Ciao (Goodbye)

I woke up the next morning with my head in a fog. I had no desire to get out of bed. No desire to pack. No desire to face Mario one more time. All I wanted to do was pull the covers back over my head and shut out the world.

How had everything gone so wrong? Two weeks earlier I was completely in love, happily engaged, and planning my future in Italy. Now, my entire life was in shambles. My fiancé had been replaced with a man I hardly recognized. The wedding was off.  And since all the plans for the move were already in motion, including a resignation from my job that was effective in less than a week, I had no idea what would await me when I returned home to DC.

My mind was spinning, plummeting me into a dark, depressed and scary place. I knew it was dangerous to continue to lay there, my mind replaying all of the most hurtful moments from the last two weeks, desperately trying to find the moment where if I had only done something differently, everything would have gone back to normal. And yet, I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

And so I lay there, falling deeper into despair, until an errant glance at the clock jolted me up.  Mario would be there soon to take me to the airport, and I was nowhere close to being ready.

After a quick shower and some haphazard packing, I was still not completely ready when Mario pulled up.  He quietly waited while I frantically pulled the rest of my stuff together – including the extra suitcase of things that I had planned to leave behind in Italy to help start my move into Mario’s apartment – and finally, we were ready to leave.

The drive to the airport was never ending. Neither Mario nor I had anything to say at this point. All hopes of a last minute reconciliation were completely dead.  All I wanted to do was find a way to get on the plane with some semblance of my pride still intact.

I had thought that Mario would just drop me off, but he seemed reluctant to leave. He quietly waited with me in line to check in and drop off my bags and then seeing that there was still plenty of time before I had to board, steered me over to an airport café. I watched dumbfounded as be bought some sandwiches, which we then awkwardly ate as he tried to make conversation.

Once again, Mario’s words were all over the place. Small talk was combined with excuses and apologies. I could see the pain, frustration and resignation in his eyes, but there was no cracking the wall that he had erected.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. Shoving the last bit of the tasteless sandwhich into my mouth, I grabbed my carry on and tried to escape to the security checkpoint.  Once again, Mario kept pace with me, and just as I was about to enter the line, I felt his restraining hand on my arm.  He pulled me to the side, but as I looked at him expectantly, he refused to meet my eyes. Finally, so softly that I almost missed it, he uttered two simple words.

“Mi dispiace.”  (“I’m sorry.”)

Those words were my undoing. My attempt to leave with my dignity intact was thwarted with all the emotion that lay behind his words. Tears immediately sprang to my eyes, and, helpless to stop them, I lowered my head as they began to flow freely down my face.

Mario pulled me into his arms as I cried.  Cried for the pain. Cried for the loss.  And cried for the confusion over how we had ended up in that moment.  My body started to shake with the sobs, and still I couldn’t stop. I could feel him stroking my back, kissing my head, but his tenderness only made my cry harder. Then, through my whimpers, I could hear his whispered words. Words of regret. Of Pain. And excuses. So many excuses.

I couldn’t bear to listen to another word. Shoving myself away from his embrace, I managed to pull myself together. Mopping my face with my now permanent supply of tissues, I reached down and grabbed my bag. Once I had my composure, I lifted my head, and pinned him with a long and searching glance. Then, without a word, I turned on my heel and walked away. I didn’t look back as I weaved through the line, showing my passport and ticket, and going through security. Then, once I had collected all my things, I gave into the desire for one final moment.  Mario, was still there, watching me. He raised a hand to wave, but I simply stared.  Then, without a word or gesture, I turned my back on him and walked into the terminal.

As I found a chair and waited for my plane to board, I felt a wave of shock rush over me. I had no idea how I had arrived at this moment. And I had no idea what I was going to do next.

All I knew was that life as I had known it was never going to be the same.

L’Ultima Notte (The Last Night)

When I finally entered the Fiori’s house that night, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. Everything was so surreal, and I couldn’t help but wish that I would wake up to find that it had all just been one terrible nightmare.

Signora Fiori was still awake when I walked through the front door.  Since she had more of an “early to bed” personality, I was surprised to see her puttering around the kitchen. She took one look at my face and realizing that nothing had been solved, pulled me into a loving embrace.

