Chapter Seventeen
Alessandra
Staring into the three distinct fingerprints in my personal jar of peanut butter is a rude awakening this morning. I can hear Deanna’s reaction in my head, as clear as day. Your roommate eats your food with her bare hands? What is she, a raccoon? Girl, NO.
I learned that Flora, my new roommate, has very few boundaries the moment I first opened the door two weeks ago, laden with my luggage. She greeted me from the couch upon which she sprawled, naked from the waist down. A gasp and perhaps a dramatic averting of my eyes didn’t move her in the slightest to go put pants on.
Instead, she waved me in, complaining, “Come in, come in. There’s a draft.”
Good thing I’m fluent in Italian because introductions could have been even worse, if that’s possible to imagine. It only got better when I learned of her live-in boyfriend. No need to be fluent in any language to recognize the animalistic moaning and growling of their lovemaking in the next room. These walls aren’t just thin—they are Vatican-wafer thin, but without any of the decorum.
I stare at the horrible lines in my peanut butter jar, tears threatening to spill out of the corners of my eyes. Deanna gave it to me as a parting gift. Take this in memory of me, and eat it while you wish you were back in the land of saturated fats, she said, a smirk on her perfectly painted lips.
Flora must have found it when she came home at five in the morning, drunk and stomping around like a goddamn elephant. Or worse, maybe she found it while sober and simply thought it was fine to scoop it right out of my super-special homesick stash of American snacks.
She’s like a child. A small child. Nothing you aren’t familiar with. You’re good with children, I remind myself. But this bitch is not a child. She’s a grown woman whom I can’t put in time-out for being nasty or rude. I can’t imagine Erica behaving this badly, or even little Ben. So here I am, living in the nightmarish reality of a terrible roommate, actually missing the little monsters I used to take care of.
I realize I’m still staring at the polluted jar of peanut butter. With a huff, I jam the lid back on and twist. Into the trash it goes, along with my moronic dreams of how this trip was supposed to begin.
According to my dream vision, I was supposed to live in a moderately sized two-bedroom, with a small living room and a spacious kitchen for all the fantastic dinners I would be making. There would maybe even be a balcony where I would sip my delicious Italian coffee early in the mornings as I watched the sun rise over the stone buildings. My roommate was supposed to be some magic clone of Deanna, who knew all the fun clubs to hit up and coffee shops to contemplate the mysteries of life in. I was supposed to fit right in here, like a lost little puzzle piece of the great Colosseum, finally found.
Instead, I have mildew in the bathroom, barred windows, and a roommate who leaves at midnight to do God knows what and doesn’t come back until five in the morning.
I find myself reminiscing. I miss Ben and his cute little diaper-butt. The absurdity of the thought makes me laugh out loud. Am I really missing the messes of being a nanny? They were simple. I knew how to calm a tantrum, wipe up a mess, and improvise a game. It may have been exhausting some days, but at least it was familiar. This new life isn’t one I know how to navigate.
I open my computer, wrapping my cardigan closely around me. Today is Saturday, finally, and my first free day since landing in Italy. All other days have been filled with back-to-back private tutoring lessons.
The agency has no office, which was a shock. I have yet to meet my supervisor. My only interaction with the agency has been via email. One thing they didn’t tell me prior to hiring me is that these would be home visits—homes that I would need a mode of transportation to get to. I couldn’t very well bring a car across the ocean with me, and I have yet to find any affordable public transportation. A rickety bike I bought for twenty euros at a pawn shop has brought me from location to location, sometimes only to be greeted by a frown and “No, grazie. Addio!” No, thanks, no lesson today. Good-bye! And so back on the bike I go.
With a quick shake of my shoulders, I try to think positively. At least I get paid today. Everything is much more expensive here than I remember from my class trip so many years ago. The past two weeks have consisted of eating half portions of my usual meals just to get through the day without falling over from fatigue and malnutrition. Fresh, bountiful groceries are at the top of my list. My stomach grumbles angrily at me, deprived of my usual breakfast of toast and peanut butter. Yes, food is a top priority.
I access my bank account online to check for the direct deposit of my first paycheck. The Internet connection chugs along at a depressing rate, and I tap my fingers impatiently. It finally opens.
