Designs of the Heart

by Renee Ryder

  “Yeah. Grandma used to speak to me in Italian sometime when I was little. Then when I grew up I wanted to learn more.”

  “If I got it right, she’s American, but your great-grandparents were Italian.”

  “I’m happy to have explained myself clear,” she said with a laugh, noting that she couldn’t see anyone around them anymore—there were just some cars parked along the edge of the rural path. “Anyway, you live in Porto Loreno or only work there?”

  “I live there with my dad. His parents had a pretty big house and, when he got married, they split part of it up to make an apartment for him.”

  Why doesn’t he ever mention his mom?

  Being sensitive about the general subject, she had noticed him make this type of omission every time he spoke about his family. She felt her curiosity grow exponentially, but at the same time she didn’t want to be intrusive.

  “How long are we from the parking lot?”

  “At the end of this part of the street, there’s a dirt path that takes us to the woods that I was talking about. If we keep going this speed, it’ll only take half an hour. But if you’re in a hurry, we can go faster. Or you can wait here with my backpack and I can run down to the parking lot and come pick you up with my Vespa.”

  “No, I’m not in a hurry at all. I’m enjoying to walk in nature. My only worry is that I didn’t bring my hat.”

  “I’ve wondered about that a lot, you know. You have beautiful hair. Why do you always wear a hat?”

  “Because I have fair skin,” she said, evading the compliment. “For that, the sun isn’t very healthy.”

  “How can your skin be fair?”

  “Because it’s pale and sensitive to the rays of the sun.”

  “Ah, then you have to say ‘clear skin.’ ‘Fair skin’ sounds like there could be ‘unfair’ skin, hahaha!”

  “Oh God. Here we go again!” she said, rolling her eyes at herself. Then, “Um, how do you say that in Italian, when you remake the same mistake every time?”

  He told her the phrase.

  “Thanks. You know, I think that my Italian will never be well.”

  “No way, come on. We’ve been talking since this morning and it only happened a couple times.”

  “You’re nice, but I get my words mixed. I keep ‘taking ice for eyes,’ if I used that expression right.”

  “You did. See how great you are?”

  She smiled, taking heart from his encouragement. But she couldn’t bring herself to look at him; sweet, kind, handsome, athletic, it was in moments like these that some fog rolled in and blurred the boundaries in her heart. She attempted to focus instead on his omission when he only talked about his dad and not his mom.

  “Anyway, when we get to the woods, the path will be shaded. You won’t have to worry about the sun.”

  “Let’s hope that no one stole the helmets.”

  “I couldn’t even give those things away,” he said, laughing.

  “Is that why you left them on the seat?”

  “No. I always do that and buckle the straps under the saddle. Shades the seat.”

  “Oh, ‘saddle!’ I keep saying ‘seat’ because ‘saddle’ sounds like is for a horse.”

  “We use it for scooters. And bikes, too.”

  “You know, sometimes I wonder if my passion for the Italian language would have blossomed if … if my mom had not left me with my grandma and disappeared.”

  “Your mom abandoned you?”

  “Yes.” She started to tell him her story, wanting not only to talk but also to spur him on …

  17. Children

  They found themselves in the woods by the time Hannah finished her story.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that your grandma had passed away.”

  With a gentle nod she told him not to worry. Then, waited, giving him space as an encouragement.

  After a while, when the path dipped them down into a thicket of oaks, he spoke.

  “I only knew my mom for six months. Then she had a heart attack and …” he trailed off.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” A shiver of sadness scraped down her back and she stopped walking. “I would never have imagined something like that.”

  He replied with only a melancholy smile, turning his gaze back to the leafy canopy of a tree.

  “So you grew up with your dad?”

  “And my grandparents.”

  “It must have been difficult.”

  “Yeah, kinda,” he said and started walking again. She followed. “They gave me a lot of love, but it wasn’t nice to never know how it is to have a mom when everyone else takes that for granted.”

  “I see what you mean. You felt different.”

  “Yeah, like that. Maybe it’s got something to do with why we both like art.”

  His observation took her aback.

  “I mean, that sensitive part of us. The part that didn’t get to grow normally. It’s like it was left incomplete, and we need to complete it with something we make.”

  She gaped at him in astonishment. “It’s a beautiful idea.”

  “Well, every now and then I like to be alone and just think. But then I don’t tell anyone about it, ’cause the people around me sure don’t get this kind ’a stuff. They’re all about the material, physical things in life … Maybe that’s why I talk about it with you even though we’ve only known each other for a few days. ’Cause I’ve always wanted to share these thoughts with someone who gets it.”

  While he talked, the tone of his voice progressively lowered, as if he were pulling the words up from deep within his soul. Words that recalled thoughts she herself had long cultivated in silence.

  “You know, sometimes I wished that my mom had died.”

  This time it was he who stopped. He stared at her.