I was just about to completely lose it, and crumble into a bawling, sniveling mess, when suddenly, she pulled back. Kissing my check, she got a devilish look in her eye, and told me to sit down at the table. And then, the true Italian mamma comfort started.  Cupboards were opened, and a pile of food started to appear on a counter.  Guessing correctly that I had eaten anything substantial during my journey, or in the hours that followed with Mario, she began to dish out love through the best way Italians know how: food. Pasta, bread, and cheese were quickly followed by fruit and an obscene amount of good, European chocolate.  The television was turned on, and a cheesy Italian movie started to play. And for one blissful hour, I managed to overcome the sadness and panic that had been building throughout the entire evening.

When I finally stumbled towards my bedroom, I knew that I had one more thing to do before I tried to get some sleep.  The thought of telling people the news made me physically ill.  I was sill reeling from the entire experience and wasn’t in any way prepared to talk about the past few weeks with anyone.  So I took the cowards way out. I drafted a short email, one version for my immediate family, one for my boss, and one for my friends who were planning the bridal shower that was supposed to happen as soon as I returned.

The engagement is off.  No, I’m not doing well.  And no, I don’t want to talk about it.

I pushed send as the tears started to fall.  The words had such as sense of finality. It seemed like I wasn’t going to be waking up from this nightmare after all.

Domenica Sera (Sunday Night)

Sunday dragged. My train wasn’t until the afternoon, so I had a whole day to think about what would happen when I returned to Lucca.  And a very long train ride.  I no longer knew if I was anxious for or dreading the moment when the train would finally pull into the station.

At last, the final minutes and the final kilometers (I was in Italy after all) passed me by and I found myself standing on the platform of the small station in Lucca.  I looked around but Mario was nowhere in sight.

This was not an auspicious beginning.

The temperatures were freezing, and having little desire or patience to wait around for Mario to show up, I grabbed my suitcase and headed towards the main building.  Mario and I hadn’t been specific about where we would meet, and though I had expected him to meet the train, I now hoped that I would find him inside. I hurried inside and scanned the interior.

No sign of Mario.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my already frazzled emotions.  I reached for my purse to pull out the phone that Mario had lent me, and just as my hand closed around it, I saw him outside, hurrying towards the station.

I don’t know what I expected.  Just like when I had first arrived, the desire to rush into his arms was almost overwhelming.  Yet pride held me back. I needed to first know where he stood.

As fate would have it, our reunion was interrupted by some friends who were also in the station.  Obviously not picking up on the tension flying between us, they shouted greetings as they made their way across the station.  Surprised to see me with bag in hand, they inquired over my journey. I mumbled some lame excuse about needing to make some visits and silently willed them to leave. I didn’t want to be rude, but the last thing I wanted to do was make conversation with people I barely knew.

Luckily, Mario felt the same way.  As politely as possible, he made our excuses and then led the way out to the car. There was so much to say, yet silence descended as he started to head out to the Fiori’s. The first few attempts at conversation – mostly small talk about the goings on of the past few days – stumbled badly, eventually returning us to silence.

We were way past the Fiori’s by this point, but Mario continued to drive. Thought he conversation finally turned to the painful subject of our fast deteriorating relationship, he seemed unable to look in my direction. Finding it impossible to talk to a man whose eyes were glued to the road, I asked him if he could pull over so that we could talk.  He wasn’t too happy about the suggestion, stating that it was easier for him to think while he was driving. However, since he wasn’t talking much anyways, and I was completely distracted, I decided to be bold and insist.

Mario pulled into a vacant parking lot.  Once the car was turned off, a heavy feeling descended on the car. The moment of truth had arrived.

“Mario, devo sapere cosa stai pensando. Cos’e successo?” (“Mario, I need to know what you are thinking.  What has happened?”

There was a moment of silence.  While I feared that Mario would never start talking, I knew that the only chance at repairing our relationship depended on him opening up. After two weeks of hell, I still had no idea what was going on in his head.

So I waited.

Finally, Mario started to talk. But even as the words came haltingly out of his mouth, little was actually said. Excuses started piling up, with a frequent return to how little time there was before I left and how he wasn’t cut out for a long distance relationship.