That can’t be right. Two hundred euros for two weeks? I do the math quickly in my head. That’s under two hundred fifty dollars for all the lessons, uphill pedaling, and doors slammed in my face. I rifle through the papers strewn across my table, looking for my contract. Surely there must be a mistake.
A hundred euros every day of lessons, right? Certainly, that’s what it said. I couldn’t have misread it. I find the number with a sigh of relief, and now I look for the rate.
Congrua. Stipend. My rate is a weekly stipend of one hundred euros.
The tears I forced away after the peanut-butter crisis return now, full force. I crumple to the floor with a whimper, feeling like an idiot.
How could I have signed this silly piece of paper? How could I have been so blinded by my vision of Italy that I didn’t read the fine print? One hundred euros a week is simply not a livable wage. I’ll starve in this foreign country, and have no pasta belly, no cultured friends, no Italian dreamboat of a man to romance me with fine dining and sparkling wine.
No Quinn.
My computer dings, announcing a new email. Wiping my tears with the sleeve of my cardigan, I pull myself up off the floor and peek at the screen.
My breath catches in my throat, and I almost fall out of my chair. It's an email from QKINGSLEY.
Subject: Checking in
Dearest Alessandra,
I hope the radio silence means that you’re having so much fun, you’ve forgotten about your life back in Boston. Italy must be incredible. I hope it has swept you off your feet, or at least kept you well fed on delicious Italian cuisine and wine.
Boston is lifeless without you. Every Thursday, I wait for you to walk through the door, but am instead greeted by our old friend Sal. He senses that I miss you. I’m distracted, constantly staring out the window during our lessons. We talk mostly about you, in Italian, of course. The poor man has unwittingly become a sort of grief counselor for me. He says my Italian has improved, though. I said, only thanks to Alessandra.
It’s not the same, however. The language has no flavor in my mouth any longer. It’s dry, like sand, no longer rich and full of life. Sal has asked if I would like to continue lessons as he’s afraid he can no longer teach me in this state. I will continue, don’t worry. Quitting the language would only make me feel farther from you.
I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bring down your spirits. I only mean to convey how very important you have become to me. I sincerely hope that Italy is everything you ever dreamed it would be, and more. I can’t wait to hear about it. Soon, please.
With my utmost affection,
Quinn
Tears sting my eyes as I scramble for my phone. I don’t care how much this will cost. I don’t care that I’m six hours ahead of him. I need to speak to him, or even just leave a voice mail. I need to hear his voice.
The phone rings once.
“Alessandra?”
My name on his tongue is the sweetest sound—urgent and sweet at once. I almost begin to cry again, but swallow my tears.
“Quinn, hello. I—”
“You called. You finally called.”
“Yes, I’m so sorry that I haven’t yet. It must be so early.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” He laughs. “I was awake. Been having trouble sleeping, actually.”
“Me, too,” I say, and my voice cracks a little.
“Are you all right?” He’s so perceptive, always aware of my moods, even when I try to hide them. It makes my heart ache even further.
“Of course. I’m just tired. It’s been a whirlwind with work,” I say, not completely lying.
“I’m sure, with all the people you’re meeting, too.”
I swallow a lump in my throat, taking in the bareness of my desolate flat. “Yes, it’s so busy, but it’s amazing.” I don’t even believe myself when I say it. How could he? There’s silence on the other end. And then—
“I miss you,” he says, his voice low.
“Me too,” I whisper back, my heart fulfilled with so many conflicting emotions. “I miss you terribly.”
“Tell me everything. Is your apartment okay? Is it everything you dreamed?”
I nod my head enthusiastically, hoping to quell the tears I can feel rising in my eyes. “It’s wonderful. I woke up early yesterday and watched the sunrise. The food is incredible; you’d love it. I even bought myself a bike to get around.”
“That sounds amazing.”
“It’s great,” I say, forcing the words out.
“You’ll call again?” he asks, the question almost an earnest command.
“Yes, I will.” I close my eyes and savor these last few moments.
“Good. . .good.” The relief in his voice fills my ear with such devotion, I can almost feel his thumb, gently running along the side of my face to push my stray hairs aside.
“Talk soon,” I promise.
“Talk soon.”
We both sit in the silence of our shared misery for long, aching seconds. I stare at the screen, watching the seconds go by before I press a shaking finger on the END CALL button.
My tears fall freely now, slipping down my cheeks. This is a homesickness I could have never imagined.
What am I doing here?