Brandon Enns - Islanders

Did she escape?

Skye found the white pages for Italy and typed in her mother’s last name. There were many Bernard’s. She was scared to type in her mother’s first name, fearing the zero results that would show on the page. But she did it, and there were only three. She dialed.

After three dials, the voice that answered was soft and kind. It was her. Oh my God, it’s her! It has to be, right? Is that how she sounds? Her head screamed with joy, but the words didn’t follow. “Hello?” she asked for the third time. Skye couldn’t speak. “Um… I can hear you breathing. I’m not really into that.” Skye almost laughed. She and her mother had the same sense of humor. “Sorry. Wrong number.” And Skye ended the call.

Fifteen hundred dollars in her account. A one-way flight was four hundred dollars. Perfect. There was one stop on the way, a thirteen-hour trip total. She caught a red-eye and didn’t sleep a wink. Instead she wrote; everything about her mother, everything about herself, about leaving, about her horrible father. The flight was fast. It came and went as she lived in the same headspace, cleansing herself of all things that tormented her all those years. It spewed out until she found herself at the end of it all, her hand sore.

When she arrived in Rome, her mother had called her phone back seven more times. Three almost immediately after she first reached out. Either she was really eager to find out what the mouth breather on the other end wanted, or she recognized Skye’s voice when she said, “Sorry. Wrong number.” She turned her phone off again.

She had never heard from her mother, largely because she had no way of contacting Skye. New cell, new city, low profile; her mother had no idea she had become a teacher. Skye made a Facebook account briefly, but that got deleted quickly.

Skye knew why she had done it. There was a prominent fear of being trapped. Of knowing she loved her mom too much and would return to her, to that horrible house, to him. She prayed that she didn’t bring that monster with her to Italy, but laughed at the thought of that drunken asshole leaving the country. Maybe when hell froze over, she thought.

The train ride to Sperlonga was about three hours. She arrived feeling tired. She couldn’t sleep though, she was too anxious. Skye used her phone to scope out the beaches along with the map to her mother’s listed address. From the map, it appeared that the streets were crowded and confusing, and she was growing even more anxious about how she would find it once she got off the train.

During her research, she discovered many cute coffee shops and restaurants to try, and the private beaches that were gorgeous.

Because it was so late at night, the train was only a third full. The ride was long and it smelled like stale smoke. She liked it. Probably because it reminded her of her mother, when they’d sit side by side on the steps of their home, watching the sun set around a grassy hill at the end of the street where her crumbling old elementary school sat, while they shared a cigarette. After the first few stops, Skye turned her phone off again (having gone without receiving any more calls), and she set her sights on the view. The grassy countryside to her right was beautiful. She rested her head on the plexiglass window to her left, looking out over the cliff of white rock and ocean water moving gently back and forth on the shoreline. There was nothing but open space between the crowded, cute towns. In and out they went, making their stops, each town looking somewhat the same.

The stop before hers, a batch of people flooded into her car. She watched their various faces out of boredom and her heart stopped when she saw a man with a cap pulled down low. He looked like Sebastian.

He adjusted his hat and she realized that it wasn’t him. Her stop was the next one, and it came slowly.

She worked her way through tight picturesque streets that were more like back-alleys with brick stone paths, leading her in and out of a maze as she looked like a moronic tourist, holding her iPhone out to guide her every step. Although New York City had always been said to be a rich diverse pot of culture, Sperlonga felt authentic, the walls speaking to her, the locals probably holding on to stories of their ancestors that had been passed down their lineage.

Her desired location on Google maps involved a steep hill heading toward the ocean side. As she neared, the strong smell of baked bread wafted into her nose. Her mouth salivated, and she smiled and released a sharp giggle she couldn’t control. The path narrowed as she approached, and to each side of her were quaint and crowded homes stacked on one another. She reached a building that was connected with many others. Walking through an archway, she reached her spot, and looked down at the house number attached to the address. She walked another flight of steps and followed to the end of the walkway, counting each door along the way. I made it. Before she knocked, she gazed out over the ledge, down at all the homes and pretty lights shining in the dark. She could hear the tide moving on the sand. The smell of the bakery was still prominent.

Skye knocked. A young man in his late twenties answered. He was handsome, wore glasses, and had a large nose. He was wearing a tank top that showed off his ripped arms. Wrong place. He looked at her with sleepy eyes, but still not overly bothered by the intrusion. “Yes?”

“I’m so sorry.” She adjusted her duffel bag on her shoulder. “I’ve got the wrong place I think. I hope I didn’t wake you.” She spoke quietly, as if to not wake him up any further.

“No bother. I’m going for a run soon anyway.” His accent was medium-thick. A slight pause made him continue. “Who are you looking for?”

“Carol.”

“I’ll get her.”

After about a minute, her mother walked through the kitchen toward the entrance. Skye heard her whimper as soon as she saw her in the doorway. She stopped in her tracks, examining her long-lost daughter with her hand over her mouth. “My Skye is so blue,” she whispered.

She stepped forward out of the dark. They stood face-to-face, studying each other’s appearances. Her mom’s hair had two stripes of gray mixed in with her brown, curling fashionably around her right eye, her hair in a ponytail just like she’d remembered. Her face was radiant and bruise-free, which was something she hadn’t been able to see regularly. There were some wrinkles around her eyes that had formed, but the additional years looked good on her. Skye wanted to say sorry and weep but instead she said, “Some muscular treat you got for yourself.”

“Rents cheap.” Her laugh snorted out, imperfectly perfect. “No. In his dreams right?”

“In his dreams,” Skye repeated.

The hug was soft, not overly forceful, but their shoulders both relaxed as they huffed out their grief. “I knew it was you,” she whispered. “My Skye. It’s good to see you.”

Skye squeezed tighter. “Sorry.”

“No, no, no. I’m proud of you.” They pulled apart. “You had to. And believe it or not… It saved my hide. If you hadn’t had the guts, I’d be up shit creek.”

“You left right away too?” Skye blurted out.

“No.” She shook her head. “It took me a while. Once I stopped trying to contact you…”

Skye lowered her head shamefully.

“No, no.” She rubbed Skye’s shoulder. “That’s when I left him.” She cleared her throat. “And look at me now!”

“You’re in Italy. On a cliff.”

“I’m in Italy on a cliff.”

“Is that bakery any good?” asked Skye.

“Only the best. Let me take you on my favorite walking route, watch the sunrise.”