I was floored. Nothing was making sense. How could the distance have caused out current problem when I was actually physically by his side? And why had he stopped trying when there was still plenty of time left in my visit?

Mario continued to talk in circles.  The more I tried to clarify, the more confused his excuses became. The frustration continued to mount. Mario was clearly not revealing the source of the problem, but I had no idea of whether it was because he didn’t want to talk about the real problem or because he simply didn’t know.

As the hours passed, my heart sank further and further. One of the greatest parts of our relationship had always been our ability to understand each other.  Though miscommunications had obviously happened, we had always gotten through them because we had both been committed to finding a way to understand the other. Ironically, Mario had always been the one that pushed us to find common ground, never letting me give into the frustrations that arose from our different languages and cultures. Now, it seemed that he had simply given up. And as a result, we were getting nowhere.

The words eventually ran out. Mario and I had not gotten any closer to reconciliation. I hadn’t seen my engagement ring since I had given it to him, and there was no sign of it tonight. I was leaving the following day. And finally reality descended.

It was over.

Roma (Rome)

(2010)

When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t immediately remember where I was.  As I looked around at the unfamiliar furniture, the events of the previous evening rushed back into my memory. Immediately I could feel the tears well up and I closed my eyes in a effort to shut out both the memories, the emotions and the day ahead.

As much as I would have preferred to crawl up in a ball and sleep through the day, I could hear Cara in the other room.  I knew by glancing at the clock that Alto had already left for work and since I was sleeping in their main room I knew that I needed to get up and make that space available once again.  But I simply didn’t have the energy to move.

And so I laid there.  Cara eventually peaked her head in, only to find me staring vacantly out the window. Without a word she padded across the room and laid down next to me on the sofa bed.  Enveloping me in her arms, she simply held me, letting all her love and strength pass through her to my devastated condition.

I’m not sure how long we lay there before she started talking. She started with our favorite story from when we had been missionaries together. Once that one was over she started on another favorite memory. One by one she went through all the ups and downs, the highs and lows. I couldn’t help being pulled in, and soon our laughter filled the room as we reminisced about the moments that had solidified our friendship into a sisterhood.

Gradually the laughter subsided and we descended into silence. I was immediately slammed with the reality of my situation, a reality that hurt so acutely that it made me gasp aloud. Determined that I wouldn’t repeat the previous night’s emotional melt down, I took a deep breath and forced myself to sit up. My first instinct was to check the cell phone Mario had lent me to see if he had called or left me a message.

Nothing.

Mario’s lack of communication sent an acute stab of pain through my heart. I wiped away an errant tear as I put the phone down and headed to the shower. Cara was too good a friend to let me mope all day, so after I made myself presentable we started to make plans.

The next few days passed in a haze. Alto and Cara did their best to both distract me and cheer me up. My days were full following Cara around on her errands and work, and the evenings were full of good food and laughter. After learning about my disastrous birthday, they were determined to celebrate with an evening full of gourmet pizza, a Rome-by-night tour (including a stop at our favorite gelateria) and a homemade birthday cake.  With every antic and every plan, I loved these two more. And with every passing, silent, moment, my anger towards Mario grew.

How could he just let me leave? How could he stay silent? I was leaving the country on Monday and our relationship was in shambles.  How were we going to resolve this? And the worst part was, I didn’t even know what had happened! He had simply shut down. How could I help fix something when I didn’t even know what was broken?

The silence was driving me crazy. Finally, on Saturday afternoon, I couldn’t handle it anymore.  Almost 48 hours had passed since I’d left. I was returning to the United States in another 48. Something had to give.

I was debating what I would say when, suddenly, my phone started to ring.

Mario.

For a moment, I could just stare at it, dumbfounded. Then, realizing it was about to go to voicemail, I scrambled to answer it.

Ciao.

Mario’s voice sounded strained.  Before I could say anything, he asked if there was any chance that Nonna’s return plane ticket had ended up in my bag.  She was supposed to leave that evening and he couldn’t find her ticket anywhere.