  She saw bewilderment in his eyes. An understandable bewilderment, considering she’d just said something extremely inappropriate to someone whose mother had actually died; however, she didn’t take it back. There, surrounded by the trees and brush, protected by the gentle shade of the woods where they could hear only the exhausting drone of the cicadas, she decided to follow her instinct and let herself commit to full honesty with him.

  “I understand that it wasn’t easy for you. I didn’t mean—”

  “Anna, I’m not judging you. I’m just wondering what makes you say that.”

  “Okay. I don’t have precise memories of my mom. Only quick flashes of the moments, although I remember the feeling of protection that she gave to me until I was seven. If she had died instead of gone away, then I would never have received her last, precious gift to me.”

  “What gift?”

  “The knowledge I was unwanted.”

  He kept watching her, not speaking, letting her words hang heavy in the air.

  She hesitated for a moment; then the solemn majesty of nature around them seeped inside of her and the sweet, sharp scent of sap grounded her.

  “She brought me in this world. I didn’t ask for that. Try to imagine how you will feel if the woman who gave birth to you decides she doesn’t want you in her life. If my own mother didn’t want me, who ever would?”

  She waited for him to say something, but his expression remained neutral like he was absorbing it all.

  “This logic is wrong, I know. Now I know. But when I was a kid, to me it was real. My heart and feelings and mind were creating my personality in that period. All we kids were picked up from school by our moms. All at once, I wasn’t any longer like the others. I could see how much those women loved their children. But when I looked for mine, I saw only an empty space that reminded me she had abandoned me. If she was dead, I could curse my bad luck. Yet it was a choice for her. And I figured she had done it because there was something wrong with me.” Without warning, tears welled in her eyes. “And all the children looked so happy. I knew the joy of seeing your mom waiting in front of the school to take you home. I lov
ed so much my Grandma, but when she came to get me it reminded me that my mom didn’t want me around. So I was forever wondering what I had done wrong to make her leave.” She paused and drew in a shaking breath to stay calm. “And while I searched for an answer, I wanted that she would come so I could be just like my friends again. I thought this way every single day from the moment she left, with a growing hope in the morning that turns into a great disappointment every afternoon. Because I was only a child, and children always, always hope that their wi—” but she couldn’t finish because a sudden sob choked her.

  Her vision blurred and she couldn’t make out Nico’s expression. She only saw him reach out his arms and step towards her. She went to him, because in that moment nothing else mattered; only the desperate need to feel the warmth of another person. Physically and emotionally.

  She felt his arms envelope her. Tears surged down her cheeks. She grasped him tightly around the waist, under the backpack, rested her head on his shoulder, and tried to hold back from openly weeping.

  “I know how you feel, Anna,” he said softly, stroking her back with gentle hands. “When I was little, with me they didn’t say my mom had gone to heaven, like you tell kids. With me, they said that she’d gone on a trip in a boat and would return soon. And even though I was small, I remember how I’d wait for her. I’d sit on the beach and watch the sea while I was digging with my shovel in the sand and filling up my little bucket with water. I remember every time I saw a boat, and there’s a lotta ferries around here, I hoped it was bringing my mom. I don’t remember when I stopped, but I do remember how much I hoped. Because children always, always hope that their wishes will come true.”

  These words burrowed straight through the dam stemming her sobs and the emotions that she had spent a lifetime holding in broke loose. But through the pain she also felt a kind of joy. The joy of liberation, maybe. It was as though an enormous oak tree that had always blocked her from admiring the view was cut down. And she, out of habit, kept staring at it lying on the meadow, not realizing she could look out at the horizon and finally take in the view. Only when she felt a ray of light did she remember to raise her eyes and see the sun rising above the distant mountains, instead of having to imagine it based on the rays weakly filtering through the dense branches. It gave her a serenity that she’d never known truly existed.

  “I’m sorry, Nico,” she said, pulling away from him when she had herself under control—thank goodness she hadn’t worn any eye makeup.

  “It’s okay, Anna. I know how deeply these things affect us.”

  “I too never have shared these feelings with anyone. Not even Grandma,” she added, looking up at him—although embarrassed by the awareness that her distress had left her face blotchy and red, she needed to look him in the eyes to prove the sincerity of her words.

  “Well, then it’s nice that you and I can be special to each other.”

  His conclusion sounded ambiguous, accompanied by his reassuring tone and expression. The minutes spent in his arms began to take on a different significance. It was as if they were looking into each others’ souls. She regretted having established eye contact and, in an attempt to escape, dug through her purse in search of tissues. However, she still felt unsettled by being at such ease with him, and had to come up with something to change tack.

  “What job would you do if you could choose?” she asked, starting back down the path.

  “Considering I already do the things I like, it’d be nice to switch them. Be a sculptor for work and then fish as a hobby.” He laughed and she joined in, relaxing.

  “Very smart, that makes totally sense.”

  “And you?”

  “I do what I like, me too. Without switching them. But I wish to be able to work on my project.”

  “What project?”

