moment our eyes had met on that stupid train that he was not interested in interacting with me on any level.

Fine. I got it. I may be slow and more than a little naive, but I wasn't stupid.

"Oh, Ani," I moaned, suddenly remembering what I'd said to him last night about his smile, the way my fingertip fit just right in the bow of his lip.

Having used the toilet, brushed my teeth twice, and my hair, scrubbed my face, and taken a dose of the prescription painkillers—this time for my head, not my ankle—I sat in front of the open closet, trying to figure out what to wear to make X-rays easier. I did not feel like removing clothing for Cosimo today, not for any reason, but I didn't know what kind of reaction I'd get if I showed up in my teeny-tiny miniskirt. When a light tap on the door drew my attention, I smiled to see Isa standing there, a tray in hand, and what looked like a dress draped over her shoulder.

"I come bearing gifts for you, Ani. How are you feeling this morning?"

"I've been better." Then I sighed remorsefully. "Not that you have any reason to believe me. I've been a terrible guest, Isa. I'm so sorry." I rotated the chair around and joined her as she set the tray on the foot of the bed.

"No, Ani. You have no need to apologize."

"But I got stupid drunk last night." I put a hand on her arm to still her movements.

She handed me a steaming cup of coffee, not black the way I drank it, but pale with cream and lots of sugar. "A latte to wake up your smiles today."

I had to admit, it was delicious.

Perching on the edge of the bed, knees together, she faced me, her expression turning serious. "Ani, I feel responsible for your condition last night. I did not pay attention, and I know Lazzaro wine is strong. Cosi should have known, too. We are to blame, tesora, not you."

I shook my head but didn't bother arguing. "How long do I have to get ready?"

"Plenty of time. Cosi had a surgery this morning so he will not be available to see you until after lunch."

"Surgery? What kind of surgery does he do?" I pictured Cosimo bent over the swollen toe of a hangnail patient and grimaced sympathetically for both of them.

"This morning he is performing, em, how do you say rinoplastica?" She tapped the bridge of her nose with one finger.

"Rhinoplasty? As in a nose job?" I closed my eyes, mentally rearranging everything in my mind. The borderline erotic artwork on the walls of his clinic, the boutique feel of his exam rooms, the absence of patients in the waiting room suffering from the usual maladies of colds and runny noses. "I thought—so Cosimo is a plastic surgeon?"

"Yes. Cosmetic surgery. He is very good. He has patients who come from far away to have his skill." She smiled proudly and I thought about those long-fingered hands cupping my jaw, curling warmly around my own hands, and I imagined him anew, bent over the face of an aging socialite willing to pay good money to get a few of her best years back.

"I can see why. He's a wonderful doctor. So gentle." I agreed, nodding and turning away back to the closet so she wouldn't see my face. "And now I need to figure out what to wear for my visit. I only have that skirt," I pointed to the one puddled on the floor near my bedside table where I'd left it when I got in bed last night. I didn't mention the other one.

"Ah! This is for you! Mama came to me this morning and said she thought you might be able to use more dresses until your leg is better. It belongs to her so it is long enough for you to wear." Isa held up the item of clothing she'd brought in with her. The dress had a scoop neck knit bodice in a color that reminded me of the burnt sienna crayon from my childhood. The sleeves were cuffed at the elbows and the skirt fell from a slightly elevated waist in several soft layers of what had to be real silk in gradient shades from goldenrod to amber. It was a dress made for a Sunday stroll in the fall.

"Isa, it's gorgeous. I can't borrow that. What if I spill something on it or if it catches in my wheelchair and tears?"

"She will not take 'no' for an answer, Ani. You should already know that." She lay the dress out on the bed and fanned the skirt. "Besides, it is not to borrow. She gives it to you because it is a better color for you with your cream cheeks and your chocolate hair. Come. I will help you get dressed."

It did look good on me, especially with my cheeks flushed from objection. For that, I was especially grateful, because I felt like I needed to armor up before facing Cosimo. Were all the men in the world so reticent? Jacob not bothering to tell me about his wife and children. Paulo not bothering to tell me he was from my homeland. Cosimo letting me believe he was accustomed to treating skinned knees and runny noses.

Maybe I simply hadn't asked any of them the right questions, but it seemed to me that these bits and pieces of personal trivia were pretty important bits and pieces.

No wonder he hadn't had a wheelchair to spare in his office. It was unlikely he had much need of one for any more than transferring a patient from the exam room to the front door and their waiting chauffeured rides.

We agreed to head into town right after lunchand see Cosimo immediately. That way, Isa could drop me off at l'Aurora toenjoy an afternoon espresso and a snack with Madalina while Isa ran someerrands in town. If I was approved for crutches, maybe I could arrange withMadalina to leave the wheelchair with her so she could return it to Paulo. Iwould be perfectly satisfied never to have to see him again. I'd been enough ofa nuisance to him already.