I was stunned into silence.  After almost 2 days of non-communication he finally called and THIS is what he had to say?

Trying to contain my emotions, I assured him that no, her ticket was not in my bag.

Va bene. (Alright)

Silence.

Then, I couldn’t help myself.

C’e qualcos’altro che vuoi dire? (Is there anything else you want to say?)

Mario was quiet for a moment. I could almost feel his shrug through the telephone.

Come stai? (How are you?)

I had no response. Though I had been imagining our first conversation in my head for the past two days, at this moment, after what had just transpired, I had nothing to say.

Bene. (Fine.)

Which was a total lie.

Once again, silence descended. I could feel the tears of frustration welling up, but I was determined to keep my composure.

Quando torni? (When do you return?)

In that moment, all my fanciful dreams of Mario rushing down to Rome, proclaiming his idiocy of letting me leave in the first place, vanished.  There was going to be nothing easy about my return. And though I ached to have everything resolved between us, I suddenly began to dread the moment that I would see him again. All I could see in front of me was pain.

Domenica sera. (Sunday night.)

Mario quietly acknowledged my response and told me to call him when I knew my train times so that he could pick me up at the station.

And that was it.

After he hung up, I stood there for a long time, holding the phone in my hands. In less than 24 hours I would return. Throughout this whole experience, I had managed to hold onto to the hope that there would be reconciliation. That Mario would get past whatever his problem was and we would be able to move forward. That I would eventually wake up from this nightmare and continue on with the new life that was before me.

That hope was beginning to fade.

Rifugio (Haven)

(2010)

I littered the train tracks between Lucca and Rome with an endless stream of tears. I’m sure my fellow passengers thought that I was somewhat crazy, but I was too wrapped up in my sorrow to care.  All I knew was that I was trapped in a nightmare, and I didn’t know how to wake up.

When I finally arrived at Rome, I still had to navigate the subway system to get to Cara’s home on the outskirts of the city.  The task at hand forced me to pull myself together, but the sheer force of will required to figure out where I was going, exhausted my remaining physical and emotional strength. By by the time I arrived, I felt devoid of emotion, and though Cara welcomed with a large hug and a concerned expression, I just shook my head.  I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it.

Cara concentrated on distracting me, plying me with stories and updates about her life and her family.  She introduced me to her neighborhood and her apartment, and called her husband Alto to let him know that I had arrived safely.  He hurried home from work, bearing gifts of bombe, an Italian desert that resembles a cream or chocolate filled doughnut, and we passed the evening watching an old movie.  While trying to find the enjoyment in being with old friends, I felt like I was moving through a fog. The shock of the last few days had completely drained me, leaving behind an emotionally fragile, empty shell. And even though I knew that Cara and Alto were desperately curious to know what had transpired, they sensed that it was best not to push me for information.

My only goal was to survive the evening. I was so close.  The movie ended and everyone began making preparations to go to sleep.  The futon was turned down into a bed for me, and I just had to get through their nightly prayer.

As we kneeled down around my makeshift bed, I could feel the first crack in my composure. As Alto prayed, the tears started streaming down my face. But it was when he asked for help and guidance for me during this difficult time that the sobs erupted.  I buried my face in the blanket, desperately trying to muffle the wails that seemed to emit from somewhere deep in my soul.  My whole body started to shake, and my legs gave out. The dam had broken, and I was helpless against the onslaught of emotion.

I immediately felt Cara’s arms embrace me, followed by Alto’s hands on my head, stroking back my hair.  Both tried to offer some measure of comfort.  But all I could do was cry.

How could Mario do this? How could he let me leave? Why wouldn’t he talk to me? What had happened to the man that I had fallen in love with?

What was I going to do?

I was in danger of completely falling apart. I could hear Cara and Alto concerned voices whispering above my head, but I couldn’t bring myself to listen.  I knew they were discussing me, but I was past the point of all control.

Gradually the sobs began to dissipate. The emotion of heartbreak began to be tinged with embarrassment as I realized what I had done.  But when I tried to apologize, they simply hushed me and pulled me into their arms.  I had found a haven in the middle of my storm.

E Allora? (And Now?)

