Page 5 of Every Step She Takes
“No, I’ll handle it. Thanks, though.”
I continue downstairs, where the parcel waits, my old name in those huge black letters. So I’ve solved the mystery of how it got into the apartment. The mystery of what’s inside remains, but it pales next to the question of who sent it. The few people who know I’m here would never make the mistake of using that name.
Someone has tracked me down.
I approach the box and look for the sender. There’s only an account number. When I gingerly turn the package over, I see the transit stamp. Originating in New York.
Has an enterprising journalist found me? That’s always possible, but a journalist would send a letter, not a boxed gift as a bribe. They trade in the currency of promises and threats. Threats to expose me if I don’t cooperate and promises to tell “my side of the story.” I learned my lesson the hard way.
Thinking of New York and publishing, my mind moves to books. Did some enterprising junior editor dig up my story and see a tell-all book in it? Send me a box of their other books to entice me?
No, thank you, junior editor. My story is my own, and my past can stay buried.
I lift the box and shake it, listening for the heavy thunk of books. Instead, I hear the whisper of something light and soft shifting from one end to the other.
I set the parcel down. Stare narrow eyed, as if I can switch on X-ray vision.
Or I could, you know, just open the box.
I run a nail over the packing tape, creasing it. Then I tuck the box under the small kitchen table and head to the fridge for our mid-afternoon snack.
It’s 2 a.m., and I’m lying awake, thinking about that damned parcel. I can’t open it until Marco leaves. It’s a lovely excuse. And total bullshit. Marco’s so deeply asleep that if the apartment burst into flames, I’d need to fireman-carry him down five flights of stairs.
As a tour guide, he’s the one who handles all the physically challenging excursions – from rowing the Tiber to climbing Mount Vesuvius. He also moonlights as a bike courier, which is still rare in Rome, city of scooters and mopeds and tiny trucks. When he sleeps, he’s dead to the world.
As if to test my theory, I brush a curl from his face. His breathing doesn’t even hitch. I smile and settle in, watching him sleep. His face would be model handsome if not for a broken nose that didn’t quite set and an upper-lip scar from cleft lip surgery. Yet the flaws only improve the package, making him a real person with a face that tells a story. A face that also complements his personality – easygoing and authentic, relaxed and charming. Tour guides make minimum wage, but Marco’s tips triple that with twenty-euro bills from the middle-aged men who enjoy his camaraderie, elderly women who appreciate his old-world manners and college girls who fold their phone numbers inside those bills.
I met him on a tour myself. It’d been the Pompeii and Mount Vesuvius one. I’d arrived late, and the only seat left on the bus was the one beside him. During the two-hour ride, polite conversation had turned real as we discovered shared passions for medieval history and old movies.
A week after that, I bumped into him at my favorite morning cappuccino spot. It wasn’t until months later that he reminded me that he’d asked for coffee shop recommendations under the guise of passing them on to clients. Then he’d popped in for a cappuccino every now and then, hoping for that “casual encounter.”
The trip down memory lane, though, doesn’t divert me. That package waits downstairs, and I could safely open it while Marco sleeps.
I need to open it. I won’t rest until I do. I’m just afraid.
Afraid? No, terrified.
Ten years ago, I fled the US, planning to live a transitory life abroad. See the world while never settling in one place. I’d spend two years in England, two in France, two in Germany, two in Italy… That was four years ago. Rome stuck, and I will not allow that box to detonate my life here.
I didn’t fight hard enough the last time. I was too young, too bruised. I will fight for this, and the battle begins with opening the damn package.
Marco doesn’t stir as I slide from bed. I tiptoe down the steps. They creak, as usual, and I pause at the bottom, straining to listen as the apartment remains silent.
I lift the package and set it on the table. Then I ease a knife from the drawer, slit the tape and tug one cardboard flap. It opens to show another box inside. A glossy snow-white box with a crimson lid, wrapped in a thick, black ribbon shot through with glittering silver thread. In silver script, the lid proclaims, “Ainsworth & Kent.” It’s a gift box from a Fifth Avenue staple, one I wouldn’t dare set foot in.
I tug one end of the bow, and it dissolves into a puddle of black velvet. Inside, bright red tissue paper is fastened with a silver Ainsworth & Kent seal. I peel back the seal and unfold multiple layers of tissue, first red and then gray and then white. The final layer reveals folded cashmere. I pull it out and find myself holding a silver-gray cashmere shrug with a single ebony button in the shape of a violin.
I lift the shrug for a better look. It’s like hoisting a cloud, and I can imagine draping it over my shoulders when Marco and I go out at night. Light enough to tuck into a bag, the color suitable for any dress. The button shows this is no random present. Someone took great care with their selection.
I remove the gift box from the cardboard package. It seems empty, but as I lift it, something shifts in the bottom. It’s a white envelope with “Lucy” written in looping script.
I touch my name, and a memory nudges. A letter with my name written in the same hand. The memory sinks leaden in my gut, and my fingers tremble. When I try to snag the memory, though, my mind slams shut and refuses to divulge a name.
I slit open the envelope. Inside is a folded sheet of paper. As I pull it out, my gut twists. That flash of memory again. My name on an envelope. Pulling out a folded sheet. Reading…
The memory reel snaps, leaving only my clenching gut and the smell of…
Jasmine?