  “I call it ‘Lifeline.’ ”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It would be an app for to help kids with disabilities. There are programs and opportunities available in my country, but it’s hard for the parents, especially them who are uneducated and poor, to find them. I could collect all the informations about available services, support groups, families with the same issues, and advocates that can give advices. That way the parents could type the medical problem of their child into the app and get a list of all this thing in their area.”

  “That sounds like a great idea! If there’s a country that lacks organization, it’s Italy. So I get what a waste it is to have things that can help people, but they don’t know how to find them.”

  “Yes. And it would be possible to have more programs if the parents knew how to ask for them.”

  “And why don’t you do this for real? I don’t know much about the internet, but I think it’d be successful.”

  “It would take a lot of work to collect all those informations, even just for my area. Think about the whole US!”

  “Oh.”

  “I would have to communicate with people from Seattle all the way to Miami for to have all the informations to build a database. Too much work for my free time.”

  The slope levelled out, but the path continued without a hint of the end of the woods.

  “And you can’t propose it to your boss?”

  “Well, it’s complicate.”

  “Why?”

  “First of all, he will turn it down because there’s not enough return on the investment. It would take too much time and effort compared at the money it would make. And profit is a dogma in business.”

  “Money is behind everything, every damn time.” He looked indignant for her.

  “Plus, if I tell my boss, my idea would become an intellectual property of the company. And the idea is mine!”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “So, maybe I have to look for a rich philanthrope.”

  “Or win the lottery.”

  “That too would help.”

  “How did you get this idea? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “When I was in high school, I used to do volunteer at a summer camp for kids with cerebral palsy. They all had the same issues and understood each other like no one else in the world could. For this, they were happy and when I saw them my heart was full of happiness and sadness at the same time. Unfortunately, they could only stay there together for a week and this made me wonder what they do the other fifty-one weeks of the year.”

  “So you thought that you could do something for them.”

  “Yes, I thought so. I would like to do it, but I can only think about it. You know, it could be a salvation for some families, that’s why I called it Lifeline,” and she briefly explained what the English word meant.

  “At times I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the ideas for making the world better come to the people who don’t have any way to make them into reality.”

  “And why is that?” she asked, perceiving a note of artifice in his tone.

  “I don’t know. I only know that if I was rich, I’d help you myself.”

  “Thank you. It’s very nice from you.”

  “I mean it, Anna. If I knew anything about computers and I didn’t have to work all day, I’d help you!” he said, with a fervor that truly flustered her.

  “Maybe one day you’ll become a famous sculptor and fund my project.”

  He furrowed his brows and went quiet.

  There was an irony in what she’d said; irony about human venality, certainly nothing personal. Maybe in Italian it seemed aimed at him.

  “Sorry, Nico. I was talking in ge—”

  “No, Anna. I’m sorry. I said too much.”

  Now she was the one who frowned.

  “Like I told you, I’ve got my feet firmly planted on the ground. I know sculpture is gonna stay a dream for me. I imagine it’s the same with your project.”

  “In a way,” she answered, thinking about Ryan and her aspirations for his new company. “But, please, don’t apologize. I understand to
tally your good intentions. I tried also to push you toward your dream, remember?”

  His lips tightened and he nodded.

  “It’s what I meant,” she resumed. “So I fear we can’t negotiate with reality.”

  “So then, with your hobby, it’s ok with you to draw just in your spare time?”

  “It’s fine for me. If I could make a wish, it would be about my skills. I would like to have more talent with portraits. For some reasons, the faces I draw are missing the spark of life that you can catch in expressive eyes, round cheeks, and lips that seem about to talk.”

  “I get what you’re talking about.”

  “I have no idea how artists can do that. So I prefer to draw places. I think I’m pretty good at this,” she added, smiling.

  “You really are.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I know a place with an amazing view. Maybe it’ll inspire you to draw it. You wanna go?”

  “But I don’t have the sketchbook.”

  “No, I didn’t mean now. It’s late. My dad is waiting for me ’cause we gotta go out to set the nets and this place is in the other direction. But if you want, tomorrow morning …”

  “I don’t have any plans. My boyfriend comes day after tomorrow, since my birthday is on Sunday.”

  “Oh! What are you turning?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Happy early birthday!”

  “Thanks. You’re officially the first who says it to me this year!”

  She’d brought up Ryan to make sure things were clear—maybe also to herself—in case her earlier moment of emotional turmoil and letting him comfort her in his arms had created some kind of misunderstanding. Luckily, judging by the indifference he’d displayed after hearing about Ryan’s arrival it seemed an overabundance of caution.

  Perhaps he too was just looking for a friend he could confide in.

  That same evening, Ryan called her. A large part of the resentment she’d been nurturing against him had evaporated thanks to the incredible day she’d spent with Nico. Mentally she was still angry with Ryan because he’d behaved in such a vile and disrespectful way towards her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t find a proportional rage in her heart. Paradoxically, she was angrier at herself than at him, mainly because she wasn’t as mad as she wanted to be.