(2010)

Once again, I found myself sobbing over Skype to my mom.  Everything was a mass of confusion and pain.  I didn’t know what was happening between Mario and myself, but I could feel that we were heading down a devastating path.

After along talk with my mom, I headed out to the kitchen to find a glass of water.  Much to my surprise, Signora Fiori was still awake, watching some television.  After one look at my red and swollen face, she immediately embraced me and asked me what was wrong.

That, of course, just opened the floodgates.

Signora Fiori was as kind as kind can be.  Though obviously shocked at the turn of events, she plied me with love and food (the ultimate Italian expression of love).  When I told her that I was thinking of leaving, she urged caution, saying that it was best to not make any decisions tonight. I needed to wait until the morning, to see how Mario would react.

And so I waited. I passed the rest of the night watching cheesy Italian television with Signora Fiori and stuffing as much chocolate in my mouth as was possible.

My phone remained silent.

Another sleepless night passed.  Still no word.

The morning crawled by.

Silence.

As it began to approach noon, I resolved that it was time to take action.  Maybe seeing me with my suitcase in hand would spark action. It was a long shot, but I was desperate to do something that would effectively break down Mario’s wall – and wake us both from this nightmare.

I checked the train timetable, and slowly began to pack my bag. There was a station within walking distance of the Fiori’s, and while I was loath to actually leave, I knew I couldn’t continue in this way.  Nothing was working, and my emotional state was becoming increasingly fragile.

Finally, just as I was about to head out the door, Mario called.

Dove sei?

(Where are you?)

A casa.

(At the house)

Allora, non sei andata via…

(So you didn’t leave)

Taking a big breath, I responded.

No. Non ancora. Ma sono pronta d’andare via

(No.  Not yet.  But I am ready to do so).

Silence. And then…

Come fai arrivare alla stazione?

(How are you getting to the station?)

The tears welled up.  With my voice trembling, I informed him that I was going to walk. He let out a big sigh, and then said that he would be right over.

The ride to the station was a quiet one.  Mario seemed lost in his own world, and I was trying my hardest to stay composed.  My emotions swung wildly in between anger and sadness. I couldn’t believe that this was happening.

After I bought my ticket, Mario walked out with me to the train platform. I wanted to kiss him, slap him and ignore him, all at the same time.  I could feel my defences rising, my pride insisting that I retain some sort of dignity.  But my sense of loss was stronger, and the desire to beg him to think about what he was doing was overwhelming.

And so I stayed silent.  My valiant efforts to keep my tears in check were finally defeated and so there I stood, in the cold December air, suitcase in hand, and tears streaming down my face.

Mario could barely look at me.  He just stood there, mumbling some nonsense that maybe some time apart would do us some good, give us some perspective and allow us to really ponder our relationship.  All I knew was that if he could handle watching me stand there, heart broken, and not be moved, then there was precious little left that I could do.

Finally the train arrived, and after a long look at him, my eyes pleading with him to stop me from boarding, I reluctantly turned and climbed the steps. I could barely see through my tears, and I finally stumbled to an empty set of seats, closing my eyes so that the devastation I was feeling would not be so readily apparent to any passerby. The reality of what just happened washed over me like a tidal wave.

Mario hadn’t stopped me.

So what happens now?

Il Giorno Dopo (The Day After)

(2010)

When I finally pushed send, I felt a huge release of emotion.  There was nothing else I could do but wait.

It was another sleepless night.  I kept replaying over and over in my mind what had happened.  Each time would trigger a fresh bout of tears.  My head – and my heart – felt like it was going to explode. Finally, I lay there, listless.  I was utterly drained, and had a splitting headache from all the crying.

And still the night continued on.

I knew Mario would rise early in order to go to work.  In the early hours of the morning I waited.  Since my cell phone was useless overseas, Mario had given me an extra cell phone to use during my time in Italy.  I had that phone lying near my pillow, next to my laptop.  I prayed that one would chime – a phone call, a text message, or a response to my email.  Anything.  Anything that would break the silence.

As the hours passed, and no contact was made, my heart sunk farther and farther. This was not a good sign.

