Out of a seven day/six night trip, there was only one day that Mom and I got on each others nerves badly enough to cause an issue. With any travel partner- friend, lover, spouse, child...there will come that cabin fever moment when their voice, their touch, and their mere proximity begins to drive you over the edge.
Understandably so, that day for us was the fifth of July. Here's what I wrote in my sketchbook:
As I listen to Death Cab for Cutie, one of her favorite bands, on the train to Naples, I realize I'm putting a lot of pressure on some homemade dough, sauce, and mozzarella cheese to salvage the day. Is there really anything, even here in Italy, that make today less horrible? Is there any event that can give another meaning to this date in my mind?
Poor Mom- I am meant to be alone this day. I am good company for no one. If this trip is meant to put some color back into my life, it hasn't happened yet...I am still in grayscale.
My entry was then drawn over with a somber looking bird, and splattered with red watercolor paint- bright red, angry strokes. I think my shoulders shook as I painted them. The passenger sitting beside me leaned over to sneak a peek, and looked away quickly as if she'd spied the diary of a serial killer.
Mom and I had had quite a time getting our tickets, and making our way on the train. She was afraid for us to use the fast ticket machine, which is like an ATM that spits out train tickets instead of money. I had to keep reminding her to stop pulling out her euros and counting them in public, lest we be mugged. We wandered around in circles for awhile, hot and scratchy, arguing about what to do next.
Once we'd finally made it on the train, we could relax a little. I got to my sketching, and gave Mom my ear buds so she could listen to music. She'd become quite a fan of Coldplay during our travels, and would even listen to the occasional Used song. It was something Cory needed to see to believe, so I'm awfully glad she was with us.
Maybe it was Cory who directed my next sketch to be of my mom, leaning back in her seat, and relaxing her face, eyes closed, but seemingly deep in thought. I could hear her thoughts pulsing across the cabin car, Cory, Cory, Cory, Cory.
It was then that I reminded myself it was a terrible day for lots of people, not just me. It was time to stop being selfish.
Well, I would do what Cory had done when she was feeling low...let someone feed me. We grabbed a cab once we'd hit the station, and asked to be taken directly to the pizzeria.
I took in Naples through the cab windows, seeing it to be every bit as gritty and colorful as I had imagined. The people were loud, the vehicles were loud, the colors were loud...the city had a lot to say, and it wasn't shy. The cabbie landed us at the front door of the Pizzeria de Michele, and I marveled at how tiny it was. There was already a small line of people clogging up the entrance, waiting to be seated. Within a few minutes, we were seated at a small table in one of their two rooms, which felt cooled by that all traditional method: the box fan. We looked around to see every person who was eating had an entire gooey pizza in front of them. I could hear Cory in my head, All right, all right, all right. This was definitely her kind of place.
Mom asked if I wanted to split one, and I refused simply because Cory would have wanted a whole one all to herself, and this was her trip, too. So we each ordered a double mozzarella, and sat back to wait. I took out Cory's picture, and one of the little ceramic birds, propping them up to be with us. With a huge smile on my face to be in the place Cory and I had sworn we'd someday go- the very restaurant from the book and movie, Eat, Pray, Love- I started bawling my head off.
How did this happen? How did we get here, Cory love? On this wretched day, I had no more answers than usual. I balled up my fists, and wiped my tears like the world's most exhausted toddler. Mom looked on, silent, and on the verge of tears, herself.
"It's just not fair, Mom. It's just not." I said furiously, the most I could get out, since I never swear in front of my mother.
"It's not honey. It's just not." she agreed, and patted my hand.
"I'm sorry if I was mean, earlier, Mom. I'm just having a really hard time today." I said.
"I know. I figured that's what it was." she said, and patted my hand.
Even on my most cankerous, miserable, loathsome day, there is little more comforting than my mother's hand on mine. I know, I know, twenty minutes ago, I was ready to pitch her off the train.
But grief is like that. It's a horrible, ruthless, thankless rollercoaster of emotions. I've often felt in the last year that this loss has given me a brief glance of what having bipolar disorder must be like. I don't know how they do it. Stephen King was right, "God is cruel...sometimes he makes you live."
Tears were still drying on my cheeks as our piping hot, bubbly, unbelievably messy gigantic pizzas arrived. I took a deep breath, and promised to do my girl proud. As I took my first bite, I could see her across from me, sauce all over her beautiful face, laughing, and burning her mouth on the hot cheese she just couldn't wait to taste.
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