Finally, a little after noon, he called.  With the excuse that things had been crazy busy at his work, he said that he would be by soon to pick me up.  Nothing was said about the night before, and while siting down to lunch with Nonna, he once again announced that he would need to return to work that afternoon.  Mario’s Zio called inviting us all to dinner and his grandmother mentioned that she was in need of a few things.  I volunteered to take care of his grandmother and to fix a desert for the evening meal.  Mario expressed his thanks, hurriedly finished his meal and headed out the door.

Helpless to do anything about Mario, I decided to concentrate on building my relationship with his grandmother and fixing Mario’s favorite desert for that evening.  Between errands, cooking and helping Nonna with her hair, the afternoon quickly passed and it was almost time to go.  Mario came home, as detached as ever, and headed to the bathroom to get ready for the evening.  Dejected, I headed into the bedroom and curled up on the bed, staring vacantly at the wall. Zio came down to bring Nonna to his apartment, but I couldn’t bring myself to rise up and enter the front room.  As he searched for Mario, he came back into the room and saw me on the bed.  It was all I could do to lift my head and muster a smile.  Motioning for me to stay where I was, he gave me a sympathetic smile, called for Mario to hurry up, and with Nonna in tow, headed out the door.

When Mario exited the bathroom a few minutes later, he found me still lying there.  I could briefly see the emotions warring across his face before he once again dropped down his mask of non-expression.  He quietly joined me on the bed, and hesitantly reached out to touch my face.  My eyes welled with tears at this physical contact – something that had become extremely rare – but I was unable to say anything.   After a few moments of silence, he quietly said that it was time to go.

The last thing I wanted to do was go to a family dinner.  I was barely keeping it together, and I wasn’t sure I would be able to keep up a brave face for a whole evening.

The dinner was a disaster.  Not only was it Mario’s family, but one of his employees and some people from church.  Mario was in charge of cooking, and though I tried to help him in the kitchen, the wall between us made it extremely difficult to pretend that we were the happy engaged couple that everyone expected.  I was extremely conscious of my bare left hand, and all I wanted to do was get through the evening without bursting into tears.

The charade didn’t end with dinner.  With the evening ending later than planned, the trains had stopped running and the members (who lived in Pisa) were stranded.  Since Mario was the only one with a large enough car, they asked if he would be kind enough to take them back.  Mario agreed, and the four of us headed to his car, and cried to keep things light as we made the 20 minute drive into town.  Once we dropped them off, silence descended.

Mario looked haggard.  I knew he wasn’t sleeping well.  It was obvious that the stress from his work was exorbitant.  And the, of course, there was the added emotional trauma of our train wreck of a visit.  A feeling of pity welled within me, which was quickly extinguished by my rising anger.  This last part didn’t need to be a problem.

I asked him is he had read my letter.

Si.

And?

He let out a sigh. Thanking me for his words, he assured me that he understood what I had been trying to say.  He just wasn’t ready to talk about it.

I had reached my limit.  While I wasn’t due to leave until Monday, the thought of going through this same routine for the next few days was more than I could handle.

I quietly asked him what he wanted to do.  Looking completely dejected, he just shrugged.  Pushing him for an answer, I asked if he even wanted me to be there.  Again, that maddening shrug. No response, no assurance that he wanted to work through this.  Just that exasperating wall of silence.

Trying to remain calm, I informed him that I could not survive another few days like this.  If he wasn’t willing to work through this – to actually TALK to me – then I was leaving.  I would get on a train in the morning and head to Rome, to my friend Cara.

I desperately wanted him to plead with me to stay, to promise that things would get better.  Nothing.  Just silence.

Fighting back tears, I reached over, and placed my hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at me.

“Ti amo, Mario.  Ti prego di provare.”

(I love you Mario.  I’m begging you to try.)

For one moment, I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes.  Desperate to capitalize on the moment, I leaned forward to kiss him.

He pulled away.

Without even thinking about it, my hand shot out, slapping him across the face.

The crack of my hand against his face rang out as I looked at him in horror.  Never in my life had I ever physically hit anyone. But the anger and frustration and taken a life of its own.

As the tears, once again, welled up, I fumbled to open the car door and without looking back, ran into the house.